musings on Amalia's death - part I

It's strange to be thrust into a whole different reality - a place where time moves differently and things appear dream-like. I had never watched a person die before. After losing a baby, I suddenly feel oddly connected to a whole league of women who have lost their children, whether in a war, poverty or surrounded by first-world machines and medicine potions.

I have always feared hospitals and mistrusted doctors. Amalia's birth forced me into an environment which I expected to fight with every fiber of my being. But I had no energy to fight. I had to trust and accept what was before me.

The most interesting part of this tragedy has been my surprise at not experiencing the fear I had anticipated to feel. I was terrified of watching my baby suffer, of watching her die. I was afraid that through my empathetic connection, I would take on her physical struggle; that the panic attacks I experienced at age ten after the death of my paternal grandmother would return or that I would suffer cardiac arrest. (The connection between her and me, after all, had been and continues to be, predominantly physical.) I was horrified that I would be unable to sleep or too scared awake alone at night. I was more afraid of being afraid than I actually have been afraid throughout this experience.