A wound that's not lethal, but will never heal
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"What would you attempt, if you knew you could not fail?" The words, printed on a plaque available on the Web, take my breath away each time I consider them. What would I attempt, already knowing I've failed so profoundly and irrevocably?
My son, Bram Gwydion, was born Oct. 8, 2010. It was an amazing morning. We became parents for the second time, and our 5-year-old daughter was finally an official big sister.
For eight sweet weeks, despite choking debt and a fruitless search for freelance writing work, life was perfect.
Failure. My brain tells me that what really happened was Life, with a capital "L" — not failure on my part. But when you're filled with pain, sorrow and rage, with nothing else to point them at, you point them at yourself.
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Technically, it was "interstitial pneumonitis." On Dec. 3, 2010, I put Bram down for his afternoon nap. And that was it. That was my role in it. I had two chances after that, two moments when I chose not to disturb him — he had been restless the night before — instead of checking him closely. Two chances for whatever guardian angel he may have had to step in and have me take him into my arms, lift him from the bed, change his fate. What would I attempt? How could I have any other answer?
His daddy found him, when he came home from work. It was our routine, for Matt to get him from his nap and have time with him while I got dinner together. I don't even remember if we ate anything that night. Everything was screaming and crying, praying and doing CPR with the 911 dispatcher on the phone during the snowstorm until the EMTs could arrive. And the police. It was half an hour before the EMTs declared Bram deceased. Then we were no longer living in a home. We were in a crime scene.
I can't say that this is hell, the aftermath of our son's death. It took until Jan. 21 to get the coroner's report, which was officially issued on my birthday. The medical examiner had found changes in the tissue of Bram's lungs, indicating that he'd died of what was basically a lung infection. Everything we researched said the same thing: In infants younger than six months, interstitial pneumonitis was abrupt and lethal. Despite having an actual diagnosis, we'd basically become a SIDS statistic. It took me four months to decide that this wasn't hell, because we've been surrounded by such love and support. But it cuts awfully close.
We go through life putting a beautiful mask on reality. Nature may be "red in tooth and claw," but the truth is that nature — Life — breaks hearts because it doesn't have one of its own. And even though the world ended on that horrible, wintry night, time moves on, relentless and dispassionate.
If I knew I could not fail, I would find a way to go back and save my son from death at eight weeks. I can't help but think that simply having him here with us, alive and well, would change everything, make even the worries seem tolerable. I could believe in happy endings again. Instead, sunny days seem harsh to my eyes, and despite all happiness there's an omnipresent cloud in my sky.
In Arthurian legend, the Fisher King is a mighty warrior who once received a wound that, while not lethal, could never be healed. To outlive your child is to receive just such a wound, knowing it will pain you throughout your days and, ultimately, be the true cause of your death. I am already fatally wounded, now it is only a question of timing.
If these thoughts sound too dire, consider that I'm not without hope, not without belief. For me, Heaven needs to be a concrete fact. I will see my son again, hold him again, be with him again. It's the only reason there can be for me still to be breathing, the only reason that makes sense. I cherish what I have in my husband, my daughter, my family and friends. And, fail or not, I'm attempting to continue living my life and keeping my son alive through memory.
I can't know what life would have been like with him still in my arms, but there's never been a moment that I've been without him. Love, at least, can never fail.
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Andrea M. Zander is an award-winning poet, a freelance writer and editor, aspiring novelist and occasional essayist. She is a source in MPR's Public Insight Network.
