A story by Bernadette Williams

“Could I have you tomorrow? Could I have you today? Could I have you forever? Would you find that okay? Wake me up in the morning, my sweet remedy.” As a teen or even young adult, I would’ve thought this song was nothing more than a simple love song, but in recent years it has had an entirely different meaning for me. Thinking back, I was really just a naïve and immature young woman trying to find her place in the world, not having a clue what the future looked like. I spent my days rebelling against my parents because I knew everything, and of course, everyone else was the problem. But just like Newton’s third law, my actions soon caught up with me and at the age of 20, I was expecting my first child. I can recall the moment I realized I was going to become a mom; my heart was racing with happiness, and I couldn’t stop the streams of tears falling down my face. Don’t get me wrong, I was terrified, but I’d dreamed of being a mom all my life and now the moment was finally here, and I was ready for it all.

In the days that led up to our son’s arrival I did what any expecting mother would and worried about whether we had enough wipes and diapers, shopped for the cutest clothes, and rearranged the house about a million times all while still figuring out what kind of parent I wanted to be. I’d thought about the moment I’d give birth and although it scared me, I was so ready for it. It felt like I was the main character of a 90’s romcom who had their life together, and my only worry was whether I should go with the epidural or not. I was literally living out my childhood fantasy of being in love, planning to get married, and building a family, so worst-case scenarios never once crossed my mind. From the instant I held my son in my arms I felt like I could conquer the world and everything in it, just to protect the little life I created. Even with the sleepless nights, never-ending feedings and diaper changes, and the many long hours of rocking him back and forth, I was still on cloud nine and nothing or no one could dampen my spirit.

Months went by, still in nirvana from having my first child, when we found out we were expecting another little boy. The first time around was a piece of cake and I was in complete denial that anything bad could ever happen to me because of the intense happiness that rippled through me. I often pictured my two boys growing up together and daydreamed about them running around the backyard playing with water during the summer months while their dad and I sat on the lanai talking story and watching them play. The illusory sweet, yet bitter smell of grass and their laughter-filled screams as they chased each other around and around in circles soothed my soul. The daydreams always seemed so real, but that is all they were.

I was exactly twenty-nine weeks along when he was born, which made him eleven weeks premature. The room was tinted with a bluish haze from the light hospitals use to help jaundiced babies. I can still smell the antiseptic and hand sanitizer-fragranced hallways and I can still hear the slow “beep… beep… beep…” the heart monitor made. With my oldest, mommy could always fix it whether he was hurt or confused, angry or sad. This time, it was different. All I could do was sit back and watch as nurse after nurse and doctor after doctor would come and try to fix it. The days we spent in the hospital were a blur not just because of the strong medication I was on or the constant pain in my lower abdomen from my recent surgery, but more so from the helplessness I felt. I took comfort in the brief moments of almost normalcy when I’d sit in my rocking chair and my husband (then boyfriend) would sing to our little one, “Could I have you tomorrow? Could I have you today? Could I have you forever? Would you find that okay? Darling’ look at the stars tonight. There’s your bed of roses. Wake me up in the morning, my sweet remedy,” he’d sing. But even in those brief moments, somewhere at the back of my mind, the helplessness still lingered.

At Kapiolani Hospital, they hang a small stuffed butterfly on the doors of children who, as they would say, “fly away.” I vividly remember staring at it, wanting to rip it off the door screaming that they had the wrong room. But sure enough, the room was no longer filled with a tint of blue light and the beeping had soon stopped. There were no nurses or doctors running in and out. For a moment, I found myself losing my sense of reality and slowly drifted into the familiar space of a daydream, full of the sweet sound of children’s laughter. The dreams no longer brought comfort but instead brought bitterness, chaos, and sorrow. When I came back to my senses I had somehow managed to walk downstairs out onto the street side and for the first time in a long time, allowed myself temporary nicotine-induced emotional relief as I attempted to sort through my countless emotions. The days, weeks, and months to come would soon become the hardest times of my life.

Nothing and no one can prepare you for the loss of a loved one, let alone the loss of a child. I can’t even begin to describe the amount of anger, confusion, guilt, and sadness that you feel as a parent… as a mother. It was all just too much. The emotional burden became too much to bear, and I eventually stuffed it all into a little corner in the back of my mind. Instead, I convinced myself that for the sake of my oldest son, it’s better to be busy than it is to fall apart. And as long as I didn’t fall apart, I was “healed.” So, I cooked and cleaned and took up hobby after hobby, running myself to the verge of exhaustion every single day. As the days went by my relationship became distant and full of arguments and resentment. But I cared little about that because I hadn’t the time nor the energy to deal with it. I was empty and hurting and needed to keep busy because busy meant I wasn’t falling apart and falling apart meant that I was “healed.” So, I cooked more and cleaned more, and took on even more extravagant hobbies to fill the void that was left in me.

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months and finally it was February 5th, 2019. One whole year after my life had taken a turn for the worse, and there we stood on the beach where we laid our son to rest, broken, and tired with little to no hope of peace again. I watched as the small white flowers floated on the surface of the deep blue water being pulled in and then out softly crashing against the sand. The breeze was yet again nice and cool and the salty mist of the ocean blew onto my face. Our family had since gone home taking our oldest with them leaving just my husband and I to our own thoughts. As I stood there, I could hear his sweet voice sing “Could I have you tomorrow? Could I have you today? Could I have you forever? Would you find that okay? Darling’ look at the stars tonight. There’s your bed of roses. Wake me up in the morning, my sweet remedy.” Like the waves rushing up on the sand, my emotions slammed into me and for the first time in a year I truly allowed myself to feel everything all at once. Not that I had much of a choice in the matter. The uncontrollable tears began staining my shirt and the sand at my feet and I remember thinking of that scene in Alice in Wonderland where she’d quite literally cried herself a river and I wondered if it were at all possible. Unbeknownst to me, my partner had been holding me firmly, caressing my back, and as I looked at him, I’d realized he was crying too. We’d stood there in silence for what seemed like a lifetime lost in our own thoughts attempting to piece ourselves together little by little.

Over the next few years, I slowly learned to face the sadness, anger, and confusion I felt as opposed to pretending like they didn’t exist. There were many, many moments of absolute defeat where it felt like the pain was just too unbearable that I couldn’t get out of bed. I can recall a time when I sat in the tub, my tears mixing with the now cold water flowing down my face, unable to get up or move. But there were also moments of connection between myself and my partner where we talked for hours, where we cried and laughed and felt the mix of emotions together as a couple and as parents. It wasn’t easy and it took time, patience, and constant effort to heal these scars.

The thing about grief is as sorrowful as it may be, there is a certain kind of beauty in it, as stupid as it sounds. To be honest, grief never truly leaves you but over time if you allow yourself, you learn to adapt and, in some ways, heal from the loss. My son was my remedy in one way or another and the lessons that I’ve been taught over the years have benefited almost every aspect of my life. It wasn’t until the moment of understanding I had while sitting on the beach in my husband’s arms that I realized that I have to face the pain in order to overcome it and that only I had the power to do so. It’s been four long, hard years since that day on the beach and not a day goes by that it doesn’t hurt any less. I sometimes still find myself imagining those laughter-filled summer days and the sweet voice of my partner singing, “Could I have you tomorrow? Could I have you today? Could I have you forever? Would you find that okay? Darling’ look at the stars tonight. There’s your bed of roses. Wake me up in the morning, my sweet remedy,” and finally, I’ve found peace again.