Good afternoon. My name is Briana Koop. I am incredibly grateful to be here speaking to you today as a bereaved parent, so thank you to Blake Richards.
Learning to navigate the world as a bereaved parent wasn't something that I ever thought I would be forced to do. It wasn't a possibility I had considered, even though if I had, I don't think there's anything that could have prepared me for the enormity of the burden.
In August 2013, I was standing in front of a clearance rack flipping through the skeletal remains of that summer's hottest trends, but it wasn't deals I was searching for. I was there because my toddler wanted to go to the park and I had nothing to wear. You see, I had given birth to my son, Marlow, only a few days earlier and the only clothes that I had that fit were maternity clothes.
I'm sure that most of you can understand this struggle even if you haven't experienced it yourself. We know that bodies change with pregnancy and childbirth, and even if we eventually do fit back into the clothing we wore before, we know it takes time. Even if we don't experience these changes ourselves, it's easy to understand them because we can see them happening to people around us. When my daughter was born just two years earlier, instead of worrying about buying clothing that would fit during that transition period, I did what most people do and continued to wear my maternity clothing. I made do.
But this time was different. This time, those maternity clothes with their strategically added panels and conspicuously large elastic waistbands were not only a poor fit on my postpartum body, they were a constant, brutal reminder that my son had died.
My son died of kidney failure within hours of his birth. The fact that I didn't have a newborn to care for didn't change the reality that I had just given birth. My body needed time to heal. Even though it seemed like a miracle that day that I wanted to do something as mundane as taking my daughter to the park when she asked me, my wanting to wasn't going to make my body bounce back and fit into my prepregnancy summer clothes.
No matter how much I wanted to in those early weeks, I couldn't change my body any more than I could have stopped the tears from joining the blood and the milk from flowing when the young woman who worked at the store walked up and asked if I was looking for anything in particular.
This is just a tiny example, the smallest glimpse into the impossibility that is learning to navigate life without our babies in those early days, weeks and months. Yes, we do learn, but learning takes time—time and practice and trial and error.
Even though there is nothing you can do in this room or in any other room to take away the anguish the grieving parents experience, as you move forward with this bill, I hope that you don't underestimate the impossible weight of those early days, weeks and months.
As I was preparing for today, figuring out what I wanted to say, what I could say to help you understand what it's like, I started reading through what was a baby book and became a journal. I came across a passage that I would like to end my time here by sharing with all of you:
7 weeks and 6 days. That’s how much time has passed since I last held my son. 8 weeks ago today I was in a hospital bed, waiting: waiting for my labour to progress. For my cervix to dilate. Waiting to give birth and meet my baby. Waiting to find out if I was carrying a daughter or a son…
Waiting to say goodbye.
I would have given anything to stop that moment from coming. But it did—of course it did. It's the one thing we can be absolutely sure of—time, as they say, marches on.
While I held Marlow, all I wanted was for time to stop, or at least for it to drag its heels and give me just a few more moments with my son.
But it didn’t. Of course it didn't.
The hours we spent getting to know every inch of his tiny, perfect body sped by. Time is funny like that; it seems like I had only just found out I was pregnant, and now suddenly, he's gone.
It's ironic, actually, because now I guess I've gotten my wish, because time drags.
Each day seems longer than the last, and already it feels an eternity since I kissed my sweet boy. And though the pain is still almost as fresh as the day he was born, the memory of my time with him is fading. I can no longer conjure his scent at will or picture his pouty bottom lip without some effort, small as it may be. Time may heal all wounds, but it is also a thief.
There is one moment, though, that hasn’t begun fading. I remember that moment—my last moment with my son—the very last one—so vividly.
As I began leaving the room, I handed Marlow to my nurse, and even though I knew he was nestled safely in her arms, I could not convince my hands to release him, or my lips to leave his sweet face. I kissed the top of his soft, cold head again and again, as tears poured down my face, across his, and onto the hands of my nurse.
My poor, sweet nurse.
...I looked up at my nurse and I saw that she was softly, silently weeping for us. Her eyes met mine and somehow I managed through the tears, “I know you will, but please be gentle with him. He’s so tiny and he won't have his mommy anymore.” She nodded and said, “I will. Of course.”
And that was it. My time with my son had come to an end.
And so, too, has my time with you here today.
Thank you all so much for being here and for doing everything in your power today and over the last so many years to help ease the impossible burden that parents like me are still facing every day.