I will never forget

It was May. It was the day my contractions began. It was the day that changed my life forever.

I remember this day as though it happened yesterday, and probably always will. It was a typically mild day in May. The sun was shining. It wasn't too hot. It wasn't too chilly. It was perfect. Well, almost. I was pregnant with my fourth child who wasn't due until the end of August. I felt ill for a large portion of the day. I had a few contractions here and there, but after three previous pregnancies, I knew about Braxton-Hicks contractions and didn't think there was any need to be concerned.

As the day progressed, I started feeling worse. I felt intensely nauseated, my head started hurting, and I was still having irregular contractions. I was miserable. At about ten o'clock PM it became almost unbearable, and my contractions were much closer together and getting stronger. By this time I knew something was terribly wrong. I think I would've figured this out much earlier in the day if it hadn't been for the fact that I wasn't due to give birth until the end of August. This was May 2oth.

Once I finally decided that it was time to go to the hospital, I informed my husband and he made arrangements with the neighbor across the street to watch the kids. We headed to the nearest town with a hospital. The thoughts in my head were complete chaos. Why didn't I recognise the signs of labor sooner? Would this baby be okay being born three months early? Would I be okay? Not only was my body in excruciating pain by this time, but my heart was filled with worry as well. Something told me this was not going to end well.

We arrived at the hospital and I gave birth to a baby boy shortly after midnight on May 21, 2001. I heard no sound coming from him, and the look of concern on the faces of the doctors and nurses was absolutely horrifying. I knew what they were going to tell me before they told me. My baby had somehow contracted an infection while inside of me and was not going to live through the day.

They took me to my room and brought the baby to me shortly after. He was alive at the time, and as I held him in my arms I cherished every second of it. He was extremely little, just over two pounds, and I could feel him breathing softly. I knew that my time with him was limited, and I gazed at him, taking in every detail of his beautiful little face. I even unwrapped him from the blanket he was in and looked at the rest of him, trying desperately to keep the sight of him forever etched in my memory. I looked at his feet, his stomach, his arms, then I wrapped him back up and held him close once again. I believe he died in my arms because I can still remember the feel of his cold skin as they took his lifeless body out of my arms and out of the room.

I was left in the cold, dimly lit hospital room, alone, scared, and with a gigantic feeling of emptiness inside of me. I cried myself to sleep that night knowing I would never see my baby again. That was truly the most difficult experience I have ever dealt with.

But, nine years later, I continue thinking about my little boy on a daily basis. I imagine what he would be like, and I can still feel him in my arms on that early, frigid May morning. And I am thankful for his four brothers who are turning into wonderful young men. It is comforting knowing their brother is watching over them in heaven.