WHAT IF HE LIVES?

(Based on a true story)

Their grief was brittle. Their hearts, already broken into a thousand pieces, would break into a thousand more if they so much as sighed too hard or let one more tear leak from their eyes.

Less than an hour old, the baby was warm and soft. And still.

Arranging his tiny arms and legs in the position she imagined a living baby would take, the mother held him close to her chest, skin on skin. She stroked his back, her touch soft and rhythmic.

The father reached out to hold the baby’s hand. It was impossibly small and perfect. Closing his eyes, he pretended for a moment that his son was alive.

But he wasn’t. His limbs were limp and immobile.

Every few minutes the baby gasped for air. Nothing more than a reflex action, the doctor had told them, caused by a build up of gases. The doctor was kind but he ensured they understood there was no hope. There was no heartbeat: their baby was dead.

Except… except it felt like more. It felt like their most precious boy was trying his hardest to live.

The next time the baby gasped, they called for the doctor again; only the midwife came. She was sympathetic and compassionate but realistic. After a routine check of the deceased child, she assured the parents the intake of breath truly was not breathing as we know it and she left the room.

The parents continued their bittersweet vigil, their skin on skin contact, hoping somehow that he could feel or sense their immense love for him. They marveled at the perfection of minute fingers that would never hold a cricket bat, ran their hands over the limbs that would never run and jump, stroked the little feet that would never kick a football, caressed and kissed the tiny rosebud mouth that would never giggle and laugh, would never form the words “Mum” or “Dad”.

And always, endlessly, the mother rubbed the baby’s back, just as she would have with a live baby.

Together, they began to tell him all the things they had wished and hoped for him; all the dreams they had dreamed for him, all the memories they had wanted to create with him. They so much wanted this child to be alive. But he wasn’t: he was dead.

And then, the dead child reached for his father’s finger, grasped it and held tight. The parent’s looked at each other. Another reflex action?

They called for the doctor once more. Again, only the midwife came. She repeated the earlier examination, gave the same diagnosis and left.

The parents kept crooning to their little boy, telling him how very, very much they loved him. They wanted to fill this baby’s short time on this planet with a lifetime of love. They talked to him, they sang to him, they stroked him. They loved him.

Nestled against the mother’s chest, the little boy suddenly pushed his head back. His eyes half opened. The parents looked at each other, their own eyes wide. A hysterical giggle escaped their mouths.

“What if he lives?” they said. Another giggle. “What if he lives?”

No moment could be more surreal, more taut with fragile hope. Here they were with their dead child in their arms, yet the child had taken a breath, had opened his eyes and tilted his head back. The child still grasped his father’s finger and his body was still warm.

What if he was still alive? What if he lived? Heavens above, what if he lived! What if he lived!

Breast milk began to dribble from the mother, her body’s response to holding her child so close. Hardly thinking at all, she gathered a droplet on her finger and put it to the baby’s mouth.

He swallowed it and gave a small cry.