Our Children, Our Loss

Since the notorious “not guilty” verdict in the Zimmerman case, many of my friends and I have been discussing what it like to lose a child. Two of these friends have lost sons so the Trayvon Martin case has been particularly painful for them.

I have an 18 year old son who will be a sophomore in college this fall. He is still living at home since room and board at his school is ridiculously expensive (that’s a topic for another day) so he and I see each other every day. Until Martin’s death last year, I took these short encounters for granted. Yes, I’m always a little uneasy when he is out after dark but I chalk that up to being a protective parent. Now, I find I can’t go to bed until he’s in the house. When I hear that key in the lock, I breathe a sigh of relief and say a silent prayer to the Creator for bringing my son safely home.

I remember the day he was born as if it were yesterday. Hell, I remember the day I found out I was pregnant. I was never supposed to have children. My gynecologist said I would have to go the in-vitro route. At the time, I was married to husband #2 and we were content knowing there were no children in our future. Little did I know we would separate and I would become pregnant after the age of 35.

Dr. Smith gave me the urine test and returned to the examining room to tell me I was pregnant. I told him he was kidding. He said “No, you’re pregnant.” And I replied “no, you’re kidding.” Exasperated with this back and forth, he held out a little plastic stick and said “See, the stick is blue. You’re pregnant.” I was so surprised you could have bought me cheap. He gave me the stick and told me to ask my boss if I could go home because I was not ready for the news he’d delivered. He also informed me that I was near the end of my first trimester, that having a baby at my age and with my medical conditions put me on high risk pregnancy list and to consider whether or not I wanted to continue the pregnancy. He gave me 48 hours to think it over. Absolutely floored, I was on my way back to work and saw my friend (who eventually became my son’s godmother). I told her the news. She hugged me and then steered me toward the office.

I had imagined myself as a mother when I was a little girl playing house. Later as the teenage years approached, I realized I wanted a life of excitement and travel. There was no place in that life for children or a husband and I wanted neither. When my doctor delivered that news that day in April 1994, I knew with all the fervor within me that I wanted my child.

My pregnancy was a high risk one. I had to follow a strict diet, removed from my oral medications and had to administer insulin shots. I went to the hospital two days a week for fetal monitoring and other testing the entire pregnancy. And with all that, I loved being pregnant.

My water broke while I was sitting on a bus coming home from work. I endured 17 hours of labor and on a chilly Friday morning, my 19 inch, 6 pounds, 3 ounce baby boy was born. It was and still is the happiest day of my life. Never before or since have I experienced such joy nor have I felt so alive. To this day, my “miracle” baby, my son is the great love of my life.

A couple weeks after my son was born, Susan Smith killed her two little boys. At first, she was on the news begging some unknown Black man to bring back her children. Several days later, it was found that she had murdered her sons. For over a week after that, I could not put my child down. I held him and cried all day. After all the tests, appointments, trials and tribulations I went through to have this child, I couldn’t imagine any mother killing her child. That hurt me more than I could imagine. The death of a child is so tragic to me that when I hear about the death of anyone’s child, I shed some tears.

When all us mothers get together to discuss husbands, work, the economy and the world at large, we all smile when we talk of our children. We admit that our children can be pains in the ass. They aggravate us. They make us cry. They worry the living hell out of us. We can’t wait for them to be on their own and out of our hair. But no matter how stressful they make our lives, we love them fiercely and can’t imagine life without them.

This is how the death of Trayvon Martin affects me and my friends, the mothers who meet. When we meet and discuss this issue, those mothers who’ve lost their sons can barely find the words to express them sorrow and empathy for what Trayvon’s mother is experiencing. For even when they are laughing, there is a just a hint of sadness. The missed birthdays, the many Christmas gifts that will never be exchanged, the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be shared, the grandchildren you will never see, the wedding you will never attend – there is nothing that comes close to the pain. Imagine burying your child when you’ve been paying insurance premiums so your children can bury you.

I wouldn’t ever want to trade places with Martin’s mother or my friends who have lost their sons. We lost a child that night last year. We’ve lost many before then and we’ve lost many since. Unfortunately, given the way we treat children as afterthoughts instead of people deserving of love and protection, we can expect to lose many more. Those deaths will be great losses to the world for those are futures that will never be.

I find myself hurting a little whenever I hear of another child lost to violence no matter where that child may live or who that child might be. All children are our children and as adults, we are responsible for them all. When we fail our children, we have failed as human beings.