Darren and I were the typical first-time parents. When he was awake, Caleb hardly ever left the warm shelter of our arms. We attended CPR and first aid classes. We read books and articles, determined that we were going to be the parents that did everything right. I worked from home those first three months and he reduced his hours at the office. I breastfed even when my nipples were sore and cracked and the agony almost seemed like too much. Darren never skipped his turn to get up in the middle of the night for diaper duty. No matter how exhausted we were, we never cut corners. I was proud of him as my husband and as Caleb’s father. I was proud of myself as a wife and as a mother.
I floated around for nearly six months in my blissful bubble before it all went wrong.
They said it was SIDS. Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. It’s what they say when they don’t know why a healthy, happy, strong baby boy just doesn’t wake up one day.
I thought we had finally caught a little break—that Caleb had slept through the night. That maybe he would sleep through the night every night and Darren and I would finally know what it felt like to wake refreshed again.
But when I got to his room, something—some kind of motherly intuition—told me this was wrong. I tiptoed up to his crib, the one Darren and I argued over and laughed about as we spent six hours constructing, and my gaze focused on Caleb’s little chest, covered in his light blue, puppy-dog pajamas. Those pajamas were my favorite because they matched his eyes so well.
I stared hard, waiting to see the rise and fall of his chest. But it never came. I slid my hand over his sternum, and froze, certain I was wrong. So, so wrong.
My baby boy couldn’t be motionless and cool to the touch. Not my baby boy.
Not my baby boy.
I knew, but I didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to believe it.
My trembling hands slipped gently under his fragile body and I lifted him to me. I pressed my cheek to his belly, my ear against his heart and lungs. What happened after that is a blur. I know I dialed 911. I know I performed CPR. I know I was still trying to revive my child when the paramedics arrived and took him from my arms. I know that was the last time I held him.
I know none of it did any good.
Caleb was gone. He was with my mother in Heaven, and I…I was still here. And I realized it was never my mother who would miss watching him grow. It was me. I’d miss the first time my baby crawled or talked or walked. I’d miss the first day of Kindergarten, school plays, proms, graduations. I’d miss it all because none of it would ever happen. Caleb’s life was stolen before he got a chance to live it.
A parent should never have to bury their child. It’s unnatural. Especially when that child was so young. Too young. And so small. The memory of his tiny white casket being lowered into the ground will haunt me until the day I die.
You’re probably wondering how I possibly went on at that point. How I could find the strength to wake up each morning and go into work. Live my life. Eat, sleep, shower. The truth is, I don’t know.
I don’t really recall much of that year. I mean, I guess I got out of bed each day and I went into work. I must have showered, and eaten, and slept, but I was in a daze.
Anybody who has ever lost someone they love knows the foggy haze of mourning. They know exactly what I mean. That place we go just outside of reality, preoccupied with living in the past. Going over and over the what-ifs. Torturing ourselves with the constant hope that it’s all a dream we’ll wake from, but knowing deep down we aren’t that lucky. Praying for sleep because then we are free of the pain. Dreading waking because then we are forced to remember. Crying until our heads are light, eyes are burning, and throats are raw. Day after day passes and somehow—somehow—we’ve made it through just to go through it all over again tomorrow.
There isn’t some magical formula for coping. I don’t know how I did it. I just did. But I do know that with every second that ticked by without Caleb in my arms, I lost more and more of myself.
My husband understood this. He was hurting too, but unlike me, who would rather suffer in silence, he needed someone. He couldn’t turn to me, shut down and stricken with my own agony. He tried. God, I know he did. For months and months, he tried to help me. Tried to help himself. Tried to find a way to take just a piece of our unhappiness away. But I didn’t want my unhappiness to go away. I didn’t want to feel better about my baby’s death. I wanted to feel every last bit of that loss. I needed to feel it. I wanted to wallow in my agony for as long as I possibly could.
My husband eventually understood this too. And so he did the only thing he could do. He found someone else to console him. Someone to offer a bit of light in our otherwise dark lives.