Andrew’s death eleven months ago took everyone by surprise.
At 30, he had always been a healthy eater, consistent fitness enthusiast and had established a solid career in software engineering. As a father of two, his love for his family had always been expressed loudly. They were on course to move into a bigger house in a year, had scheduled an anniversary trip to the Maldives, and were completing the renovations of their vacation home so both sides of the family could join them for Christmas. In the standards of today’s world, theirs was a perfect life. Well, it seemed to be until three months after the birth of their second born, Dawn, when Jolene received a call from the police with the news that Andrew had jumped from the 15th floor of his company’s building and died on the spot.
Jolene met Andrew in high school, and they had dated for 10 years before they tied the knot. Their first child, Nathan (4) was born ten months later. Nathan’s pregnancy was a breeze, and the home birth just as easy. The second pregnancy however was not very kind. Jolene had ballooned, was frequently sick, and had to be transferred to a hospital for an emergency c-section when the midwife facilitating the homebirth told them the baby was at risk and could only be saved through surgery.
The couple had not hesitated. The pregnancy had already been draining. But what they had not prepared themselves for was the baby being born with several congenital heart defects. They called it the “complete transposition of the great arteries”, a rare defect in which the two main arteries leaving the heart are reversed (transposed). The list of complications they recited to her felt like a death sentence. Like all they said was that her baby was born to die. It broke her.
The list of complications they recited to her felt like a death sentence. Like all they said was that her baby was born to die. It broke her.
Andrew took it differently. Unlike Jolene he showed more positivity and faith that the baby would fight her way through life. The family had never been religious, and faith was something she could not attach to the reality that her child would always be at risk of dying prematurely. Jolene slid into postnatal depression, and the anticipatory grief made her tremble every time she tried to hold the baby in her hands. She felt guilty for having death as the easy stop for where daughter’s life could go. It drove her crazy, and she progressively avoided the baby altogether.
In her head, she had failed that baby, and the fear of her dying in her hands terrorized her. She was angry at Andrew, for smiling at the baby. For finding it easy to pick her up and rock her in his arms until she fell asleep. She hated that his faith in the possibility of Dawn leading a decent life was something she could not bring herself to have. She was afraid. Felt responsible. She could not eat, sleep, and never really smiled. It was almost like the only thing she could do was wait. To say goodbye to the child she had convinced herself she had lost at birth.
She felt guilty for having death as the easy stop for where daughter’s life could go.
After multiple protests, she started seeing a therapist, and while she hated it at first, she eased into it. Started seeing the fog clear as she articulated the complex emotions and feeling she had towards everything that had been giving her nightmares. This was a Friday, and the therapist had challenged her to go into the baby’s room. Something she had not done for weeks. She only had to go into the room and sit next to the baby for as long as she could keep herself in there. She would practice this until she could touch the baby, and eventually, carry her into her arms. It was a scary feeling and took a lot from her. But right when she had mastered the courage to face her fears, she got the call from the police. Andrew was gone.
Death had won twice!
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