Monday, September 23, 2019
Home > My Babies > Calvin Phoenix > I miss my son.

I miss my son.

On this day last year, I had my third and last prenatal appointment with Calvin. It was Ash Wednesday. Louie and I went to Mass in the morning at St. Ignatius Church before going to UCSF. (That day, there was a young man sitting in the pew in front of us, and he started sobbing after communion. We didn’t do anything or say anything to him, but we talked about it later and how we felt for him. I think about him every now and then, and hope God has brought him comfort.) It was also the day before my birthday.

At the appointment, we saw a doctor we had never seen before, and when she spoke to us about my membranes coming apart and the risks of the pregnancy, it was like being told all over again about the amniotic bands. We had to tell her, like we told the other doctor and the genetic counselor, we would wait. At the end of the appointment, she confirmed that we were having a follow up Level II ultrasound, and told us we would wait until after the ultrasound to schedule my next appointment. Hearing those words felt like a death sentence for my baby, and just thinking about that moment puts me back in that place. Maybe it was a blessing that I didn’t need to call to cancel the appointment and say “because my baby died.” But it didn’t feel that way then. It doesn’t feel that way now, either.

It wasn’t all bad, though. As she placed the doppler on my belly and proceeded to move it around searching for the baby’s heart, I felt the tears well up. I was bracing myself. But then, after what seemed like too long for hope, she moved it left and down, and there it was: a fast, whooshing, thumping. It didn’t sound like I remembered from my second prenatal appointment, maybe because I was overwrought and ready to hear the words I feared most. But she said that heartbeat sounded fine, and that was enough for us. My baby was alive. It was the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten.

Here I am a year later from that day.

And I have seen that same doctor again. What should have been my first prenatal appointment with her for my rainbow baby became, instead, a confirmation of my miscarriage. My second baby. My second loss.

I don’t know how I feel about turning 28. At first, I felt indifferent. Right now, though, I feel as if it moves me further away from my son. I don’t like feeling that way. Right now I long for where I was last year. I long for the sound of Calvin’s heartbeat. I long for the hope and joy and happiness I felt. I long for the days that came between life and death for my first child. For the way my birthday felt last year. For the Saturday after, when Louie felt him move for the first time. I miss the sound of his heart beating. I miss the swell of life growing inside me. I miss looking forward to seeing him on the ultrasounds and waiting to share the secret of his name. I miss my son. I miss my Calvin Phoenix.

crystal
Crystal is a mother-wife-writer whose explorations include parenting, grief, food, and semi-crunchy living. She is currently an MFA in writing student, a content editor for Still Standing Magazine, and the technical editor for Switchback.

0 thoughts on “I miss my son.

  1. *hugs* Those specific days so fresh in our minds can bring back a range of emotions. Thinking of you, Calvin and rainbow.

  2. *hugs* Those specific days so fresh in our minds can bring back a range of emotions. Thinking of you, Calvin and rainbow.

  3. I’m very sorry that today is a day of mixed emotions for you. I will pray for peace and comfort for you and Louie over the coming days as I know they might be difficult. I think of you often……take care.

  4. I’m very sorry that today is a day of mixed emotions for you. I will pray for peace and comfort for you and Louie over the coming days as I know they might be difficult. I think of you often……take care.

  5. Oh, Crystal Theresa. I am so sorry. It’s so hard when a memory can be so filled with pain and love, all at the same time. It’s hard to remember, but it’s also amazing. I am thinking of you, Louie, Calvin, and your rainbow in Heaven.

  6. Oh, Crystal Theresa. I am so sorry. It’s so hard when a memory can be so filled with pain and love, all at the same time. It’s hard to remember, but it’s also amazing. I am thinking of you, Louie, Calvin, and your rainbow in Heaven.

"Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen." (Ephesians 4:29)

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