Ben & Shae Cecka's family in Gilbert, AZ

“You are still a mom you know.” The nurse said, after she wished me a happy mother’s day. I didn’t bother explaining to her that I already had a child at home, and that the 12.4 ounce, 10 inch long, tiny human that lived for only an hour in my arms the day before was not my only son. We held him again that day- for some reason the discharge nurse in the labor and delivery unit thought we should say our last goodbyes to our baby, and brought his cold stiff body to us wrapped in a warm blanket. That was the last time we saw him. Some mother’s day. I am still trying to erase that lifeless image from my mind and hold on to the memories of the day before, those bitter sweet moments we had with such a beautiful baby boy, who opened and shut his mouth, moved his arms around in the air, and finally folded them together to rest sweetly under his chin. Such a beautiful boy he was, despite his tiny size.

I often wonder if the well meaning woman that wished me a “happy” mother’s day would have done the same had I gone into labor a week earlier. You see- medically, technically, legally, a life started in the womb that is expelled before twenty weeks gestation is considered a miscarriage. Anyone born after the twenty week line is considered to be a live birth, or if deceased in utero, a stillbirth. My placental abruption occurred at 16 weeks, and that lively little guy who was measured and photographed countless times through ultrasound and proclaimed healthy and perfect survived in my failing, bleeding body for another four weeks. Jeremy was the gestational age of twenty weeks and three days when he was born. Earned his birth certificate, which was immediately followed by the completion of his certificate of death. Is it really just three days, that makes the difference between the sprout and the bean?

So, know that I love you all, and I know it’s selfish, but you’ll just have to excuse me if I am a little less than enthusiastic about mother’s day. I wonder if it will ever be the same again for me, even with the joy I have for my living children, and the love and appreciation I have for our moms and grandmoms. It’s funny how I felt so needy of attention the first year, afraid to be left alone, offended when neglected. This May I just want to be left alone with my boys and supportive husband… or in a dark closet with some tequila and a teddy bear.

I’ve started bleeding again, and I don’t know if I haven’t fully healed from the pregnancy, or if I’m super crazy fertile and am having a period already despite the fact that I am breastfeeding. Either way, I think it’s some pretty sick irony… this time last year I was still pregnant with Jeremy and bleeding so much that I would lose him within a week.
I was driving home from yoga class thinking about one of many visits I had in the ER May of 2007:

Jeremy was nestled so far into my pelvic area that the sonographer couldn’t get a good picture of his head for me, but we had so many ultrasound photos that I didn’t mind. This one, like all the others, promised that the baby living in me was alive and well, and showed no bleeding. Always the ultrasound would show that “the baby is fine,” and there was no bleeding. Unable to give me a definitive answer, the doctor ordered my discharge papers and my IV was removed. As I was getting off of the table to get dressed and go home, a blood clot dropped out of me, a little smaller than a tennis ball in size. I thought my intestines were falling out. The nurse that came into the room said that it was probably “product of conception,” and that he was sorry for our loss. If I was not slow to realize that “product of conception” meant “your baby,” I would have showed him the ultrasound photo with clearly defined skeletal structure, and would have informed him that the blood blob on the table was a damn blood clot, and not my child. Tired and frustrated, I left anyway, and once home was in so much pain that I would have gone back for the drugs I refused, had I not just spent 6 hours there with stupid nurses that didn’t know what they were talking about. I was loosing so much blood that I had to send Ben to the store to pick up some overnight sanitary pads. I went through four regular pads, and two pairs of pants in one hour. I’ll never forget that he came home with the right kind of pads, and some Ferrero Rocher. What a man. If I can’t have drugs, chocolate is the next best thing.

After reminiscing I decided to stop at the store on the way home for some Ferrero Rocher, and disposable diapers for Joshua. I came home with Ferrero Rocher, and a bottle of Tequila.
I was afraid, when I found out that I was pregnant again so soon, that I might have some resentment for the new baby. But I love Joshua, and Johnathan, with burning maternal passion. But all the love in the world that I have for them will not change the fact that there is a hole in our family picture, and nothing will ever replace the spot we have in our hearts for Jeremy.

May 12 is his birthday. I can’t believe a whole year has gone by since the day we held our son who lived for only an hour. We will never forget, and I hope our friends and family will not forget him either. The very first anniversary is a tough one to get through. Kind thoughts and words are welcome during this time.

Jeremy’s due date is today. It hurts more than I thought it would. I always thought I would deliver early after having Johnathan at 38 weeks, so I didn’t think I would feel sentimental about this date at all. But I am pretty sore. I finished this painting I’ve been working on, to express and help work out the duality of the living baby inside me, and the spirit of the one that left too soon.

Ben is dealing with it in his own way, and is getting pretty good at playing that Eric Clapton song. I just hope that his blisters finish healing soon.

Phantom Kicks, acrylic on canvas, September 2007, Shae Lynette Cecka