“Every person is born into life as a blank page – and every person leaves life as a full book. Our lives are our story, and our story is our life. Story is the narrative thread of our experience – not what literally happens, but what we make out of what happens, what we tell each other and what we remember. This narrative determines much of what we do with the time given us between the opening of the blank page the day we are born and the closing of the book the day we die.”

From Storycatcher: Making Sense of Our lives Through the Power and Practice of Story, Christina Baldwin

Today we celebrate the 32nd birthday of our son Ryan Frood Hawke. Our first child. The one who helped us cross the threshold into parenting. A role much anticipated. It was the beginning of a new story; a blank page to be filled.

I started writing to Ryan – Letter’s to Baby – soon after my Dad died suddenly when I was pregnant.  On July 12, 1990, I started the process of storycatching our love and relationship.

“Right now I’m 5 ½ months pregnant. I thought it important to record some of my feelings about you even through you aren’t here yet. You’ve had an amazing impact on our lives already…As I’m writing you are moving around and kicking. Maybe somehow you know I’m doing this for you.”

I’ve been writing to Ryan ever since. During his short life I wrote to record the details of his daily life and his prognosis, and eventually about his death. I wrote to try and understand who I was as a Mom when the world did not see a baby in my arms. I keep writing to validate the lasting impact of Ryan – on me, our family, and the world. I write because I don’t want to forget.

A few years ago, I did some work with Holly Painter, a spoken work artist and creative soul. I wanted to find a way of taking so much of what I had written to turn it into something special. She gave me writing prompts to help me explore.

Last night, as I sat with Ryan’s book of letters, I found the following. It’s never been shared. While he never got to write the story of his life, the following honours it through my view as Mom. You’ll see that his story is a collection of nano moments – that’s all we had.

I realize that, upon reflection, before there can be the birth of a child, there is the birthing of a Mother. Our relationship was deeply intimate and started well before the day of his birth - September 2, 1990. This is a look into the heart of the story of Ryan - his birth, his life, his death and all the time since then.

Holding You.

Holding you – at first as the dream of a child who would anoint me as mother.

Holding you – in the first days of quiet knowing you were a germinating soul deep inside my womb.

Holding you – in my thoughts and words as I wrote my first “Letter to Baby”. Somehow, I knew that I needed to have a record of you before you were born. In retrospect, I’m so grateful that I captured my feelings in these love letters as is extended your beingness beyond birth and death.

Holding you – as my belly grew and your life force took shape. Your emergent self took over my body and invaded my heart with every breath I took.

Holding you – as I dreamed of birthing five black puppies. I’ve never checked the symbolism of this. You lived five weeks – maybe that’s it.

Holding you – for dear life as I spoke my final words of gratitude and love at my father’s celebration of life. You and he are forever intertwined in my mind.

Holding you – as I learned that your heart was not fully formed. My heart sunk; panic flared. It’s at that time our world began to swirl and shake. All I heard was “We can fix it”.

Holding you – as we were told that you would likely be a Down syndrome baby. Your heart and other indicators showed a pattern that predicted this.

Holding you – as I tried to hold on to me and not be swept away. The innocence and dreamy quality of being a first-time pregnant Mom was being sucked away by clinical talk and projections of what might be.

Holding you – as a huge needle entered my body to take amniotic fluid for genetic testing. The goal was to determine if you had Down syndrome. My heart was ready to love you and my head needed to know so I could be ready to parent your special needs.

Holding you – as my body cramped and swelled; infection had taken over. We were only 29 weeks, yet my body had to expel you to get rid of the uterine infection. This was not the dream nor the plan. I was not mentally prepared for you to come early. Everything was in fast motion, nonstop, no control. I was literally swept off my feet.

Holding you – in my gaze once you were born and then they swept you away. It was hours before I really got to see and touch you. It was days before I could hold you in my arms.

Holding you – as my breasts swelled with milk yet I couldn’t feed you. A breast pump became my companion as I pumped for you and made daily milk runs to the hospital. I felt like Elsie the cow yet was proud to have a purpose and could provide for you.

Holding you – as I witnessed one of the truly sweet moments of you nestled in your father’s arms. He so big and you so little. This is a moment that is forever etched in my mind.

Holding you – my first time, in a rocking chair. We sat quietly and I could hardly breathe. The moment so precious I wanted time to stop.

Holding you – in my arms length reach as I stroked your head through an incubator opening. The tactile connection one of the very few things I could do for you.

Holding you – the day we had you baptized because there seemed little hope. It was a moment of ceremony and blessings so you would be protected and forever held. This was when everything started to turn from medical to magical. The planned actions veiled in mystical references indicating that no one thought you would survive.

Holding you – the day when you signaled there was no more will nor way to live. That day, I really held you, off all monitors, out of the unit. My greatest wish to just rock you in a quiet room with no buzzers or alarms. I held you like a normal mother does. In those quiet moments you gently slipped away after a gentle, whispered sigh.

Holding you – I uttered these words “I hope Dad is waiting for Ryan” as it was my only solace knowing that you would leave my arms to go to him in the world beyond.

Holding you – as a doctor said, “He’s with the Lord now”.

Holding you – as I handed you over to a nurse, our final goodbye. My arms and heart never felt emptier.

Holding you – as my body was still wired to care for you. Milk came with relentless persistence.  I continued to pump milk and then pour it down the drain. Every. Single. Time. My. Heart. Broke.

Holding you – in the stories we shared as people gathered to hold us in their arms and surround us with love.

Holding you – as we celebrated your short life. We would never have known the impact that you had then, as it was all too raw and fresh, yet looking back, I now understand the mark you have made beyond our lives.

Holding you – so many nights when I couldn’t sleep, and I felt like you were still inside my womb, occupying space. Many times, my body was shrouded in tingles, and I was convinced you were visiting me.

Holding you – in my heart learning that a broken heart feels acutely and has the capacity to heal, slowly and tenderly.

Holding you – in letters I continued to write as our communication was not meant to be done. I had so much more to give voice to that I could not shut down.

Holding you – after all this time, I thought I was holding you and the truth is you’ve been holding me. Your presence is always with me. You are my guide, my mentor, my teacher…and most importantly my beloved first son.