Twenty-six years ago yesterday – November 29, 1982 – our first child was born, at 5:30 AM.  He was stillborn, 11 days past his due date.  The crushing pain receded over time; the enormous ache faded to pale gray. But every year, as November arrives, I find myself getting sad over (seemingly) nothing, or a wee bit more testy than normal.  Eventually it dawns on me that Evan’s birthday is coming up, and it’s normal to feel the way I do.

No one else remembers, except for one very dear friend in Colorado. Every year she puts a memorial announcement in her church bulletin on the closest Sunday, then sends me a copy.  There’s no reason anyone should mark the occasion – it’s particular only to me (and presumably his father, although since we now live on opposite sides of the country, and I have never really known what he is thinking, I really don’t know). But I do so much appreciate her gesture, even many  years later.

But I miss Evan.  I miss the tiny, perfect baby that I held in my arms, counting his fingers and toes as though it mattered.  Comparing his long fingers to those of my mother, and his reddish hair to my brother’s. Studying his perfect little face, trying to imprint it in my memory.  Now that my parents are both gone, I cry a little, and wonder if they have met my son, and are taking care of him.  [This is something of an intellectual problem for me, since I have not figured out how it is we will know one another in an afterlife - do babies remain babies? Do they grow to adults? What if we've had more than one beloved spouse?]

I have two absolutely wonderful children born after Evan, albeit with some difficulties in getting there. I treasure them; they are my heart and soul.  But I always think of my Evan, and what the possibilties of his life could have been. How would all of our lives been different – if only because there were 3 children instead of two?

We donated his body to the University of Colorado teaching hospital ~ the nurses told us the young doctors need healthy bodies to study so they can know what health looks like, as opposed to illness or deformity.   No cause was ever determined for the stillbirth – possibly a momentary twisting of the umbilical cord, or a small clot; we were told that 4 minutes of oxygen deprivation is all that is required for death.

November is now over, and Christmas season begins in earnest.  Joy and light are all around. But I still remember, and always will.