Farwell To Our Angel
By Bobbi Todd
A tale of the common people.
My tiny little angel. I don't understand. I was so careful. From the moment we decided to have you, I didn't take a single drink, not even a glass of wine on our anniversary. I never smoked, or did drugs, but who'd have thought so many over-the-counter things would say "Do not use if you are pregnant"? Boy, did I read a lot of labels.
Everything was fine. Perfect, in fact. I had a textbook pregnancy. I didn't even have morning sickness, except for one day.
Your Dad and I bought a house, so you could have a yard to play in. We had such grand plans for you.
I remember mowing the lawn the day you were born. Your Dad had a fit when he got home. He asked me if I was crazy. I just shrugged. The grass needed to be mowed; he had to work late, so I did it. The nurse laughed when he told her what I had done. She said it was called 'nesting', and took many different forms.
You were born so fast, nobody was quite ready for you. I'd only been in labor for three hours when the nurse came in to check me. Her eyes got great big, and she said she could feel your feet. She ran out of the room, saying she hadn't called the doctor in yet, (it was three in the morning on a Saturday, after all), and she'd never delivered a breach baby. Your Dad held my hand while everybody ran around like a bunch of silly geese, yelling at me not to push.
Your doctor got there before mine did. It was funny, really. When you were born, you inhaled just like you were supposed to, only problem was, you came out backwards, so you inhaled amniotic fluid. Your doctor grabbed you and ran off to another room almost before they could tell us you were a girl.
I guess I'm a complete idiot, because I still didn't know anything was wrong. They almost lost you right then, but they managed to pull you back. You were so tiny they wouldn't bring you to me. They knew something was wrong, but not what.
They came in and told us that wanted to take you to a bigger hospital, where they could take better care of you. They told us you didn't even know how to eat. They wouldn't let us go with you. I had to stay there until the next day, and even then they didn't really want to let me go. But they did.
Your Dad and I drove down to the hospital and went up to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. You were in this little open plastic box and you had tubes coming out of your nose, and wires and things all over you. You were so tiny I couldn't believe it.
They finally told us what was wrong with you. That you were a mutant. And that your mutation 'wasn't viable'. Why can't they just say what they mean? It took me a minute, mostly because I didn't want to believe them. They were telling us that you were going to die.
They did all kinds of tests on us, as if having someone to blame for your mutation would make things better. When neither your Dad nor I were found to be carriers, they told us we could have other children. "But what about this child?" we asked.
"You should just leave her here," they told us. "We feel it's best if you don't get attached to these babies." Don't get attached? Are they crazy? You were our daughter! Finally, the let us take you home.
We had to learn how to put in the tube to feed you, and how to revive you when (not if) you stopped breathing. But we did it.
Sometimes you cried and cried and nothing I did made any difference. Your Dad would lie back, and put you on his broad chest, and just pat you on the rump until you fell asleep. I think the best memory I have is of waking up next to him. He had you on his chest, just thumping away. And you were both fast asleep.
Memories are all we have of you now, angel. You left us one afternoon when you were just three months old. They tried everything they could, but your little body was just worn out.
We buried you next to my grandfather, so you wouldn't be alone.
It's been sixteen years now, but the pain is still sharp. I look at your younger brother and sister, and I wonder if you'd look like them. They both have their Daddy's eyes. Or would you have looked more like me? I guess I'll never know, will I?
I miss you, angel. Sleep well.
By Bobbi Todd
A tale of the common people.
My tiny little angel. I don't understand. I was so careful. From the moment we decided to have you, I didn't take a single drink, not even a glass of wine on our anniversary. I never smoked, or did drugs, but who'd have thought so many over-the-counter things would say "Do not use if you are pregnant"? Boy, did I read a lot of labels.
Everything was fine. Perfect, in fact. I had a textbook pregnancy. I didn't even have morning sickness, except for one day.
Your Dad and I bought a house, so you could have a yard to play in. We had such grand plans for you.
I remember mowing the lawn the day you were born. Your Dad had a fit when he got home. He asked me if I was crazy. I just shrugged. The grass needed to be mowed; he had to work late, so I did it. The nurse laughed when he told her what I had done. She said it was called 'nesting', and took many different forms.
You were born so fast, nobody was quite ready for you. I'd only been in labor for three hours when the nurse came in to check me. Her eyes got great big, and she said she could feel your feet. She ran out of the room, saying she hadn't called the doctor in yet, (it was three in the morning on a Saturday, after all), and she'd never delivered a breach baby. Your Dad held my hand while everybody ran around like a bunch of silly geese, yelling at me not to push.
Your doctor got there before mine did. It was funny, really. When you were born, you inhaled just like you were supposed to, only problem was, you came out backwards, so you inhaled amniotic fluid. Your doctor grabbed you and ran off to another room almost before they could tell us you were a girl.
I guess I'm a complete idiot, because I still didn't know anything was wrong. They almost lost you right then, but they managed to pull you back. You were so tiny they wouldn't bring you to me. They knew something was wrong, but not what.
They came in and told us that wanted to take you to a bigger hospital, where they could take better care of you. They told us you didn't even know how to eat. They wouldn't let us go with you. I had to stay there until the next day, and even then they didn't really want to let me go. But they did.
Your Dad and I drove down to the hospital and went up to the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit. You were in this little open plastic box and you had tubes coming out of your nose, and wires and things all over you. You were so tiny I couldn't believe it.
They finally told us what was wrong with you. That you were a mutant. And that your mutation 'wasn't viable'. Why can't they just say what they mean? It took me a minute, mostly because I didn't want to believe them. They were telling us that you were going to die.
They did all kinds of tests on us, as if having someone to blame for your mutation would make things better. When neither your Dad nor I were found to be carriers, they told us we could have other children. "But what about this child?" we asked.
"You should just leave her here," they told us. "We feel it's best if you don't get attached to these babies." Don't get attached? Are they crazy? You were our daughter! Finally, the let us take you home.
We had to learn how to put in the tube to feed you, and how to revive you when (not if) you stopped breathing. But we did it.
Sometimes you cried and cried and nothing I did made any difference. Your Dad would lie back, and put you on his broad chest, and just pat you on the rump until you fell asleep. I think the best memory I have is of waking up next to him. He had you on his chest, just thumping away. And you were both fast asleep.
Memories are all we have of you now, angel. You left us one afternoon when you were just three months old. They tried everything they could, but your little body was just worn out.
We buried you next to my grandfather, so you wouldn't be alone.
It's been sixteen years now, but the pain is still sharp. I look at your younger brother and sister, and I wonder if you'd look like them. They both have their Daddy's eyes. Or would you have looked more like me? I guess I'll never know, will I?
I miss you, angel. Sleep well.