( ( ( ((Ren)) ) ) )

PHOTO BY ABIGAIL KEENAN

We are honoured to have another guest post from Jess. Mother of one living son and one son who died at 32 gestational weeks. Neuroimmunologist by training. Lover of nature by birthright. Dancer by calling.

We named our stillborn son, Ren. We picked his name in his first trimester and agreed on it quickly. Ren’s name shares the first three letters with my mom’s name. Ren’s older living brother, M, shares his name with the first three letters of my husband’s mom’s name. Brothers named after their grandmothers. When I was pregnant with Ren I often imagined how these brothers might chase and grapple with each other in the forest behind our home. I imagined how ocean salt and fog and sweat and dirt would combine in an alchemy of fraternal bond and how their names too, now housed under a common surname, would have reached across families and continents and generations to find each other. One grandson named for his New York born artist grandmother who forged her own path in rural Michigan. One grandson named for his Soviet-Russian born software engineer grandmother who built a life in San Francisco.

When we told M that his baby brother would be named Ren he was still struggling with pronouncing the letter “R”. It would come out more like “Wen.” M was intrigued by my growing belly, constantly touching and nuzzling with gentle curiosity. When Dada went on a business trip, M rubbed my belly and reassured Ren, “Don’t worry, baby Wen. Dada will be home on Thursday.” He sealed his message with an enthusiastic kiss on my protruding belly button. M himself was uncertain about how worried to be about Dada’s long trip but set aside his own feelings to reassure Ren. M grasped the gravity of his new role immediately, instinctually – older brother, protector, comforter – I cried tiny, quiet, excited, proud, happy tears.

…

The morning after I came home from the hospital empty-bellied and empty-handed, M joined us in bed as he does every morning. He went to hug my round belly and found my newly squishy, swollen, postpartum bump instead. He couldn’t tell the difference yet. “I feel baby Wen kicking!” he grinned.

I took a deep breath, glanced at my husband and spoke the sentences I had practiced on repeat the whole way home from the hospital.

“M bubba, my love, baby Ren is not in my belly anymore. Ren died. Died means that his body does not work anymore…Remember you came to visit me in the hospital a couple weeks ago?…Yes, you did take the train to get there. Yes, that was fun…The doctors were trying to help baby Ren, remember? And when he was doing better they let me go back home. But it turns out that Ren was not better and this time when I went to the hospital they could not help him because he died…I’m crying because I’m sad bubba…I’m sad because we won’t get to meet Ren and we really wanted to meet him…Yes, that’s right. No Ren...That’s right, no brother…Do you know what though, we have each other. We have you and Mama and Dada and we can be sad together and love each other together. And when we get sick it’s easier for doctors to help us because we are out in the world and not inside a belly…Yes, that’s right. No Ren...That’s right, no brother…I’m sad too.”

We had this conversation many more times across the following weeks until it turned into a short hand. “Mama, no Wen. I’m sad.” Yes, sweet boy, me too. I’m sad too.

…

The original plan was for M to stay home with me during my maternity leave and then start pre-school when I returned to work. When my maternity leave turned into bereavement leave 1.5 months earlier than planned, we scrambled to get M an earlier pre-school placement. We figured that would be better than him sitting at home with a dysfunctional puddle of a mother. So I started making my way through the pre-school waitlist paperwork – address, allergies, emergency contacts, medical history…

And then some kind of checkbox from Hell appeared and I found myself frozen.

“[ ] I authorize payment for the child(ren) at the center listed below.”

…I have to read the line several times to figure out what it means. I don’t understand. Is it some kind of puzzle or a trap? I keep getting stuck at “child(ren).” Child(ren). Child(ren)? No, no (ren). No Ren. Just the one child and no (ren). Just my son M and no Ren. I can’t figure out what I’m checking a box for. I authorize payment for my child but not for my Ren. He’s not here. He died. That means his body does not work anymore. I still can’t make sense of it. What a strange combination of symbols and letters. My Ren, my sweet boy, just an echo between parentheses.

I cup my forehead in my hands and press my palms deep into my eyelids. I see his face. I see his name. I see his name erased and rewritten. With parentheses, then without. Child, then children. Then back to child and Ren on his own. I’m pregnant, then I’m not. I’m holding him. He’s gone. I’m alone. I’m empty, then I’m occupied again. Kicking weight, dead weight. I’m so sorry, there’s no heartbeat. M kisses my belly button. I cry happy tears. I cry desperate tears. I see his face. I see his name.

I inhale deeply. I release my palms from my eyes. I lift my head, check the box, save PDF, send. Exhale.

Ren, my sweet. I’m sorry you didn’t get to see this world. I’m so endlessly sorry. I do what I can now. I keep your name safe. For the time that I carried you from the Ether of the Before into the Ether of the After, your name came to exist inside me too. I still keep it cocooned in that misty place between where you came from and where you went. When I reach for you that’s where I go. An echo in my body. An echo in the universe.

What does your baby’s name mean to you? What kind of echo does it send into the universe?