Our Final Day With Beckett

The day before the funeral, my husband and I visited the funeral home to check on Beckett. We had to approve her clothing, the setup, her makeup, etc. I was nervous from the moment we stepped into the front door. As soon as we entered the sanctuary, I saw the coffin. I know my mouth must've been gaping open and I had to look horrified, and that's exactly how I was feeling. I was horrified. The baby I delivered just a few days before was now lying alone in a tiny box. I was shaking, gripping Phillip for dear life and I had to just stare at her for a moment. The coffin was white, lined with a pink inlay. Beckett was in her yellow duckie outfit and swaddled in the yellow blanket Auntie Cindy made.

Her skin was an even tone, much different than the purplish-grey colour she was in the hospital. Felicia had done a wonderful job with her makeup, making sure she didn't look bruised or cold. Her little lip was a precious pink colour. I touched her head and flinched; she was frigid. For a long time, we just stood there and looked. Felicia offered to move the coffin to one of the pews so we could sit with her, and that's exactly what we did. Phillip sat on one side, I on the other, and we quietly inspected her. I moved the blanket so I could see her limbs. Her feet were high in the legs of her outfit - she was too small even for the preemie clothing we bought for her. Being only 3 pounds, her arms were also too small and the shirt seemed to swallow her. I pulled the collar down and imeediately regreted it.. the skin on her chest was gray and splotchy, reminding me that my little girl was not just sleeping. I tried to ignore it. I petted her hands and held her tiny fingers. Not an inch of her was stiff and I was grateful to be able to touch her spongy cheeks and maleable arms. We cried for a while and I layed over her. I wanted so badly to cuddle her and try to warm her up, but I couldn't bring myself to hold her that day. Felicia returned her to the viewing table, being extra careful with the coffin, and we ended the visit by approving the program layout and ironing out the extra details of the service.

That night, Phillip had a particularly bad argument with a family member over who was coming to the funeral and who was not. Sickened by grief and angered by the people meant to support him, he had a few too many drinks. We both sat crying in the bathroom together, talking about family.. Beckett... the service... what life was going to be like after.. all sorts of depressing subjects. I understood exactly why he was drinking, but it made him terribly ill. The argument was soon smoothed over, but by then we were miserable wrecks. With the help of my macguyver like brother and my compassionate mom, we managed to barrel through the bile-inducing, cry fest of a night.

The morning of the funeral, Phillip had a terrible hangover, and I was a nervous mess. We arrived before the funeral home was even open. We sat for a while on the couch in the entryway, muttering about sick stomaches and fidgeting hands. When we forced ourselves into the sanctuary, it wasn't scary like it had been the day before. Beckett looked peaceful, snuggled and leaning into the blankie as if she knew it was soft. Again, Felicia moved her to a pew for us so we could spend a little time with her before the crowd began to arrive. This time, I decided to hold her, and I'm thankful that I did. I picked her up, held her to my chest and stared at her. I was crying, but only a little. I traced the line of her mouth, poked at her tiny, malformed nose and rubbed my thumb over her eyebrows. I played with her hair, brushing it this way and that. I held her hand, rubbed her blanket against her cheek and finally kissed her. We put her back in her coffin, replaced her on the viewing podium and finally greeted the visitors.

We learned that Felicia had not only purchased a guestbook for the service, but also a kit to make a molding of her hands and feet for us to keep. She had gone above and beyond her duties to make sure the event was special for us. She explained that she hadn't put Beckett down for a moment since they had picked her up at the hospital. She carried Beckett with her throughout her tasks at the funeral home and that was an enormous comfort to me. She had treated her like a live child and had held my infant because, in her words, "babies just need to be held." I couldn't agree more. Felicia has become part of my family because she treated my little girl as her own.

The service itself was more religious than I would've liked it, but I didn't mind in this particular instance. There were a lot of religious family members present, and I was glad that they were being comforted by the psalms. Phillip and I were not the only ones grieving, and the speech given was more than I could've said to any of our spiritual relatives.

There were a lot of memorable visitors. My best friend, Lila, arrived and I walked her personally into the sanctuary. She had been with me when I gave birth to Beckett, and it was appropriate that she was there to help me bury her. My sister showed up, which was the start of a miraculous event because she has been estranged from my family for quite some time. We snapped a photo of myself, my sister, my brother, my grandmother and my father all in one spot. It's a moment that was only possible because of Beckett. We all put away our differences and concerns to mourn my daughter. It was beautiful. It was rare. I'm thankful. Mandi, also at the service, was the nurse who helped me through my surgery. I didn't think any of the nurses would come. As soon as I spotted her, I hugged her. She told me she loved me, reminded me that I was strong and invited me back to talk with her whenever I wanted.

While in the sanctuary, my living children were managed by my brother, my mother and my father. They each took turns with Seph or Mina and both of them were very well behaved. There were lots of hugs as people entered, lots of hugs as people left. Some people were trembling when they greeted us and I thanked every person individually for being brave enough to come. The coffin had been open the entire time and no one had said one negative word. Most people remarked at how tired she looked, or that she looked comfortable. I even heard "beautiful" and "gorgeous" a time or two.

When the room was cleared, my brother and Phillip prepared to carry the coffin to a passenger car. We didn't want her in the hearse, so Felicia offered to simply hold her while in a white, normal looking vehicle. I stood with Beckett for a few seconds and watched her before they put the lid on her coffin. As soon as it was shut, I felt like I was going to hyperventillate. I wasn't ready for her to be closed off to the world. Felicia grabbed my arm and helped me out of the funeral home, allowing the men to carefully transfer her to the car.

The weather was terrible and we all hurried to get into the procession line. Police escorted us on the long road to the cemetery. The sirens were wailing at every intersection, red lights didn't mean anything to us and hundreds of cars veered off the road to allow us a moment of silence. It was an amazing drive. We followed Beckett's car, both of us sobbing, marveling at how the whole world was finally stopping to take notice of our little girl. Once at the cemetery, my dad volunteered to drive the children back to our house - he had been having the hardest time out of any of us. He cried each time he even looked in Beckett's direction, so we didn't argue when he opted out of the cemetery service and did us a favor by removing the children.

Some words were spoken as Beckett's coffin sat atop two tiny pedastals. I sat directly in front of her, Phillip and my sister at my sides. Our families were behind us, our friends behind them. Everyone was crying. When the service was over, I stood and spoke. I thanked everyone for acknowledging Beckett and for helping us mourn her death. I told them of how important she had been and how she had changed our lives in the few months we knew of her. Because of her, my family is closer, my marriage is saved and my children mean more to me than ever before. I was grateful to everyone who honored us by showing up.

I was given a ring by my father in law - it has Beckett's birthstone and six diamonds, all banded in silver. I wear it on a necklace along with a golden letter "B" charm that my mother gave me. We received monetary gifts from many family members and with that money we were able to buy christmas gifts for not only our children, but also for a needy family. We received flowers in bouquets and my grandmother bought pink flowers for Beckett's grave. Eventually, I placed balloons on the gravemarker. I have a picture and more flowers to put out, but I haven't been able to convince myself to go back to her grave just yet.

Seph is taking his youngest sister's passing very well. We explained that her heart was broken so she couldn't live, and he's accepted that so far. When I told him that we couldn't bring Beckett home from the cemetery, he patted my shoulder and said, "No, Mom, it's okay. I'll bring her home." He thinks he can fix everything; my little hero.

I'm not taking it quite as well. The mornings are the worst. I have a terrible time getting out of bed and I feel sick until I have my first dose of pills with breakfast. My body hasn't healed yet, so I'm still on pain medication and it seems to be the only things keeping me upright lately. I have a hard time doing normal things during the day. Wrapping presents is difficult because I'll never pick presents for Beckett. Meal times are hard because my arms aren't busied with feeding Beckett. Putting the kids to bed hurts because there are only two heads to kiss goodnight. The quiet moments in the day piss me off because I shouldn't have any free time at all. I'm supposed to be caring for a needy infant right now, not writing about her funeral.

It's all just backward. She died before she was born. I had to bury my child, instead of the other way around. I'm lacking my youngest child. When someone says, "At least you have two healthy children" it hurts.. because, as a nurse put it, "I didn't have a spare!" I shouldn't have lost any of my beautiful babies and being without her is the worst pain I've ever felt.

I'm exhausted, I'm more sad than I could possibly explain and life continues to go on normally. My physical strength is slowly returning and with that, I hope my mental strength comes too.

Again, I love all of you who continue to read and share in our struggle. Things here are dark but it helps to know that so many people care for us.