Butterfly

Dear Jaymison,

Both your mom and dad were over the moon about your eventual arrival.

Experiencing a couple of previous early losses, they crossed every finger and toe, the nursery decorated with baby elephants.

You were my son’s first (and so far) only son. You were the eldest child from my eldest son.

I will never forget the day of your birth. Significant events imprint deeply.

Your mom was induced, your dad was by her side, your aunt was in the birthing room, and I, your grandmother, floated in and out.

It wasn’t easy being present—labour of any kind is never breezy, but we were there for your arrival, just the same.

Until I wasn’t.

I stepped out to get some food.

I regret that.

I am sorry I wasn’t there for the moment of your birth.

You dad called me as I stood in line at a coffee shop, telling me you had arrived.

It was one of the most emotional moments in my life.

Tears stung my eyes, and I rushed back to see you, a perfectly formed little man, ten toes and ten fingers, sporting recognizable features from both your mom and your dad.

I almost ran to your birthing room—easy to identify by the butterfly on the door.

S T I L L B O R N

What a misnomer.

“Still” implies peace, quiet, comfort.

Although that room might have been noiseless, it raged with silent screaming.

We had lost you the previous day.

You died one day, and then were born the next.

No one should experience a birth and plan a cremation on the same day.

It goes against the whole natural order of things.

I love you, Jaymison, and I grieve for you.

But it is an unusual mourning—no photos from birthday parties, family gatherings, or school pictures.

No joint histories to ponder and smile about.

No reminiscing about funny haircuts or silly things said or did.

No toddler cuddles or baby snuggles to cling to.

No, losing a baby to stillbirth is mourning potential—not what could have been but what should have been, adding an extra emotional charge that is impossible to describe.

It is hard not having that information, that knowledge, that sense of knowing you.

Would you be tall?

Would you have your dad’s blue eyes?

Would you be athletic?

Would you be strong willed?

Grieving is a different type of difficult when you have nothing concrete to hold onto.

Just ash, a blanket, a vision seared into my brain.

Your mother was heartbroken, and your dad was a hero.

He walked me over to your lifeless body and introduced us.

He picked you up and put you into my arms.

I am grateful for this.

It gives me something to remember.

Your dad was dying inside, but he stepped up to help those around him.

Even though we have no shared memories in life, I still love you, proving that love doesn’t require reasons.

You would have turned seven this year, little man—five days before my birthday.

Although you were stillborn, I will always remember you were "still born. "

Love,

Grandma