The Mystical Power of Loss

I can never think of 9/11 without first thinking of the death of my son Nathan. On that bright September morning, I was still wrapped in grief over the loss of my son in childbirth 3 months earlier. Then, seeing the devastation of that morning, I remember feeling that now the entire country tasted the fuzzy-headed despair that had been my constant companion since the previous June.

Grieving a death can change everything: common objects shift to mystic talismans, routine actions become sacred rituals, regular dates are elevated to holy observances, and ordinary places are transformed into hallowed ground by the power of loss.

Mystical Talisman: I have a pair of sneakers which I can no longer bear to wear, nor can I toss out. They are perfectly ordinary sneakers, a little worn, maybe, but their importance stems from the fact that they are what I was wearing that morning I went to the hospital in labor. A tiny smear of blood on them prevents me from wearing them any more, not because I'm grossed out by it or that they are now ritually impure; rather, I imagine that mixed in with my blood there might be tiny fragments of my son's skin or hair. I can not bear the thought that these pieces of him might be washed away, either by accident walking in the rain, or by design.

Sacred Ritual: Even now, I mark my Monday mornings according to the schedule of that awful day. At 7:25, I think to myself, this is the time my water broke and I saw that it was bloody; at 7:35, I picture myself half-waddling, half-lurching into the ER; 8am brings the panic as I remember the nurses talking about reading my pulse, not my baby's, on the fetal monitor; 8:30 is when my OB came in and broke the last bit of my bag of water, saw the rush of blood and ran out of the room, directing the staff to a waiting OR, uttering that terrible word, "abruption;" 8:45, was when I, in the grip of a panic attack, struggled with the anesthesiologist, certain that I would die if put under; then, blackness until 10 am when my husband answered my anguished question, "Is the baby ok?" with "No, honey, he's not. He died."

Holy Observance: June 18 will always be a day for us. No school, no work on that day. We have a leisurely breakfast, go to the cemetary, and take our other children out for a nice spring drive, and do the things with them that our son will never get to do. Outsiders are not welcome on this holy day.

Hallowed Ground: Our former house, in Maryland on the Bay will always be special to me; first, because it was our first house, and it was the place where we brought home our first baby Natalie. All of her early milestones were celebrated there; it is a place filled with happy memories. What sanctifies it for me, is that it is the place where for 36 weeks, my son lived, safe and loved, in my body. The morning we left our house and moved back north, I cried, thinking that we were leaving some part of our son behind.