Angel Baby

Please never leave me
Blue and alone
If you ever go
I'm sure you'll come back home

Because I love you
I love you, I do
Angel baby
My angel baby

--“Angel Baby,” Rosie & the Originals

Tung told me of a dream he had one night. He was in a deep slumber after having tossed and turned, unable to sleep from the weight of the grief over losing Thi. And then he felt a light tapping on his arm. He thought I was trying to wake him but only saw me deeply asleep myself when he opened his eyes to peek. No sooner had he fallen asleep again than he felt a more persistent shove. It was then when he woke up and looked for Luc, who in a particularly fitful night had thrashed his way to the foot of our bed and slept at the very edge. Panicked, Tung carried him back to the safe zone between us. The next morning, Tung asked if I had seen or remembered anything he described, but I assured him I was deeply asleep in my weariness.

People speak all the time of angels; it gives them a sense of comfort that those they love are still with them in a sense, guarding over them. Perhaps our angel baby Thi was looking out for her big brother that night.

See You Again

I can hear those echoes in the wind at night
Calling me back in time
Back to you
In a place far away
Where the water meets the sky
The thought of it makes me smile
You are my tomorrow

I will see you again, oh
This is not where it ends

--“See You Again,” Carrie Underwood

In our continued search for Thi’s final resting place, we toured this “Cemetery for All Faiths” that Tung stumbled upon in his research. 

We decided upon a cremation with a place to put the urn so we could visit her across the years, instead of scattering her ashes. In doing this, it crossed our minds to buy ahead the rights for our own internment; cemeteries often offer a single spot or what is called a “companion” spot where two people could be committed, either side-by-side or what is known as a stacked “double-decker” for ground burials. Companion sites usually make an exception to commit a baby as well, since there would be less cremains. 

We figured Luc would grow to have his own family and would want to rest with them, maybe even somewhere else in the world. But in making this decision for Thi, we could also decide for ourselves. Eventually, we would want to be laid to rest with her, so that we’d be reunited in flesh as well as in spirit.

•  In some states, it is legal for a cemetery to sell a burial “right” or plot that has been pre-purchased by a consumer after a certain number of years. In California, it is illegal to do so; your “right,” once purchased, will be yours forever.
• It is possible to sell back your right to another consumer if you decide you don’t need it anymore.
• It is also possible to move an urn to for internment to another cemetery (say, should you move out of state).

Far Away

This time, this place misused, mistakes
Too long, too late, who was I to make you wait
Just one chance, just one breath
Just in case there's just one left
'Cause you know, you know, you know

That I love you
I've loved you all along
And I miss you
Been far away for far too long

--“Far Away,” Nickel Back

We tend to look for kernels of something “being wrong” in retrospect. We opted to have an autopsy done on Thi, only the hospital wasn’t too clear on how or when the results would be given to us. A few days after the holiday break, I couldn’t shake the feeling of Thi still being in limbo at the hospital, but that we couldn’t collect her for cremation until the autopsy had been performed. I called in and demanded several times to speak to someone about the progress, and finally I got someone from the Medical Records department to tell me that we hadn’t signed a form for the release of the results. Even though we signed everything they gave us to sign during my hospital stay. Even though we are the parents wanting the results for our baby. Tung drove me back to the hospital, and we presented the signed form, which had to download from the website. Somewhere within these buildings, my baby’s lost and confused soul was still wandering. We were then presented with a yellow envelope, which I tore into to read the pathology report. It was full of medical jargon, like how they labeled Thi’s death as a “fetal demise.”

The short of it is that there was a blood clot in her cord that prevented the delivery of oxygen and nutrients. And that early scare with potential Down Syndrome ended up being a fluke. I had to file that away and look at it objectively with a sense of detachment, like watching a morbid crime scene investigation on TV. Just the facts. I tried to feel a small sense of closure from knowing what went wrong. But the next day when I stared again at that yellow envelope, the emotional and psychological side of it gnawed at me. My baby girl—who ended up being genetically healthy—essentially starved to death. For four weeks, all the food I ate didn’t go to her. She was only able to get a fraction of each breath of fresh air I took. 

She stopped thriving. 

She stopped growing. 

Her heart stopped beating.

How obliviously foolish was I through it all? I was running around during the busy holiday season, mailing out cards that doubled up as a pregnancy announcements, decorating, baking, going on team outings—I never gave myself a break to slow down. I felt guilty for not being “in tune” with my body and turning inward for reflection to maybe realize that something WAS wrong.

Even though it’s nothing I could’ve done to prevent it—and nothing we could have done even if we found out as it was happening—the last image of her on the ultrasound, curled inward as if to alleviate the pain of hunger, sears at my mind and sends it reeling back to the Dark Place. I know this pain, as I had been hungry myself through a rough immigration journey. I know this pain, as I struggled to feed Luc the first days after his birth when my milk had not yet come in. I know this pain, and yet I was helpless to it. My heart is breaking over and over again.

Precious Child

In my dreams, you are alive and well
Precious child, precious child
In my mind, I see you clear as a bell
Precious child, precious child

In my soul, there is a hole
That can never be filled
But in my heart, there is hope
'Cause you are with me still

--“Precious Child,” Karen Taylor Good

Last night I had a dream of Thi. Her daddy had just given her a bright blue winter jacket, the color of a summer sky. She looked happy and was smiling. I was looking at her from an upward angle, able to see her chin, her eyelashes, her hooded face. My heart ached at her beauty and I called out, longing to embrace her, but she didn’t hear me. She was dancing, whirling, looking ever upward at the at sky.

I was floating comfortably while wrapped in sleep, in a place where I could forget. Waking up is like being yanked back down to earth, my back slamming against cold, cracking concrete, and the memory of reality pummels me. Every morning, the thought assaults me before I could even open my eyes. It plays on loop like a haunting melody’s refrain that I can’t get out of my head: “Thi is gone. Thi is gone. Thi is gone.”