The death of a baby is horrifically complicated. Babies themselves can take none of the blame for their own death, so the grown-ups are left blaming each other. Each trying to make some sense out of the fact something so precious was taken from us.
My brother was taking care of him when he drown. My brother said it was only a minute and he realized the baby was nowhere to be found. Only a year old and he scrambled out into the backyard, fell face first into the pond, and drown. A matter of minutes and his light faded out.
The CPR, the 911 call, the ambulance to the hospital, the intensive care unit, the respirator, the medication, and especially the local news coverage of the incident didn't make a difference. The baby died.
Within a month, signs were posted on my brother's apartment door by the maternal grandmother and aunt. "Baby Killer" was scrawled across a picture of him in his blue jumper with the trains on it. Within a month, my brother was hospitalized for suicidal ideation at an inpatient psychiatric facility. He didn't want anyone to visit but mom. He was discharged and readmitted two times. He just couldn't readjust to life without his son. The signs kept being posted fresh on his door whenever he took them down.
Then, it all stopped-- abruptly, perfectly.
"Sister had to go ninja to get the shit to stop," Bev told me on the phone years later. "I left the kids with their dad, dressed in all black, drove five hours through the night to those assholes' house, and told them they were going to stop trying to kill my brother with guilt. 'What are you going to do?' they said. I told them I would cut them and not cry. I told them they would die if they ever hurt a member of my family again."
Death sure is complicated. Everyone deals with it differently.
