After two days of labor, including four hours of exhausting pushing, without the benefit of drugs in this hospital dedicated to natural childbirth, and after several excruciatingly painful – but failed attempts at help via forceps, the doctors were able to finally get enough suction to help clear his swollen head the final inches. With that, Ian Pough was born September 20th at 20:37 and drew his last breaths in my arms a short 5 and a half hours later at 2:04 am on the 21st as I recited a favorite poem from my childhood. A poem that my mother knew by heart; a precious happy memory and family tradition that I would never be able to pass along to my first child. My son, the inheritor of my nose, my lips, my hands and my toes along with my hair, known to us as Pooh-chan, after Winnie, of course, with the diminutive address for girls, children and babies; the vigorous swimmer who now outside of his mother’s watery womb lacked the ability to move any of his weak little muscles.
I committed these words to memory a few years back, and while it wasn’t a conscious thought at the time, I know now that I did so in order to pass along a bit of family heritage to my then unborn progeny.
Ian Pough (pronounced Pooh) was whisked away for recitation, and after the placenta was out (yuck) and TW stitched, they brought our tiny Pooh-chan back to lay him on TW’s naked breast for a few minutes of soothing sounds of her heart. In my joy of actually seeing my son, I failed to notice that he wasn’t moving like a normal baby. Not crying or making any sounds. The sucked the oxygen from the little mask laying close to his mouth and with unclosing, unblinking eyes seemed to stare straight ahead.
I went out and got my mother and TW’s sister (bared from the delivery room by unrelenting rules) and got the doctors’ permission to have them come in and meet their newest relative.
Later, sometime after a later dinner, the incredibly kind neonatologist came to the room with the bad news. Thankfully, we had faced the horrible choice beforehand. What to do if our child was without hope. Last week, in the somber conference room, we confirmed our decision to have our child spend his last moments surrounded by people who loved him and brought him into the world, rather than the medical professionals attempting to prolong the unchangeable. A week before, we had requested to hold our child as he died, and the wonderful man now asked if we were sure.
Ian spent the last few hours of his life in a hospital room with his father, his mother, his aunt who flew up from Taipei and his grandmother who dropped everything to get on the quickest plan from Salt Lake. Passed around and held by us four, his labored breathing slowly grew weaker and weaker. His mother begged him to breath and his father bawled in his stead.
His mother passed Pooh-chan to me and I quietly sang a few lullabies. I then recited the poem and when I was finished, we checked and Ian’s breathing was stopped as well as his heart.
Our little fighter never had a chance. An MRI and an autopsy taught them that his misshaped brain stem and cerebrum were too small to long-term survival. His underdeveloped lungs and weak muscles couldn’t force enough air in and out. His cortex is tiny and not developed. There are a few diseases which could cause these symptoms, but six months will pass before the pathology can be completed and until we know what it was that robbed our son of the chance to live. The chance to see his parents, the chance to walk, or sing or grow.
Ian will not live in this world any longer. We won’t take him to kindergarten or school. We won’t play games. We won’t fight. We will never see him crawl or walk or run. There won’t be any bikes under Christmas trees or wonders on his face. No cut knees or scrapes. No smiles or tears. No peek-a-boos or part time jobs. He’ll never hold my Calaway in his hands; waiting for the day he can out drive his father.
Dead is a loss and the loss of a baby is loss of a complete life. The loss of dreams and the loss of a future. There is a 5 lb. 1 oz hole in my heart which will not mend. A river of tears has flown but the spring from which they come shows no sign of drying.
We are allowed to bring little Ian home tomorrow so they are keeping him in a bassinet (cooled) and we went and visited him tonight. We put some toys in with him and kissed him good night. He looks like he’s peacefully sleeping.
TW is taking this as well as could be expected. The simple memorial service on Sunday at our home for a few close friends and family will be her first funeral ever. From the very start, we promised each other that we would support each other completely and grow closer. We have, and our love for each other is increasing daily through these terrible days and nights.
We have to thank everyone for their thoughts, prayers and kind actions. My mother said that she’s never seen been care in all the years of her nursing career. The doctors, nurses and staff were absolutely the best. They made this experience so much easier.
We are so thankful to our tiny Pooh-chan. We had already decided to get married, but his arrival quickened the formalization of our union. TW said that the pregnancy was the happiest time of her life. The strengths the support we’ve shown each other have increased our mutual respect and love.
Now, it is for us, the living, to be rededicated to life. A death is but a reminder that life is precious; no one knows what tomorrow brings so we must live fully today and everyday.
Ian Pough may no longer live in this world, but he will always live in our hearts and thoughts. He will forever be a member of our family and will always have our love.
It’s been a long couple of days. I’m tired, but not as exhausted as yesterday. I’ll post some pics later.
