I have always been fascinated by wind chimes. When I was little, I thought they were clever, for they made the wind visible by dancing along it. More recently, I have come to realize there are things in life just as real as the wind that we can only see with our hearts.
At my home near Kuala Lumpur, I stop what I am doing to listen as my favorite chime creates tones like distant church bells. My mind wanders back to the day in June 1996 when I suspected I was pregnant.I had bought a home pregnancy test kit and was carefully following the instructions.
Dear Lord, I prayed, please let it be positive. The results seemed to be taking a long time. Then, with the magical suddenness of a rainbow, the pink line materialized.
As I looked at the positive test result, my joy was intertwined with fear. Please let me have this baby, I prayed. Seth and I, married for seven years, were childless. I had conceived several times, but the pregnancies had ended in miscarriage. With each loss, my world would turn upside down.
Over the years, numerous gynecologists reassured me that the miscarriages happened because the fertilized eggs were just not good enough. It was nature’s way of making sure that only the most healthy ones made it, the doctors said.
After my gynecologist confirmed that I was pregnant again, Seth and I put up a new wind chime in our home to celebrate the gift of life. The chime was ordinary, with its long, hollow shafts and wooden pendulum, but the music it made was divine.
As the Dangerous first 12 weeks passed, my joy increased. At prenatal checkups, I watched my baby’s growth on the ultrasound monitor.
In the fifth Month, I asked the doctor if he could determine the gender, but he said the baby was being mischievous by lying on his side. I felt sure it was going to be a boy. He would look like his father, whom I loved with all my heart.
Then in the 29th week, my water broke and the baby started moving frantically. At the medical center, the doctor told me there was a high probability that I would go into early labor. If the baby was born, he would need a ventilator to survive.
My world suddenly became gray and cold. Somehow, I knew the worst had begun.
I went to a Catholic missionary hospital, which had a ventilator available. Slowly, my contractions lessened and the baby’s heartbeat seemed stronger. After 12 days, I returned home under strict orders to confine myself to complete bed rest.
On the first night of the36th week, labor set in and we rushed to the hospital. As my doctor examined me he said nothing, but the sorrow in his eyes told me all I needed to know. He took my hand and said he could not hear the baby’s heartbeat. My baby was dead.
Not wanting to risk complications from a Caesarean, he recommended that I deliver naturally. The next nine hours were the longest of my life. As the contractions grew closer together, I begged God for a miracle.
Finally, at 12:33 p.m. on February 18, I gave birth to our son. Unlike other deliveries, there was no baby’s cry, the doctor did not congratulate the parents, and the nurses did not coo over the newborn. Instead the doctor tried to spare me by keeping the baby aside and consoling me that the ordeal was over.But it was not over for me. I insisted that my baby be brought to me. When I saw him, I laughed and cried at the same time. He was beautiful, the spitting image of his father. His mouth was curled. His nose was both rounded and pointed. He had long black hair, thick eye-lashes and almond-shaped eyes. He looked as if he had a million gurgles inside him but he made no sound.
We named our son Joshua and gave him the best we could – the finest clothes, fresh yellow roses and ultimately the most beautiful baby-blue urn we could find for his ashes. Seth and I held the urn as the boat took us out to sea. When the boat stopped, I didn’t want to let go. After many tears, the urn was placed into the receiving arms of the gentle azure waves.
When I went for my postnatal checkup, a month after the delivery, I felt so incomplete. All the other mothers had newborns in their arms.
At home, Joshua’s wind chime reminded me of my loss. Many times I thought about taking it down, but I couldn’t. It was my remaining symbol of joy and hope.
Sometimes I felt as if I were going to spend the rest of my days in pain. But as days passed, I began to realize that my brief time with Joshua was itself a blessing. If my pregnancy had ended earlier, like the others, I would never have had the chance to feel him growing inside me, to see his beautiful face and to touch him.
My memories were a balm to the hurt. In time, my darkness lifted.
There are moments when my heart still aches, and then I pause to watch the chime in its gentle dance with the wind. And my spirits lifts as, once again, I see my angel Joshua.
-By Ranjeet Khaira-
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After reading this story, it reminds me of a person, my ex ex work mentor. She was also in a similiar situation but weather you coined it lucky or unluckier, it is the fact that her BB survived for 18 months...
I'm not sure if it is the name "Joshua" or what, but BB boys by this name all seem to be down with something. I hope I am wrong, coz it is such a nice name.
I feel so sorry for the mothers who had to go thru the same thing.
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