Archive for the ‘First Person Stories’ Category

A short story by Lauren T. Klein

I searched for a hair-tie in the kitchen junk drawer. Even in our new fancy house, there was a junk drawer. My son, Matthew, age three, called it the “yunk” drawer. He thought it was a treasure trove. After two months, his hospitalized, ill, infant brother was supposed to come home. I was on the phone, the coiled white cord fully stretched across the kitchen counter.

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Dear Alexander,

Your arrival was a surprise to us. Our hearts were filled with love and hope the first time we saw you.

We remember how you responded to our touches and our voices that day. However, we knew it would not last. We were about the experience the life cycle in reverse. Instead of you preparing for our death, we had to prepare for yours.

So you will remember us, we have given you a few items to take with you; pictures of us with Rembrandt and the house you would have grown up in, a teddy bear to amuse you and a blanket Grandma knitted to keep you warm.

Alexander, you are gone but not forgotten. You will be in our hearts and thoughts for the rest of our lives. Until we meet again, you are our guardian angel.

We love you,
Mom and Dad

By Harrison Paist

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This is Emily’s Bear. We got it for Christmas after she died, because we couldn’t endure the emptiness that she left. The absolute glare of the space she left vacant around the Christmas tree.

Some people suggest that it would be better to never have been pregnant than to go through that kind of grief. It took a long time, but I came to the realization that it is, as the saying goes, better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I truly believe that and understand it now. Emily was inside me for forty weeks. She and I shared the most beautiful and intimate time. Her daddy and I were so excited to feel her move and to make plans for her. We have devastated by her death, but enriched by her existence. At first it was hard for us to see little babies. Now we smile at each other when we see a four year old girl (not without some longing), sharing the knowledge that this is what she’d might be like today. Yet, Emily is and always will be our baby. I’m glad we had her.

This is Emily’s Bear

By Linda Thompson

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I am writing this letter to you six years too late. I want to apologize to you for not holding you and not saying good-bye when I delivered you. I didn’t know how to cope with your dath and I thought I must have done something so bad for your little life to be taken before I could show you what a good Mom I would be.

I was counting down the weeks till your due date when a sonogram showed that your tiny little heart had stopped. So did mine. My doctor encouraged me during the three days I was in the hospital awaiting your birth, to hold you and say good-bye, but I was not strong enough.

I know you are my guardian angel and I feel so loved to know my daughter is guiding me, your Daddy and your little sister, Colie through life each and every day.

I know that in heaven you and I will be together again, and I promise to hold you and ver let you go, but I will never say good-bye, just “I love you.”

I love you and miss you each and every day.

Love, Mommy
By Missi Sutter

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Be thankful they said, it might have been worse.
Had he lived for a month, or a year, or more.
Be hopeful they told us, you are healthy and young.
There’s time to have another baby, or more.

They tried to be helpful, to look on the bright side,
They gave us consolation, compassion and care.
A baby lost early, he might have been sickly,
For only a few months, was he really here?

Be strong they told us, there’s always tomorrow,
To wake to a new day, with a hole in our hearts.
You know what I mean; I know that you’ve been there,
I’ve seen that pain that has set us apart.

Our pain in complete, no limit confines us,
Our Cup or sorrow overflows with our tears.
The bond that connects us, they can’t comprehend,
Our loss will not lessen, despite days or years.

Our pain in complete, no limit confines us,
Our cup of sorrow overflows with our tears.
The bond that connects us, they can’t comprehend.
Our loss will not lessen, despite days or years.

It’s odd to consider, I really am thankful,
for the gift of my baby, so brief in my life.
God gave those moments to hold him, to love him,
A few precious memories for me and my wife.

After all I am peaceful, my child’s trial is done,
he’s peaceful and healthy, he waits patiently.
I look on the bright side, I wait for reunion,
I’ve told you of my child, can you share yours with me?

By John Mote

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It was the night of December 17, 2001, and we were signing our Christmas cards – getting ready to mail them out the following day.  On the front was a picture of my husband, our son, and myself – with a bulging belly. The inside of the card was signed from all of us, including “Baby sister to-be.” Then I felt it. Something I had felt three and a half years earlier, when I went into labor ten weeks early with my son. It was a contraction. I knew it. But this was not a moment of  joyful anticipation. It was a moment of terrible fear. I was not quite 25 weeks along. My daughter was not due until the week of Easter.

Hours later I was in the hospital being told that she would not wait  she was coming and there was no stopping her. We were scared, but hopeful. Our son was early, and he was just fine. Sure, she was much earlier, but that just meant she’d have a longer hospital stay. Kaylee Sandra was born the morning of December 18, weighing 1 lb, 10 oz. She was beautiful. We were back in the surreal, yet familiar setting of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Doctors and nurses told
us of her various complications and her odds did not sound good. Despite all that, we were optimistic. Good things happen in our family.

Then came the day we learned she would not survive. It was December 23 – exactly two days before Christmas. I held her in my arms, and her Daddy felt the embrace of her tiny hand around his finger. This was a moment so bittersweet, so conflicted. The first time I could hold my baby girl. The last time I would hold my baby girl. Waves of love and adoration crashing upon jagged boulders of sorrow and disbelief. I told myself this was our moment. I had to squeeze a
lifetime of love into the time we had left. We had about three hours together.

After she died, we had to deal with some of the pragmatics of death. The next day was Christmas Eve, and we spent it making funeral arrangements. We had to tell our son his baby sister would not be coming home. I also needed to find a way to dry up the milk supply I no longer needed. So many businesses and support people were closed, on vacation, enjoying their holiday. We had to find a way to make Christmas happen for our son. We refused to have him forever associate Christmas with the death of his sister. We went to the grocery store to buy cookies for Santa, carrots for the reindeer, and acabbage. I had been told that putting cabbage leaves in my bra would help alleviate the soreness from my aching breasts.

Before I went into labor we had planned to spend the week of Christmas with the grandparents in Southern California, so we had no tree up, no decorations. While I was in the hospital the grandparents had rallied together and bought and trimmed a small tree, and put up stockings. We had wrapped all the presents before our nightmare began,
so all we had to do was set them beneath the tree. We realized as we were going to bed that we had not filled the stockings, so we somehow managed to find a few things to place inside Evan’s.

Christmas Day was a fog. Thank God for Evan and his sweet, excited face waking up on Christmas morning to open presents! I don’t think I would have gotten out of bed without him. I watched him with renewed appreciation for the miracle of his life. What a blessing we had. There were still many tears, and I did spend a good deal of the day in bed. I had a profound sense that things would never be right again. No matter how wonderful our lives together might be in the future, we could never look at each other and say, “This moment is perfect!” No. There would always be someone missing.

The new year came and we lived our lives. Before I knew it, it was December 17, 2002. I asked Evan what he wanted to do the next day to celebrate his sister’s first birthday. He wanted to know if there was any birthday cake in Heaven. I told him that if Heaven is at all the way I picture it, there certainly would be! We released a balloon as a present to her, and bought cupcakes for the occasion and put one candle in each. He also thought we should celebrate at Chuck E. Cheese that night. So we did.

As time has passed, we have found that elusive “new normal” that we always heard would someday come. Christmas will never be the same as it was. Nothing will. We will hang stockings, trim the tree, visit Santa – and one week before Christmas, we will celebrate Kaylee’s birthday. .

By Lori Miller

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You were our hopes and dreams.
With you, we’d have the perfect family.
You were perfect, up until the moment of your birth.
And then came the event that forever changed you life and ours.
We felt that your spirit left you then, leaving behind the vestige of a biomechanically functioning body.

The doctors told us of miracle babies that survive this type of insult.
We had our hope that you would be one of those miracle babies.
We picked you up and held you, along with your IV’s, your breathing tube,
and you monitor probes, and we told you that we loved you.

Then you got better, and we were overjoyed.
But the next day, you took a trun for the worse.
We rode the ups and down of the roller coaster of your health, and we got numb and scared.
We didn’t know how to feel, whether to love you, or to distance ourselves from you.

We visited you every day; we visited you every week.
We heard you moan when you weren’t feeling too good.
We admired you fair face and beautiful eyelashes when you were comfortable.

You showed us the value of life and the dignity of death.
That every moment of shared happiness is precious.
Your death brings us peace, and your spirit brings us newfound fervor for life.

Now that you are free from your body, you can frolic with the angels.
God will nourish your soul and bring you joy.

Rest in peace, my sweet child.
You’ll be with us in our hearts forever.

Rest in peace, my sweet child.
You’ll be with us in our hearts forever.

Your Father,
Ken Turkowski


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