Trigger Warning: This story contains subject matter relating to death.
Something felt wrong. I went to the bathroom and knew something was wrong. They said that my cervix failed and on Sunday, it was happening, I could feel him when I reached up inside of myself. When I went in to the hospital, they didn’t push him up, they didn’t sew my cervix shut. The doctor who could perform a cerclage wasn’t in on the weekend. By then his sack contracted a bacteria and my body decided he was no longer viable. He came out. He was in a little blue tub, still in his sack- but he was gone. They put him in a tiny little blanket that the catholic church gives, because they knew what was happening, but it was like a death box or a grief box- I don’t know what to call it. He was getting enough oxygen to keep his heart beating for almost an hour but it just wasn’t enough. After his heart stopped he wrapped his hand around my finger, it was crazy. I had an out of body experience. I was looking down at myself, my body was grieving but my mind was detached. I felt bad for a long time about not being present in my own body then- about having my son experience me crying instead of experience me loving him in those short moments. But he was there because he knew I needed him, or God knew, or the universe, or fate knew I needed him- or whatever you want to call it. My delivery nurse was there for me from the time he started coming out until four hours after he was born, and three hours after her shift had ended, she never left my side. She streamed tears- the color of her shirt was soaked. I don’t know how much it affected her but the next week I brought her a rose to thank her. I don’t know if she was there or not but I left it for her.