The day after my son William died, my husband and I went to the hospital to see his twin Elliott in the NICU. We had agreed that being near Elliott would be the only thing that would feel ok that day. We were both mostly silent. I remember feeling very otherworldly, very distant from the reality that was spinning, beeping, screaming around us, very distant from John. Everything seemed to have a cold fog around it, embodying the environment. There was this watery, grey feeling like nothing was really there, including me. The only comfort was staring at sweet Elliott under the bili lights, waiting for the quick moments when the nurses would do his cares and we would briefly be able to look into each other’s eyes (or at least I could gaze into his).
The nurse practitioner who was on shift that day came over to John and I, and related how sorry she was about William’s passing. With tears in her eyes, she told us that Elliott, so far, was doing well for his gestational age. And then she turned to us, making eye contact. She told us that she believed we would make it through this together, that our relationship was strong, that even though many families don’t make it through in one piece, she thought we would be one of the few to make it. [Read more]