My Sunshine was just shy of two years old when Elena was born. He arrived at the hospital with my husband shortly before Elena's birth. My mom got there seconds later and took him from the room during her birth. At some point, while Elena was still living, my mom and my first baby came back into the delivery room. My son met his little sister. They stayed in the room for some time (honestly, the time is so blurry - I don't know how long they were in the room - my mom held her, that I remember), but they left again before she died. Only the nurse, my husband, and I were in the room when her little heart stopped beating.
My Sunshine is 5 years old now. We have always talked openly about Elena in our home. He was aware enough at nearly 2 that there was going to be a baby, that he met the baby, that the baby wasn't there anymore. In the beginning, he often touched my belly, "baby sister?" He didn't have his "L" sounds yet - he called her "uh-YAY-na." Sweet music. I can still hear his baby voice saying her name. He says it correctly now. He has asked lots of questions over the years, and the questions have changed as he matures and comprehends more. We have always tried to be honest with our answers. We have never tried to hide death from him, nor our sorrow. Of course, we grieve with hope and we share our hope with him, and we continued to look for joy in our lives, even in the earliest days, but we did not hide our tears from him.
I have become accustomed to questions about heaven, about dying, about why Elena was too little, about other babies who die, about vehicles that might take us to visit heaven for a day, about when he will die, about if his new baby brother was going to die, about sending a hot air balloon to heaven for Elena to play with and then she could send it back to him (sweet boy at barely 3 years old trying to find a way to play with his little sister). Sometimes the questions are hard. I think that's okay. I still try to be honest. It is profoundly important to me. Sometimes I have to tell him that I don't know. I guess that's okay too; it is honest, after all.
Last Friday, while driving (seems like a lot of these discussions happen in the car), we prayed for a sweet baby girl who was having open heart surgery. After our prayer, my oldest started talking about Elena. I was not terribly surprised (he asked a few weeks ago why we didn't give Elena a g-tube or oxygen like this baby has - the doctors should have done that for Elena, he said) and expected him to ask why Elena didn't have surgery to save her. Though difficult, I was prepared to answer that. He surprised me.
"Mom, did I see Elena die?"
"No. You saw her when she was born and she was still alive. You got to meet her. Then you saw her again after she died, but you were not in the room when she died."
"What did you do with her body?"
......
She was born basically in the middle of the night. She died as it started to get light outside. My OB told me I could go home that day instead of spending another night there. The hospital staff said we'd have to make final arrangements before we could leave. Had I chosen burial or cremation? I don't know, this was not something I'd considered during pregnancy. Did I have a cemetery or crematorium in mind? Um, no, I didn't realize I was supposed to research those while expecting a baby. They gave me a list of places. So I held her body, wrapped in a blanket, as I called funeral homes to discuss our options. The first one said I needed to come in for an appointment to discuss, that would be better than talking on the phone (I had already explained the situation). I burst into tears, beyond frustrated. She reluctantly gave me some information. I had no idea how expensive it would be. I called another one. The person on the phone at this one (I can't remember for sure but I think it was another woman) was so much more compassionate. I got all the information I needed. I was told they could come get Elena today, and I could come in tomorrow to discuss again, that I didn't have to decide today about cremation or burial or even if I wanted to use them, that if I wanted to change facilities they would release her to another service without any charge. Okay, that was better. Still not good, but better. I didn't have to decide right this second.
The nurse checked on us occasionally, asking if we were ready for them to take Elena. They didn't pressure us to give her up, but they did continue to offer. I'm not sure why it occurred to me to ask, but I did ask if we could keep her until the funeral home came. I was tired of them asking to take her. She looked a bit concerned by that request, said she would check, and came by a little later saying that was okay, but she would need to copy my husband's driver license in order to release the body to him. Apparently, she misunderstood and thought we wanted to deliver her to the funeral home ourselves. No, I just didn't want to send her to the morgue. I didn't want her there. I just wanted to hold her until the funeral home came. That was not a problem.
Two men in black suits walked into the delivery room. They were very polite and spoke softly. One carried a Moses basket. They introduced themselves and said they were sorry for our loss. They gave us a business card. They took Elena, wrapped in her blanket, and laid her in the Moses basket. They covered her completely with another blanket (I think it was white). They treated her body with great respect. My empty arms ached, but I felt the slightest bit of peace that they were so gentle with her.
The next morning at the funeral home, the funeral director offered us to see her again. We declined. I wanted my last visual memory of her to be the day she was alive. I don't know if I would do it the same again or not, but I know that neither choice was "right." There is nothing "right" about your baby dying. I struggled with the decision of how to lay her to rest. The man at the funeral home spent lots of time going over our options, driving us around the cemetery to show us the baby land and the other sections as well, answering whatever questions we thought to ask, writing her obituary. I wrestled with what to do. We went to lunch. We rewrote her obituary in the middle of the Mexican food restaurant. We returned to the funeral home. We made our decisions. He told us to sleep on it and to call in the morning to confirm. They would wait to hear from us before they moved forward. We didn't come up with compelling enough reasons to change anything, so the next day we told them to proceed with her cremation.
We had a memorial service Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Many of our family, friends, and coworkers came to support us. I am thankful for them being there. About a week later (for some reason I don't even know exactly when), we had a private service in the memory garden behind our church. Our pastor and his wife, my parents, my brother, my best friend and her family were there. We scattered half of her ashes in the garden. I intended to scatter the other half at my paternal grandparents' graveside several hours away. I haven't done so yet, and the more time that passes, the more compelled I feel to keep them with me.
......
"Um, we gave it to the funeral home." (I don't know how to answer this. What do I say to him? I can't tell him we burned her body. Why did we have her cremated anyway? Why didn't we bury her? Oh my gosh, I so wish we had buried her! I have always wondered if that was the right decision. I have always been on the verge of regretting her cremation. I have never regretted it more than I did on Friday morning. I wish I could explain burial to him instead - I have explained burial to him before, as recently as a few months ago when my grandmother passed. If we'd buried her, I could have taken him to her grave and talked to him about it. I could relate it to other family members who have passed. Who do we know that is cremated? Why didn't I bury my sweet baby instead of having her body burned?)
"Why didn't you keep it?"
(Keep it? Um, because it would decompose.) "People don't keep bodies when people die."
"So what do they do with it?"
"Well, they either bury the body or...or they have it cremated. Elena's body was cremated."
"What is cremated?"
(I can't tell him we had her body burned. What do I say? I can't lie to him about this, but how do I explain cremation to a 5 year old?) "Um, cremate means they turn the body into ashes."
"What are ashes?"
"It's kind of like dust." (ashes to ashes, dust to dust)
"Do you put the ashes on your head?"
"No..." (What on earth? Oh, he remembers getting ashes on his forehead on Ash Wednesday. Okay, not quite so creepy.) "No, we don't put people ashes on our foreheads. The ashes on Ash Wednesday are palm branch ashes. They are from plants, not people."
Thankfully, we drove up to his school about this time. The conversation ended. I think this may have been the worst I have ever done with his questions. I suspect I will have an opportunity to address these questions again. He typically ponders answers for a while and then asks again, often seeking clarification and additional information. I hope I do a better job next time.
I had read this article a year ago, and a friend from my infant loss support group reminded me of it on Friday. I plan to use parts of this when my son and I have this conversation again. I am linking it in case it can benefit anyone else struggling with this. Explaining Cremation to Young Children
When I shared our conversation (and my stress, anxiety, and upset about it) with my husband, he gently reminded me that Elena is in heaven. She is not in her body. She doesn't need her body any more. Why don't we keep bodies? Because we don't need them anymore. (Why didn't I think to tell my son this?) We are finished with them. We are in heaven. I know all this, of course, but I sure did appreciate my husband saying it anyway. The questions are hard sometimes, and sometimes impossible, but we will get through them together, even when the answers are hard too, and even when there are no answers this side of heaven.
