Liam

I can't explain why I need to share this now, rather than later...or even at all. I can't explain why today is the day. I don't know how I'll feel about this tomorrow, or next month, or next year.

What I do know is that need to write about it. I need to say what I feel; to put it out there. Even if no one reads this, it's out there. In movies, fables, and pop songs castaways toss messages in bottles into the ocean surrounding them. This is mine.


In January, we learned with tears of incredible joy that Paula was pregnant. On May 10th, 2006, only five short months later, our son was born, and died.

In the five months leading up to that day, we were ecstatic, worried, amazed -- but most of all, hopeful. Nothing is more important to us than having children. Nothing. At every ultrasound, we held our breath with hearts pounding and adrenaline coursing through our bodies -- was everything okay? When we saw him move, and saw his tiny heart beating, the anxiety and worry gave way to indescribably relief and joy.

I remember speaking in my mind directly to our baby to "...hold on, just hold on in there where you're safe. Grow strong! We'll see you in September. Until then, sleep and be at peace."

Paula and I were already planning on colors for the baby's room, what kind of cute hats he or she would wear, what kind of car seat and stroller we would get. We also planned on how television would be a rare thing in our child's life, but music, books, drawing, and play that sparked imagination would be abundant. We planned ahead financially so we could afford to give him a Montessori education when young, and a good college (maybe in New York!) when out of high school. I planned on showing him how to tie shoes, how to roller skate, ride a bike, change the oil, and someday buy a house. I imagined taking long bike rides with Mom into town for an ice cream cone, like I used to do with my Dad.

But most of all I imagined slowly rocking him to sleep, curled up in the nook of my elbow at 3am on any given Wednesday, cherishing the time away from the office when it was just the two of us bonding in the night as Mom slept in the other room.

As the days went by these plans, hopes and dreams strengthened more and more. I didn't know for a fact that our baby was a boy, but as time went on I was convinced of it. Not sure how, or why; I was just convinced. If it was a boy, we discussed many times, we wanted him to carry on the Voigt family tradition and be named William, like me, my father, and his father. But, we wanted his name to be unique and special, which is where Liam came from. Like "Bill" is short for William, so would be "Liam". Of course we had chosen girls names, too, but we knew we wanted the name Liam for our first son.


When Paula called on May 8th in the middle of the day, I knew the instant I heard her voice that something was very wrong. Her water had broken. The next few days are a distant and swirling blur to me now, but I remember fighting with every bit of strentgh to keep hope. Then, in the small hours of the morning Wednesday May 10th Paula went into labor and I prayed very hard for God to hold me up, to prop me against and block these hurricane winds of sorrow that threatened to slam me to the ground. I thought about the 3am feedings I had hoped so much for, and almost collapsed emotionally from the pain. I prayed...begged...God for the strength to be a strong, compassionate and soothing husband to Paula now -- the woman I love with everything I am. What must she be feeling? She was helpless against the fact that as she laid there she was losing her beloved child that had lived and kicked inside of her for only five short months, even up to that very moment, and nothing anyone could do could stop that.

When we arrived at the hospital with tear stained faces they took her away, and I spent the morning in the waiting room with Paula's mom who was like a strong anchor holding me as steady as could be expected as we counted the minutes in the maternity ward, the newborn cries of babies filling the air and breaking my heart. I saw in Dori's compassionate face that her heart was breaking too, but she stayed strong for me. As the newborn crying continued I found true solice and immense peace in the fact that this was the happiest day in the lives of those mothers and fathers, and I silently wished them all a lifetime of happiness and joy with their children. I especially wished that those fathers could someday show their sons and daughters how to tie shoes, how to roller skate, ride a bike, change the oil, and someday buy a house. I wished for them to take long bike rides with Mom into town for an ice cream cone.

I wished and prayed with all my heart that they could rock their babies to sleep, curled up in the nooks of their elbows at 3am on any given Wednesday. Maybe even tonight.

More hours passed, most of which are either gone or blocked from my memory, and eventually I was at Paula's side as we held on to each other's hand for mutual strength. She entered the final stage of labor at 11:54am. My memory is crystal clear at this point -- as I stood at Paula's side, her strength like a fire as she gripped my hand and pushed, I saw through the haze of my tears the doctor look up at us and announce with a soft, compassionate and caring smile that it was a boy.

Liam died before we got to meet him, but the doctor wrapped him up and we got to hold him in our arms. His face, peaceful and tiny, had features that looked like both of us. Paula pointed out he had my cheekbones, I pointed out he had her mouth. As painful as it was for us to hold him, all wrapped in blankets, we connected with him in a way I wouldn't have believed a few minutes earlier. While I will never get the chance to do all the things I dreamed of doing with Liam, I poured a lifetime of love onto him as he laid there, so still and peaceful in the nook of my elbow.

The rest of the day has sunk into the blackness of the corners of my consciousness, except for the feeling of pouring all my pent up love, hopes and dreams into one pinpoint in time, rather than spreading it out over decades. When it was finally time to say goodbye, the gentle and compassionate hospital staff left us alone, and closed the curtain around us. Our tears flowed softly as we released at once every emotion you can imagine. As we both stroked his tiny cap and gazed at our son's face, I heard Paula's voice begin to sing sweet gentle music, barely above a whisper. I instantly recognized the soft and flowing tune, an old song by U2 that we had always dreamed of singing to our baby as a lullabye, its meaning profound now more than ever.

Sleep, sleep tonight
And may your dreams be realized.
If the thunder cloud passes rain
So let it rain, rain down on he.

So let it be.
So let it be.

Sleep, sleep tonight
And may your dreams be realized.

If the thunder cloud passes rain
So let it rain, let it rain
Rain down on he.

That night, when we arrived back home I helped Paula out of the car and as we stood there with empty arms a soft, warm rain began to fall just at that moment. We stood together and held each other as the drops melted together with our tears.

As we still say goodbye to you even now, a little more each day, we will always remember you, Liam. Whenever I feel rain on my face, I will forever think of you. When your brothers and sisters are born someday, I will share the same dreams with them I had for you, but you will always have a special place in my heart.

Until we meet again, I wish you peace.