Jaime's Disappearance

PREFACE:

It was November 18th, 1992, three days before my birthday, and my boyfriend of two years was going to take me out. We stopped by at a party and Jason, my boyfriend, ended up getting drunk. That night was the first night in a string of two years that I was repeatedly raped by Jason Dean Bright. I knew that I was pregnant almost the instant that I pushed my way through the crowd at the party wearing nothing but his shirt and underwear.

It didn't really hit me full force, until the next day at school, in sex education. Go to the link below, for that seperate side story.

Because I just turned 13 years old, my friend's and Jason's family talked me into getting an operation done, where they would take the unborn fetus out of my womb and place it into the womb of another. This way I wouldn't have to abort the child, but I wouldn't have to explain things to my family. A dear friend, Christy, decided to be the donor or surrogate mother. We had the legal papers all signed so that she would raise the child to the age of five, and then I would take full responsibility. Because after five years I would be over 18 years old and I could sit down and explain the situation to my family.

Well, on August 8th, 1993 Austin James "Jaime" Bright was born. I don't know how Christy did it, but my name was placed on the birth certificate. And I couldn't wait for the day to come when I could have him all to myself.

STORY:

I never payed much attention to Jaime, my son. He didn't live with me and I only visited him when it was convenient for me. I feel bad now, why couldn't I have been with him more? How come I was so selfish? It's too late now. Jaime is gone and I will never see him again.

He was a pure soul that never got the chance to live or learn from life. His father had passed on a rare terminal disease found among newborns. It's amazing Jaime lived as long as he did. The memory of his death remains vivid in my mind. I wish that I had put forth 100 percent for him.

It's hard for me to deal with this and concentrate on hiding Jaime's death from those close to me. I space out a lot and tend to lose control of my feelings. Sometimes, it hits me as hard as a ROCK and others I forget what Jaime even looks like. Is it my fault? If only I could apologize to Jaime for not being there for him, when he desperately needed me. If only I could turn back the clock, I would do everything differently.

I was in the St. Louis Children's Hospital day and night, until it seemed like a second home to me. I couldn't leave, for I needed to finally take responsibility for things, instead of passing my problems on to others, as I always have. I should have been with Jaime from the beginning, and if this is the only way I can pay him back.... I owe him that much. I was damn sure that I wouldn't miss the end.

I can still see the day, when I walked into that hospital room and saw Jaime laying in that hospital bed. An infant, six months old with a fever of 102.5 degrees and rising. They had Jaime hooked up to a million machines, placed all around his crib. I could sense the pain that my poor boy was going through, and I wished that I could have taken it on instead of him. For crying out loud, he was only a baby. I remember thinking, "How cruel can God be."

His face was all red and he was screaming, somewhere between a squeal and a shrill, for his mother. His voice pierced my ears. The covers were pushed down to the edge of the bed from his violent kicking, not an inch of his body could remain still. "Had no one heard his cries for help?" "Did anyone care that he was writhing in agony?" Looking around the empty room, I just got more upset. "No one will ever know how much this child was loved, I should never have left him alone to be defenseless, in this world." My heart was broken when when he noticed that I was in the room and reached out for me to remove him from the crib. Tears were streaming down his face faster than pouring rain. The instant that I picked him up, I realized exactly what was happening. My son was slipping away from me and into the arms of another.

My hands and face were on fire at the touch of his skin, and I just held tighter. His crying ceased as I held him. I would have done anything to give him some shred of relief. I started singing and rocking him, like I had right after he was born. I took off his clothes preparing him for a bath in luke warm water, to bring the fever down. It didn't take long for me to notice that my efforts to bring down his fever were useless. An hour and a half and four baths later, his fever had grown to 103.8 degrees. I was at a loss of what to do for him, wishing that I knew more about this disease that has attacked my son's brain.

I decided to feed Jaime, that way I could hold him and comfort him. His limp, little body was so heavy cradled in my arms. He looked so peaceful, a dramatic change from when I had arrived. Just then, the nurse swung open the door and stepped into the room, like she had all the time in the world. Her feet pounding heavily on the cement floor with every step echoing against the silence like a sledgehammer beating against my heart. She grabbed Jaime from my arms possessively. She coldly said, "Mam, you can't feed the child now. Mam, he has to take his shots now.... Mam, can you hear me.... you will have to leave now so I can give Jaime his shot. I will feed him later," ushering me out of the room, like a child who needn't interfere with her work. I wanted to let her know exactly what was on my mind. "What kind of person will not let a mother feed her own sick child? Why was I made to leave? Will he be okay without me there? Why wasn't I informed of these shots?"

I walked down the hall towards the cafeteria, to get something to eat. Before I made it to the elevator, the nurse called down the hall, "Get a doctor, quick...." Jaime died before I could enter his room again. It was 2:47am on January 22nd, 1994. "They were only supposed to give him a shot to lower his temperature," I thought.

After all the hospital staff cleared out, I entered Jaime's room. Upon opening the door, I heard nothing. All the loud noises had gone, and the machines had been rolled out. It just looked bare. Tears beginning to roll from my cheeks, and my strides seemed to get bigger, and it seemed like with every step that I took towards him, I was only further and further away from my son. As I approached the bed, I saw his lifeless body laying there. The nurses let me pick him up and hold Jaime one last time. His body was much lighter than it was only moments before because his spirit had left his body leaving the weight to permenantly attached itself to my bleeding heart. Jaime's face became pale white, and his body was continued to burn as I held my son. I cried and cried, until I could no longer see. Screaming, "Wake up, wake up and look at your mother!" The nurses came in again to take him away. My eyes became dry as there were no tears left for me to cry.

My life will never be the same, now that Jaime's gone. He left a void in my life that can never be replaced. I find myself living a different life, staring at every baby I see, as if it were my own. Crying unnumerous amounts of tears every time I turn around. What hurts me the most is that Jaime is a bigger part of my life now, than when he was alive. The only thing left to do is to live my life in silence and learn how to forgive and find peace within myself before I can be forgiven and have peace with what is happening around me.

My life shouldn't be this difficult. I am only fourteen years old. I have a full life ahead of me, I shouldn't have this big of a thing hanging over my head. I guess the worst part of it is that I can't talk to anyone about this situation.... because even my mother doesn't know any of this. I think that I handled the whole ordeal better and with more maturity than most would have, or did I?

As I stand up and look at the sky on what would have been Jaime's first birthday, with the wind flowing through my hair, I think of all the memories I have of Jaime, pushing them to the back of my mind. I slowly walk away, leaving the flowers that I had picked to die, as Jaime died only months before. With my hands clenched tightly I ask myself, "Have I overcome my fears, have I lost my hope for the future? Can I go on without him.....? No, I am not superwoman.... but at least I can try. I wonder if I will ever be able to say good-bye?"

Fiesty
8/8/1994

POST SCRIPT:

I didn't find out until I was pregnant with my daughter, October Skie, that this wasn't possible. I was a senior in high school, 16 years old, and I was worried that the child I was carrying would die from the same genetic disease that Jaime had died from. I couldn't bare to lose any more children... for my daughter was the only one that made it past the first term of my pregnancy. From the night after night of encounters with Jason, I ended up getting pregnant four other times and miscarried every one due to Jason's physical abuse to me throughout that time.

My counselor from the Women's Center sat me down and explained to me that my daughter wouldn't have the genetic disease that it was impossible because Jaime wasn't really my son. I didn't want to listen to her anymore, but for some reason I couldn't tune her out. She told me that she has talked to specialists and that there is no medical way that they can remove a child from the womb without killing it. And that basically I had aborted my child several years ago. And all this after I had mourned this child for over two years.