It’s been six months since “Real Housewives of Orange County” star Kara Keough’s newborn son passed away shortly after childbirth due to medical complications.
Keough is sharing her grieving process in an emotional essay, posted on the “Good Morning America” website.
In April, Keough shared the sad news to her Instagram followers about newborn son McCoy.
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On April 6th, our son McCoy Casey Bosworth was born at 3:10am. Weighing in at 11 pounds and 4 ounces and spanning 21 inches, McCoy surprised us all with his size and strength (and overall perfection). During the course of his birth, he experienced shoulder dystocia and a compressed umbilical cord. He joined our Heavenly Father and will live forever in the hearts of his loving parents, his adoring sister, and those that received his life-saving gifts. I wrote this for the organ/tissue procurement team to read out in his honor: “Tonight, we join together to honor this little savior’s gifts of life. Through him, may others find new hope and profound healing… and may he live again through them. May his legacy shine in the form of lifetimes aplenty – lives filled with laughter, compassion, energy, love, and most of all gratitude. May it be said that McCoy Casey Bosworth left this world in a better place, for a better place…. that he made an impact… that he was an answered prayer… that he was a hero. May angels lead him in. Thank you, McCoy.” ——————————————— And Jesus said, “Very truly I tell you, you will weep and mourn while the world rejoices. You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy. A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is born into the world. So with you: Now is your time of grief, but I will see you again and you will rejoice, and no one will take away your joy.” John 16:20 Until we see you again… We love you, McCoy.
As Keough writes, the time that has passed has done little to dull the pain, and addresses other women who’ve lost children.
“To My Fellow Loss Mom,” she writes. “I wish there was something else I could call you, something else I could call myself. ‘Angel Mom’ feels too fluffy, and ‘Bereaved Mother’ sounds like we should be wearing black lace and howling on our knees in a stone church somewhere. Don’t get me wrong, we’re absolutely still howling. But we’re doing it in yoga pants. Lululemons just do a better job of hiding our postpartum bellies and helping us avoid questions like, ‘When are you due?’ or worse, “How’s the baby?!’”
She continues: “We blame ourselves, not because we did anything to harm our children, but because we’re their mothers, and protecting them is our most sacred duty,” she continued. “People say the wrong things and people say right things that feel wrong. … Talk of ‘God’s plan,’ ‘your strength,’ and the ‘I haven’t stopped crying for you’ are right things that feel wrong. Some days the right thing is a friend pulling you out of bed and handing you a cup of coffee. Other days, the right thing is just staying in bed and feeling it all.”
She also ruminates on the nature of grief. “If not wasted, grief can be an incredible gift,” she adds. “After the initial haze, the lens through which we see the world sharpens our view. It’s almost like that first victorious gulp of air after being underwater too long, so much more treasured than the sip before. In grief, the spirit of the Earth somehow reveals herself to us. Sunsets are technicolour, wind is euphoric, and rain is an echoing chorus of our hearts. Rainbows and butterflies seem to show up just for us just when we need them most.”
She compares grief to “going on a bear hunt: We can’t go over it, we can’t go under it, we have to go through it,” adding, “We ask ourselves, ‘Where are we supposed to put all this love, all this love that we had reserved for them?’ The answer becomes so clear: all around us, of course, and into them, still. Most importantly — and with no hesitations — we must put the love back into ourselves once again. Terry Tempest Williams insists, ‘Grief dares us to love once more.'”
Keough concludes: “So, to grief, we respond, ‘You triple dog dare me?'”