Amy’s announcement comes later that morning. They’d been waiting to find out the sex, and she tells me they have a daughter, Grace. The delivery went well. Grace is in the NICU to help with her breathing, but Amy assures me she will be okay. Amy will be okay too.
Although I know better than to make assumptions based on the sex of a baby, that both Amy and Brittany had daughters is a consolation to me, one that could lead to a gentler kind of grief as they grow and Reid doesn’t. I imagine their homes filling with the things little girls sometimes like, and it might be a little less obvious exactly what I’m missing.
Finally, I fall into my first deep sleep that afternoon, collapsing on the couch out of relief and pure exhaustion. I’ve survived the first anniversary. I’ve survived the births of my friends’ babies. Now to survive the rest.
5
THE FIRST DEATH I remember was when a close friend of my parents, Miranda, passed away from breast cancer when I was fourteen. She worked for my father and was often around our home—she even nearly married my uncle Mike, once upon a time. She was alluring, with her slim frame and hair as dark as midnight. She was quite possibly one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. More than that, she had a calm presence that was only enhanced by her soothing voice—I still remember the sound of it all these years later.
I don’t really remember much from when she was sick, just one time when I went out for a fancy lunch with her and my mom and she talked about all the fun wigs she got to wear. What I remember most about that lunch was the way she spoke about snowboarding. She talked about how much she loved it, and her eyes lit up when she did, and then she turned to me and told me she wanted to teach me someday. But we never got that chance. She died shortly after, and instead of my first snowboarding lesson I went to my first funeral.
Only it wasn’t really a funeral. I asked my mom why everyone was in bright colors, smiling and crying and telling stories about her—it wasn’t anything like what I’d seen in movies. She told me that Miranda wanted a celebration of life; she wanted those who knew her to remember and celebrate her for how she lived, not grieve for how she died. That stuck with me. At Miranda’s party I decided I didn’t want a funeral either when I died, though I didn’t even know what a traditional funeral was like. And it’s why we decide not to have one for Reid. I want to have a chance to celebrate him too.
Over the following week, I pour all my time and energy into working on Reid’s baby album. I started it a month ago, figuring I wouldn’t have time to add all the details from the pregnancy after he was born. I couldn’t have known then that his firsts would also be his lasts: his first photo, first outfit, first diaper, first bath. His first cuddles with Mom and Dad. I change the wording throughout the book, making firsts into lasts or onlys, and fill the empty pages with pictures and writing. When it is finally done, I am devastated: the summary of his life fits into a single book, completed in only a few days.
I also include the story of his birth, which I have written and printed out. I started to write it the day after it happened, just to process exactly what it was that had happened, to get the facts down on paper, keep the timeline straight. But as I kept writing, all the feelings came back to me, again and again and again. The words became expression, the expression became a story, and through that story I felt the very beginnings of something I wouldn’t dare yet call healing.
On the second Sunday after Reid’s death, our family comes over to our apartment for the celebration of his life. Our home seems like the only appropriate place to have it. It is where his soul entered this world, and where it left it. These walls framed the span of his existence.
Everyone who has been a major part of Reid’s life is here: our parents, our siblings and their significant others, a few friends, and my maternal grandparents. Aaron’s brothers, Derek and Levi, flew in earlier in the week. Derek, who is just shy of two years younger than Aaron, has grown his beard long and pierced his ears through with wooden spikes while he was away. I notice that he has also taken to wearing baggy linen clothes. These are all things I would usually tease him about, but I don’t have the heart to today. Or maybe my heart toward these things has softened—it seems cruel to judge anything so personal. Levi, Aaron’s youngest brother, is the same age as Rebecca, who is five years younger than me. A few years back we entertained the idea of setting them up together, encouraging them to exchange school photos with little messages on the back. Now Levi attends school in Ontario, studying mathematics at the same small Christian university Derek had attended.
We gather in our living room and pass around the baby album. I watch our family as they look through the photos, reliving all the memories with him, and, finally, reading what I’ve written of his birth. I see them leaning in and out of their own pain as they read the story, just as I did while writing it. They have every right to mourn, each of them being intimately connected to our loss, but maybe they needed this to give them permission.
After everyone has a chance to go through the album we reminisce about the pregnancy, about all the memories created during those nine months. There is talk about the first time we heard his glorious heartbeat at twelve weeks. About how I felt his kicks early, at sixteen weeks, and how even Aaron was able to feel them soon after.
As the conversation moves to the details of parties held for Reid and trips with family and the dreams they had of a future with him, I mostly remain quiet. I fear that if I open my mouth, it won’t be words that come out but instead the awful, torturous sounds of grief. So I stay in one spot and drink peppermint tea and take in this community act of remembering. And I silently reflect on the wiggly companion who kept me company every hour of every day, who rolled when I ate sour foods and kicked his feet into my ribs as I walked. It was all so good, and all so short.
Then everyone writes down the questions that are in their hearts about Reid’s passing, all the hows and whys. Or, if they feel called to, a letter for him instead. We seal them all in an envelope, which we will later take to the funeral home to be placed with Reid inside his casket. It was Aaron’s idea. One more thing he can do for his son.
At the end of the day, Aaron speaks. “Nine months ago our lives changed,” he begins, pausing to clear his throat. No parent should have to talk like this about their child. “I still remember the day I found out that Emma was pregnant. I was enjoying the sun in the lineup at the ferry terminal when my phone began to ring. This question was hanging over our heads so I was expecting the call, but when I saw her name my stomach began to do flips all the same.”
The room is full of smiles as each person remembers the time we recounted this story to them. Aaron smiles too, and then continues. “Our nerves were soon replaced by excitement as we dreamed up questions and thought of all the plans we needed to make. That was truly the start of the lives that Emma and I felt we were meant to live.”
I think of how true that is, of how quickly our motivation for everything became to create the best life we could for Reid. I reach for his hand and give it a little squeeze, and he squeezes back.
“Reid was intent on making himself known. He was energetic and mischievous. As he grew into his home, he learned how to hiccup regularly, preparing his lungs for the outside world. He discovered that when he had a little extra energy to burn, there was a lovely rib-shaped leg press that would provide him with the necessary resistance. He also loved to interact with the outside world, pushing back at me when I tickled his heels. As he grew, he was able to share more of himself with us, and I hope that he was able to learn about us in return.”
I start to cry now. Because this is all we can talk about, this is all we’ll ever know of him. And I want it all back. It is enough and he is our child and I want more of him.
“It feels like an injustice that we should learn so much about him, but never truly get the chance to meet him, to look into his eyes.” He says what I am feeling, and I exhale in relief that he is feeling