A walk to remember

On May 31, 2003, I had a magnificent baby boy, born at 24 weeks and a day, the result of a near-fatal complication.

The complication was called a complete placental abruption.

My husband, Jon, and I had tried for some time to get pregnant, were exceedingly grateful when we got pregnant, and were so hopeful to bring home a child. We fell in love with our son before he was here, but never anticipated how deeply we would feel it once he was here.

We named him Mario Louis (first name after my feisty Sicilian grandfather, middle name after my empathic, ever-loving Dad), and though we were told that he wouldn't survive the first weekend, he did. For 30 days, Jon and I lived at the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Beth Israel Hospital with Mario. We sang to him, read to him, talked to him, and saw him through a heart operation and many procedures he was not to have survived, according to the doctors.

We weren't allowed to hold him - he was too sick. But we could change his diapers and hold his hand. I was pumping breast milk in anticipation of the day he would be able to drink. Often, his doctors would ask us how much we wanted them to "do" for Mario. We loved his primary doctor, but it was always such a frustrating question. We wanted him so much. We had waited for him for so long. We understood there would probably be developmental issues if he survived, but we are both teachers, and have taught students with a wide range of needs.

We wanted them to do everything in their power, but we didn't want him to suffer. But how do you know? I believed Mario would get better. And there were many times when he would open his big eyes and look at me, and I "felt" he would get better. I envisioned the day when we would take him home. I convinced myself that every day he survived was simply one day closer to taking him home.

On June 30, Mario developed an infection that quickly spread throughout his body. By noon, it became clear that he would not survive the day. The doctors let us hold him (finally) for three hours, and not long after that, he left us. We bathed him, and dressed him, and took footprints and handprints, and a bit of his strawberry-blond hair, and then we had to leave the hospital. We never did get to take him home.

Months after we buried Mario in the gravesite where my Dad is buried, Jon and I found ourselves at Salem Hospital's loss support group, sitting around a table with other couples who had their own version of our story. I never knew there were so many things that could go wrong with a pregnancy. I never really understood what kind of miracle it is when a baby arrives healthy and safe. I never considered that there are so many people walking around with holes in their hearts, missing pieces left by these tiny forces. I had always considered myself a spiritual person, but I found my faith shaken. How could this stuff happen? How does one make sense of it?

I sat in the cemetery every day reading to my son, and there were other people who delivered beautiful, healthy kids they did not even want. At the loss support group, I found all of these other people dealing with the same questions, the same overwhelming grief, the same anger.

Everything is different since Mario. I don't remember my life before him. In some ways, I am grateful for the perspective (though I would take him over the perspective any day of the week).

Jon and I went on to have a daughter, Mackenzie May (for the month of Mario's birth). She singlehandedly brought joy back into our lives. She is exquisite and funny, curious, sneaky, smart, and honest. She knows Mario by the many pictures we have. She knows that he is her brother. As she gets older, we will explain more.

While some of our friends spend time worrying about every developmental milestone their child may or may not reach, or complaining about their child's demanding behavior, we are just in awe. Mackenzie takes in the world with such gusto. She is healthy. She is here.

A lot of my anger has dissipated. The sadness remains, though it is more contained. Some days are harder than others.

Mario's fourth birthday just passed. The week before his third birthday, Mackenzie and I were at the library, and she was playing with this little boy who came in with his mother. He was so sweet to her, sharing the trains at the train table, reading with her. I asked him how old he was, and he said, "Two, but I'll be three next week - on the last day of the month."

He was exactly Mario's age. It was bittersweet to watch Mackenzie play so happily with him. At some point in the year following Mario's birth and death, I decided that if I couldn't make something good come of this, then it would be a dishonor to him.

Two years ago, two of the mothers I met through the Salem loss support group and I planned our first Walk to Remember. These walks are held throughout the country during the month of October in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

We had no idea how many people would turn up for the event, which included a reading of the babies' names, some speakers, songs, and a walk around Breakheart Reservation in Saugus. We had a beautiful program that included parent messages to their babies.

We were stunned when more than 300 people came from as far away as New York and Canada in the pouring rain to honor some 100 babies that first year. There were people who had suffered losses decades ago, and others whose losses were as recent as two weeks prior to the walk.

It was an amazing moment - looking out at the sea of umbrellas - a shared experience. Many people said they were moved by hearing their baby's name read aloud for the first time. I felt honored when people shared their stories with me.

So, we are at it again. We are planning our third walk for Sunday. I feel that this event can help bring some peace for people - and can allow them to make the connections with others that I have found to be invaluable when dealing with such grief.

Wakefield resident Maria Morong is a teacher at Country School in Weston. For more information about A Walk to Remember, visit mysite.verizon.net/walktoremember.