At Arms' Length

In the days and weeks after my daughter died, I took care of her baby sister in a fog. I was breastfeeding, and my baby girl refused to take bottles, so all throughout each day, someone would bring her to me so I could nurse her. Then that person or someone else would take her back. Oddly, at first I didn't want her near me. I felt somehow like I'd done something to cause my daughter's death and didn't want to put her sister in danger. I know now every parent feels that way no matter how her child dies. Still, I just couldn't wake myself up enough to take care of someone else at first. I remember even telling a friend one day that I was fine with her watching the baby because she couldn't f__ up any worse than I had. She seemed horrified and told me I hadn't done anything.

There eventually came a point where I wanted my daughter with me. And she was, constantly. She was such an easy baby--slept well, nursed like a champ, was content and liked being around all kinds of people--that we took her everywhere. I came to realize that I didn't want her away from me. I heard about a mother who lost her son the same way I lost my daughter, but she wasn't there when the accident happened. She was on vacation with her husband and her son was staying with grandparents. I often think about that mother, how it must have been to arrive afterward, knowing you were already too late. The truth is, I felt the same way even though I went through various motions (calling 911, CPR, etc.) of trying to help.

So for years, I've kept my daughter at arm's length. Literally. I wanted to be able to snatch her out of harm's way if I should need to. And if I wasn't, I wanted my husband to, but never told him about at arm's length. So I'd just yell at him if he let her go past that boundary.

My son was born 5 weeks early and spent 10 days in the neonatal intensive care. I immediately had to let go, with no choice or say in the matter. In a way, it was freeing to have the decision made for me. Once he came home, he was in our room for the first couple of months, just like our girls were. His older sister was still in the crib and I wasn't ready for her to be out of it yet. But eventually I was very ready, and they both made the transition relatively easily. And still I worried about her. I've never worried about him the same way. I keep thinking that because he wasn't there, because he was born after the darkness surrounded us, I don't need to worry. I had such a sense of dread from the moment my first daughter was born, I was always afraid for her. And because her sister was there when she died, I worried about her too.

A few weeks ago, both my children went to daycare for the first time. It was really hard--I've never really had someone else take care of them, other than the nanny and occasionally a close friend. But I was good. As a former preschool teacher myself, I know a hovering parent makes things worse for the child. So I dropped them off, and called to check in the first week. They've done pretty well.

But I'll admit it, I still think about what might happen. If something should happen to them, I won't be there, won't get any chance to try to help, to save them. And worse yet, no chance to say goodbye. By the time I saw my daughter that morning, she wasn't speaking, wasn't breathing, and I don't know if she even knew I was there. I am grateful that I did see her, because I wouldn't have believed it was all real if I hadn't (I assume).

Letting go, no longer at arm's length.