Augustine's Story
When Brooke asked me to share about our son, Augustine, I knew I needed to take the time to write and focus on him. But when I went to write the words, nothing seemed to come. I have sat to write this out multiple times, staring at the screen, waiting for my thoughts to align.
Now, I write a lot, so it’s not usually hard for me to find things to say, but our life since losing our son has been hard. I lost all my grandparents and had another child a year and half after Gus, who was born with a rare genetic variant that causes global delays, movement disorders, a sleep disorder, heart issues, and most notably seizures, sometimes hundreds a day. All of this has made it incredibly hard for me to revisit my grief over Gus, to immerse myself in missing my son. And honestly, everything else has seemed so loud and so dark that I often feel like I can’t find my way back to that spot in my memory without expending more effort than I have strength for at the time.
Losing a child at birth is one of the most unique and profound types of grief I have experienced - and I say that as someone who feels a bit like a professional griever now. There is an emptiness that comes with losing a child you never got the chance to know. It’s not merely the loss of a person, but it’s the loss of dreams and hopes and a future.
When I got pregnant with our son, our eldest daughter was just 6 months old. I had no idea I was pregnant, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t cry reading that positive pregnancy test. I was just starting to feel normal again and recovering from a rather intense labor and delivery with our daughter, and now I was going to have to start the process all over again. This would make my kids just 14-15 months apart. I was overwhelmed to say the least. I tell you all this, because it’s part of our story, and it’s part of our grief. I’ll touch on this again later.
As time progressed, we got used to the idea of having 2 under 1 and half, and even began to get excited. When we found out it was a boy, we were over the moon. I dreamed what it would be like to have a little boy and girl so close in age. I had dreams of Gus protecting his sister as she grew older, and her giving him all the sass. I was busy though, working two very demanding jobs, and taking care of a 1 year old. Since our daughter was so young, I didn’t have to prepare or plan much for his arrival. The bottles were already out, I never got around to putting the bassinet away, and we had plenty of diapers. I didn’t buy a lot of clothes for him, or set up a nursery. My plan was to get the little details ready after I started my maternity leave mid-July. It gave me a month(plus more because I expected to go late) to prepare all that we would need.
Much was my despair when on July 7th 2017 I noticed his movement decrease. In fact, I questioned the last time that day I had felt him move at all. I was busy preparing for two different events and chasing a 13 month old. I felt confident he had moved, and I just didn’t notice. The day went on, and I began to get concerned. My husband came home from work, and I asked him to take over dinner and caring for our daughter so I could really focus on getting Gus to move. I tried everything and then called our midwife, who with concern in her voice, told me, “You need to come in to be checked, Faith”.
We put our daughter to bed, and asked a friend to come sit at our house until we got back. We didn’t bring anything with us, because we didn’t think we would need anything. We texted our doulas but told them, everything was probably fine. “No worries. Just letting you know we’re getting double checked.“ The whole way there, there was a silence and tension. But we kept saying, as we did to our doulas “I’m sure he’s fine. I’ve been so healthy this pregnancy. He’s probably just wedged himself funny. I’m sure he’s fine”
But he wasn’t. As the ultrasound tech searched for a heart beat or movement, the machine screen seemed black to me. There wasn’t movement. Nothing. I started to wail. But she calmly said, “I’m going to go get the midwife. It’s okay, don’t cry”. I knew then, he was gone. My heart started racing and my mind started spiraling. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real.
The midwife came in and confirmed the news with us, compassionately and with such grace. She held us while we sobbed. I then remember saying “I still have to have him don’t I?”. It was obvious, but felt so cruel. So cruel that I still had to endure labor. I couldn’t just go home and grieve, I now had put my body through pain with no reward. She told me I could go home and see if I would go into labor naturally, or start induction. There was no way I would be able to go home and be around our 13 month old knowing what was happening. So we started the induction.
It was slow and painful. I would drift in and out of consciousness and the reality would flood back to me bringing new sobs. After 2 days of laboring, he arrived, silently, with the only cries to be heard our own. He was perfect. His soft dark hair, perfect tiny fingers. He was just shy of 5 lbs, at 33 weeks. Our hearts were shattered.
We held him and tried to memorize his features while we could, but then, I knew it was time to get home to our daughter. She had never been away from us like this. I never wanted to leave my son…it felt cruel just leaving him there, for both him and us. But we knew our daughter needed her mommy and daddy and there wasn’t anything left we could do at the hospital except grieve and watch as his body slowly started to deteriorate. I wanted to remember him in his best possible state. I wanted those images to be seared into my mind. So we left, with empty arms, and silent sobs. 6 hours after I delivered him, on July 9th, only 2 days before our 3rd anniversary.
In the days and months that followed, grief felt like an overwhelming cloud. I developed depression and severe anxiety. Large social gatherings prompted panic attacks because I would fear what people would say or not say to me regarding him. I would mentally overwhelm myself trying to think of what I would say and how I would respond to anything and everything they could possibly say to me. When you lose a child, you would be shocked at the insensitive things people can say, because they merely do not know what to say. And I get it now, further down this path of grief and suffering, I see how hard it is for people to know how to help or what to say. But when you are in the deep throes of agony, it’s hard to extend grace. It’s hard to overlook. And honestly, depending on the day, it could change whether I wanted them to bring it up or not. I had placed others in a no-win situation. I became isolated and self victimized myself.
I wrestled with guilt, over not paying more attention that day in July. Shame, over feeling overwhelmed when I found out I was pregnant. Shame, over feeling like my body had failed, or let Gus down in some way. I would be lying if I said our journey after losing August was tidy and calm. It was anything but. It was as chaotic as the waves in the ocean during a storm. We became accustomed to using the phrase “words are wind”(Job 6:26) as we would argue over dumb things said and feelings hurt over misunderstandings.
As time has passed, I started to find a new normal. I learned how to manage my expectations and let others enter into my grief. I learned to let things go, and when to speak up.
But more than that, I learned to experience comfort from my Savior who spoke into my suffering through His Word. I felt the body of Christ, moving to meet tangible needs and praying for us faithfully. I felt healing happen, very, VERY slowly through the grace of God.
To use a phrase coined by a friend, I walk with a limp. I have scars. I am not who I used to be. I have more wrinkles, more grey, and I am far more gentle inside and out. But the Lord has taken such brokenness and turned it into beauty. While I would always have chosen to have my son here alive and well with us, I know that losing him has made me a better mom. It has softened my hard edges, it has forced me, with tears streaming down my face, to trust God is enough. I’m so thankful for the ways God used our son to shape me and conform me into the likeness of Christ. No one would ever choose to lose their child. No parent ever dreams that instead of snuggling their newborn they will be stuffing cabbage leaves down their shirt and dressing for a funeral. But I know God has used Gus’ life and Gus’ death to point others to the cross. It has pointed us to the cross, and the hope of future glory of seeing him once again. Whole and perfect, without any flaw. I long for heaven more than I ever dreamed possible. And that is the hope that drives me through each and every day.