Thirty Years Ago

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Today is also a significant and sentimental day for me...for all of us in our family. Thirty years ago today, we said hello and goodbye, all in one breath, to my little nephew, Kirk. Today I honor him with these words, which I wrote as an 8th grader for a class project. It's not my most polished writing, but it is my most treasured writing. These memories I preserved as a teenager have faded from my mind with the passing of time. Had I not stopped to intentionally capture them, I fear I would not remember so much of this life-changing day. 

I share my words with you in honor of a little life that forever marked mine. Happy birthday, Kirk. My heart still misses and loves you. 

***

          No one makes a sound in the surgical waiting room. The sun hasn't come up yet, and I am squirming on the couch. No one in my family is talking. I don't understand. We came here because my sister is having a baby. That's a happy reason, right? So why is everybody just sitting and staring?

          Jeff said that they'd taken Lori to surgery. So that means it won't be long until the baby's born, right? In just a little while, I'll have either a niece or a nephew. Then I'll finally be an aunt!

          I look at the bag I've lugged with me. I was so excited yesterday when I packed it. Mom said it wouldn't be long until the baby was born, so I wanted to be ready. She never told me this could happen in the middle of the night. I'm too tired to look at the things I brought with me, but I'm too excited to sleep.

          Another family had been in here with us, but they left a few minutes ago. I'm glad. Their daughter was in a wreck, and they were upset. I feel bad for them, but we're here for a happy reason. I don't want to be sad in here.

          Mom's leaving now. Where is she going? She might miss something! What if the doctor comes? Oh. She's only going to the bathroom. She'd better hurry. Why is this taking so long?

          A man is walking in now. He doesn't look happy. Maybe he's tired. Or maybe he came to see the family that left. No. He's coming over here. Who is he? He's walking over to my brother-in-law.

          "Lori's fine, but we lost the baby."

          I'm confused. Who is this man? What does he mean, "lost the baby?" How can you lose a baby? I watch Jeff closely. He's just sitting there with his chin resting in one hand. He's staring at the chair across from him. What's happening?

          WAIT!

          No! I understand now! NO!! They lost the baby! The baby died! No, no, NO! The man is leaving. Where is he going? He can't just come in here, tell us our baby died, and leave. Come back here!

          My other sister is crying. Crying. That's what you're supposed to do when somebody dies. Cry. They'll think there is something wrong with me if I don't cry. I need to cry. Why can't I cry?

          I bury my head in my dad's shirt and pretend to cry. Maybe if nobody sees my face, they'll think I'm really crying. They won't see that I'm not crying real tears. I try to make myself cry for real. It's working. The tears are starting to come now. They're coming fast.

          Dad's getting up. He's going to the hallway. Why? Oh. Mom is still gone. He's trying to get to her. My sister follows him. I follow, too. Mom comes out of the bathroom.

          "What's wrong?" She sounds scared when she talks. That scares me. I'm crying hard now. I can't stop. Julie and I both cry. The four of us are standing in the middle of the hallway, holding onto each other, crying.

          We got back to the waiting room. Jeff is still sitting in the chair. He doesn't talk. He doesn't pace. He doesn't cry. He just sits. Julie curls up on the couch with the blanket she was crocheting for the baby. She's still crying.

          Somehow I find out it's a boy. Those words are supposed to be happy words, but they're not to us. They're just words. Just like, "It's raining."

          "It's a boy."

          How did he die? He was fine just a while ago.

          They tell me his cord was "kinked." It cut off his air supply. It happened right before the c-section. What's a cord? What's kinked? What's a c-section? I know these words. Why don't they make sense? How do we know all this? Did the man tell us before he left? I didn't hear it.

          We go upstairs. They're going to show us the baby. But he's dead. I don't want to see a dead baby, do I? We have to sit outside Loris' room while she and Jeff see him first. Where is the baby?

          A very tall nurse comes down the hall. She's walking fast, like she's going to start running. She's carrying something in a blanket. What is it? It can't be a baby. You don't walk fast with a baby. You don't hold him like a football. You use both hands and walk slowly. She pushes the door open and disappears inside. When are they bringing the baby? She comes back out with nothing in her hands. That was the baby.

          They call us inside. Lori's lying in bed looking sleepy. She's not crying either. She's just lying there. Everybody holds him. I'm in the way. I look for a place to sit. There is none. Jeff is sitting in a chair. He tells me to sit on his knee. I do.

          It's my turn to hold the baby. He's big. His head lays next to my elbow. His feet go all the way to my other elbow. He's heavy. Most of his head is covered with a blue knit cap. His hair is wet and matted, and I see a little blood on it. His eyes are closed; he just looks like he's asleep. His face is so white, and so is his chest and the arm that lays across it. The blanket has fallen away a little, and I can see faint, tiny bruises on his neck. They tell me they're from doing CPR. His lips are kind of bluish. He feels warm through the blanket, but I'm not sure.

          I've never touched anyone who's died before. He's really cute. He just looks like a sleeping baby, except for his blue lips.

          Today is Friday. He died five days ago. They're going to have a funeral for him today. I wonder how tiny he'll look in that great big casket. He seemed big when I held him at the hospital, but I bet he'll look tiny today.

          They've put him in a little side room of the church. I go in. Where is he? I don't see a casket. Oh — there! That's a casket? It looks like a cooler. It's so little. I didn't know they made them that little. There's a blanket draped inside. It's yellow and green. It's the one Julie made for him. They're going to bury him with it. There's a little blue stuffed bear in the corner. I bought that for him. They are going to bury that with him, too. They bought a christening gown for him. I'm not so sure about a boy in a dress. What if people think he's a girl?

          Lori and Jeff are standing beside him. Everybody in the room is crying. Who are all these people? They must be Jeff's relatives. I don't know them. I don't want them looking at me. This is my nephew. Don't they know that? Lori tells me to come stand beside her. I do.

          He looks so different now. His hair isn't wet anymore. The blood is gone. His hair looks soft. It's light brown. His lips aren't blue anymore. They're dark red. He's so light skinned. His hands are clenched in tiny baby fists. Lori lifts up the hem of the gown so I can see how big his feet are. Compared to the rest of him, his feet are huge. But he still just looks so breakable.

          Lori says to touch him. I don't want to touch him. He looks so cold. I touch him anyway. He is cold. I pull back. I don't want to feel the cold anymore. I start to cry. I cry and cry. My face is all hot and wet, but I can't stop crying. It seems real now. He's cold, and he looks just like a baby doll. He doesn't look like a sleeping baby anymore. He just looks like a baby doll.

          The funeral is long. Julie and I sit together. We cry during the whole thing. The people sing about being near to the heart of God. It's a sad song. The preacher says the baby's in a better place. I know that, but I wish he could be here with us. We're still crying. People are staring at us, but I don't care. We are sad. Don't they understand that?

          We go to the cemetery. They put the little box on the ground. A little metal plaque has been hammered into the ground. It says Geoffrey Kirk Blackburn. September 18, 1988.

          Something's different here. Everybody's still sad. I'm not crying anymore. Why is that? I'm still supposed to be crying. I poke my mom. The funeral director tells me to stop. She's praying. I don't want him to tell me what to do. I want to talk to my mom.