I
have been meaning to share this story for three months now. I'm not hesitant to talk about her at all; I just couldn't decide how to describe what
happened. Initially, I considered
writing about the positives--the birth,
seeing her face for the first time, the flood of support and love. But those details cannot be isolated from the
whole story--the nightmare of that
fearful ride to the hospital, being told there is no heartbeat and cradling the
lifeless body of a baby I wasn't supposed to meet until the next day. So here's all of it. The worst and one of the best days of my life
all wrapped up in one horrible package.
November
25th was supposed to be her birthday. That was the plan. When I was told that I'd be induced and she'd
be born on the 25th, I looked it up online.
She would have turned eight years old the first time her birthday would
fall on Thanksgiving. But, things went
wrong and everything changed. Instead, she
was born on the 24th; her birthday will fall on Thanksgiving on the third
anniversary of the only time we held her in our arms.
I
wasn't surprised to go past my due date.
I tried all of the usual tricks for bringing on labor naturally to avoid
another induction, but they didn't work.
We'd been seen several times on and after my due date to make sure she
was still doing well in my tummy. She
looked absolutely perfect for each biophysical profile and non-stress
test. There were no concerns. She was always healthy and active. I had no health problems and took all precautions to ensure a healthy pregnancy. My only risk factor was just barely qualifying to be
considered "advanced maternal age".
During my 20-week anatomy scan there was a concern raised about the
cord--marginal cord insertion-- but that was later ruled out and followed by multiple
in-depth ultrasounds to ensure that baby's
growth was on target. This was a closely monitored pregnancy. I never
considered the possibility that anything might go wrong. A week past my due date, I was scheduled to
be admitted on Sunday, November 24th for an induction and the baby would be
born sometime on Monday the 25th. I was
given the option of coming in sooner to give us a little more time in between baby's
birthday and Thanksgiving later in the week.
But, we wanted to give her all the time she needed. We were also looking forward to one last
weekend as a family of three, so I declined.
Choosing to wait when I could have been induced sooner will haunt me
forever.
That
last Saturday morning, I headed out for my usual four-mile walk. It was a route that we enjoyed at least twice
a week since we moved here this summer.
I looked forward to admiring the sunrise over the hills above the Hudson
River and always considered the early
morning my special time with her, so it was bittersweet knowing that this would
be our final outing together like this. The
rest of the morning was a flurry of activity.
I was frantically cleaning the house one last time and preparing to go
to Caroline's little friend's birthday party in the afternoon. Greg was spending the day at a volunteer
event so us girls were enjoying an afternoon alone together.
Hudson River on the morning of November 23rd |
At
the party, the next day's scheduled induction was the topic of conversation
with my friends. Was I nervous? Was I ready?
I joked that childbirth is "no fun", so putting it off for one
more day was just fine with me. The kids
had a great time and I helped myself to a couple of slices of pizza (I was eating
for two!) and cake. Knowing that my life
was about to become much more complicated, I was happy to spend a little easy
time with friends.
A
few minutes into the drive home, I realized that I couldn't recall the last time
the baby moved. This wouldn't have been
too unusual as I'd been busy and on my feet all morning, but it was strange to not feel the familiar kicks and jabs to my right hip while
sitting still in the car--especially after all of that sugar. I poked at her little hip the whole way
home. No response.
Back
home, I bribed Caroline with television and ice cream and told her that I
needed to lay still in bed alone for a little while. Thankfully, she complied. I stared out the window as I lay
motionless--barely even breathing and praying for a kick. "Kick, little one. PLEASE kick.
You're making me nervous..."
An hour passed with no movement.
Greg came home and we agreed that it would be best to just call the
doctor. I questioned whether or not my
concern was valid. Wasn't it normal to
have periods of time when she'd just sleep and not move much? But something just didn't seem right. I was instructed to go to L&D to get
checked out. The doctor didn't sound too
concerned. I figured that I was going to
end up being embarrassed about having wasted everyone's time because the baby
was going to be just fine. We dropped
Caroline off with some friends, telling them that we were a little worried, but
probably overreacting. We'd be back for her soon. On the drive to the hospital,
we prayed. I told Greg about all of the
stories I'd read online about full-term stillbirths and near misses. Maybe there was a knot in the cord and I'd
have an emergency c-section like some of the women I'd read about? Maybe everything was okay? Silently, I pleaded with God to keep this
baby safe.
At
the hospital, I was escorted to a room and the nurse said, "Before we do
anything, let's just check the baby's heartbeat". So I laid down and held my breath. Cold gel on my belly. Scratchy static from the monitor. More gel.
Searching. Nothing. "Let me see if someone else can
try". I started to panic. My legs started shaking . This is bad.
Is this really happening? I'm
supposed to be induced tomorrow! The
next nurse went through the same process with no change. I asked her,
"I'm a nurse so I understand that you can't say much, but could you tell me what's going through your mind right now?". She said, "Would we like to have heard
the heartbeat? Yes. But let's wait for the ultrasound and see
what's going on." She promised
that someone would be in soon. The nurse
later told me that after calling for the ultrasound and being told that I was
in line behind other patients in the hospital, her response was, "There is
absolutely NOTHING more important than you getting up here to her room right
now". The ultrasound tech was by
my side within minutes.
It
seemed like an eternity before the machine was up and running. Greg and two nurses stood by my bed. All of us stared at the screen--hoping and praying. An image popped up. It was our daughter's face. The screen blurred and then another image of
her tiny chest. The tech looked at the
nurses and pointed at the screen and said, "See here? This is the diaphragm". I stared at my sweet baby's motionless chest
while blinking away tears. I said,
"So there's no heartbeat". She
responded, "I'm not a doctor, so I can't tell you that".
Greg
held me close and we broke down together.
I couldn't catch my breath. Hot
tears poured down my cheeks. There just
aren't words to adequately describe the wretched, disgusting, unfathomable
horror of being told that the baby you've dreamed of for years and fallen in
love with over forty-one weeks is now
dead.
Because
her death was so sudden and unexpected, the doctor wanted to go ahead with the
induction that night. Whatever took her
life could affect me too if we didn't act right away. We'd arrived at the hospital with only our
wallets and phones, so Greg helped me make a list of things he'd collect from
home and bring back for our overnight stay.
Our nurse advised us, "You're going to have a full-term baby. It would be a good idea to get her clothing
so that you can dress her after she is born.
And bring your camera or allow us to take some pictures for
you". If it weren't for her
suggestion, I probably would have told Greg to not bother bringing the diaper
bag with the baby's things.
Greg
left, the nurse left and I went to work preparing for what was going to happen
next. I texted as many people as I could--too
weak to say the words out loud on the phone, but wanting as many loved ones and
close friends as possible to hear the news from us. I also thought about pictures. Getting a photo session was a priority. I'd been a part of the pregnancy loss
community for over a year because of my previous miscarriages, so I knew that
photos--good photos--would be important. I first emailed Elizabeth Shaw who we'd hired
to take our newborn photos the following week.
We'd never met in person, but I hoped that she would agree to come. While waiting to hear back from Beth, I
contacted a local representative from "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep",
an organization which provides professional "remembrance" photography
free of charge. They would try to find
someone to come out after the birth, but in the meantime Beth wrote back to me
and said that she would be here for us in the morning. We hadn't yet met in person, but because her
work is so beautiful and because she expressed to us that she wanted to be there for us--her words to
me were "I can't think of anything I'd rather do. Honestly"--we were
thrilled that she would be the one to take the photos of our daughter.
After
Greg returned with our bags, he crawled into bed next to me. For one last time, the three of us would
snuggle together. Greg made a few final
phone calls and we laid in bed staring at a picture on the wall. What to do now? Watch TV?
Sleep? I wasn't sure how I'd even
be able to continue breathing, much less get some rest.
We
agreed that our little girl would be named "Bella Joy" . It was a nickname that our 5-year-old
daughter had chosen so we'd always referred to the baby as "Bella". We had a completely different name picked
out, but we'd planned to keep it a secret until after the baby was born. (Not even our daughter knew the name we'd
agreed upon for her new sibling.)
Considering we'd known her as "Bella" her whole life, it seemed wrong to consider naming her
anything else. It's exciting to imagine
how Caroline will feel when she's older and realizes that she was given the
honor of naming her baby sister.
Part
of the nightmare of losing a full-term baby is that you still have to give
birth to your child's body. I was told
that they'd give me an epidural and load me up with pain medication, but I
didn't see this as a solution to this "problem" of getting the baby
out. My plan all along was to avoid an
epidural as I had with Caroline. It
didn't matter that she was dead. Labor and
delivery was still going to happen and I knew that my plan was right for my
safety and my sanity. The chance to
parent this baby had been taken from me; I didn't want to also be robbed of
giving birth to her the way I'd planned.
On top of that, I didn't want to be distracted from focusing on the
labor process and spending time with my daughter after she was born. I believed that the physical limitation
associated with an epidural would only add more trauma to the situation.
Last belly photo |
My
induction with Caroline was easy, so the plan was to use the same medications. Cervidil and then pitocin in
the morning to get active labor started.
The first medication was given around 9 p.m. I spent the next three hours online
researching topics like
"Stillbirth" and "How to tell a preschooler about the death of a
baby". I wanted to make sure that
our hearts were somewhat prepared for what was about to happen--especially Caroline's. How would we tell our sweet girl that her
baby sister died and wasn't coming home with us? How were WE going to handle the birth and
going home with no baby? The three of us
cuddled in the hospital bed. The storm
of worries in my mind was only quieted by the effects of the strong sleeping
pill I took around midnight.
I
started to feel uncomfortable around 3:30 a.m. I couldn't shake the urge to sit up in bed
occasionally because of the pressure in my lower back. I'd sit forward, stretch out a bit and then
lay back down. This started happening
frequently around 4 a.m.--the pressure quickly turned into pain. My constant shifting woke Greg and I started
hearing the beeping of his watch as he timed my contractions. This went on for about an hour. I was restless, so I'd walk around the room
and sometimes find myself squatting on the floor because a wave would
swallow me up and prevent me from taking another step. At 4:30, my nurse removed the cervidil and
gave me some medicine for the pain through my IV. It took the edge off, but left me feeling incredibly drowsy. Greg later told me that I'd fall asleep in
between contractions--sometimes even snoring!
At about 5:30, I'd just returned from a trip to the bathroom and as I
sat down in bed, my water broke. The
next ninety minutes were a blur.
Suddenly waking, the painful squeezing, the beeping of my husband's watch,
drifting back to sleep. My nurse was
sitting on the edge of the bed most of the time. The overwhelming grip of a contraction would
come back, but in my mind I'd imagine myself sprinting at full speed up my
favorite hill in my neighborhood back in California. Good pain.
Lungs and legs on fire. The pressure
would subside as I reached the top of the hill and turned around to head back
down again, proud of getting through it and ready for the next one. I was going to see her soon!
At
seven o'clock sharp, I was given the green light to start pushing. Finally!
To the surprise of everyone-- especially me--our little princess had
turned while I was in labor and came out frank breech (bottom first and head
last). She was born at 7:07 a.m. She weighed 7 pounds, 15 ounces and measured
21 inches long. Despite the breech birth, I pushed her out six
minutes faster than I did with Caroline and it was by far a much easier
delivery. After she was born, she was
immediately placed in my arms and Greg cut the cord. She was SO beautiful. Lifeless, but otherwise perfect: a different nose than Caroline's, chubbier cheeks,
the same funny-looking toenails. She was
bigger and heavier than her older sister had been. Unlike almost bald and blonde newborn
Caroline, Bella had tons of dark hair.
We were offered care similar to that of a living baby's family. Bella's feet were stamped on a certificate,
she was given a warm bath, had her hair combed, a fresh diaper and brand new
clothes before her baptism. She was
swaddled in a warm blanket that I'd purchased for her the day before. Although we were heartbroken, we were also
VERY proud new parents of this precious girl.
Soon
after Bella's birth, Beth arrived to take photos. Not knowing her other than through exchange
of emails, I was relieved to find her presence calming. Aside from the hospital staff, she would be
the only person to "meet" Bella.
Beth told us that she'd never photographed a baby like this before, but I wouldn't have suspected it had she not told
us. She handled the situation with such
tenderness and respect. On top of that,
we have amazing, beautiful photos of our sweet girl to cherish for a lifetime. You only get that opportunity once and I am
so grateful that we had the best of the best there to capture those moments.
We
spent nine hours with our little love. I
was exhausted from labor and lack of sleep, but didn't want to waste a
second. We took turns holding her,
kissing her, examining every little detail from her soft eyelashes to the shape
of her ears to the wrinkles in her tiny little fingers. We absorbed her from head to toe. We took SO many photos. We sobbed.
We held and rocked her and sang lullabyes.
We snuggled her and drifted off to sleep here
and there. I'll never forget the feeling
of her tiny little body on my chest and her forehead against my cheek. Her skin was so soft. I nuzzled against
her brown hair and inhaled the smell of newborn baby. How could I ever say that it was enough? To accept that I'd kissed her
chubby cheeks for the very last time?
That never again in my life would I see her sweet fingers wrapped around
my thumb? As the afternoon wore on, I began to feel like
I wanted to both run like hell from that room and stay in there forever.
At around 3:30 p.m., we decided that it was
time. We changed her diaper, tucked her
"going home" outfit in my diaper bag, dressed her in a white cotton
hospital t-shirt, swaddled her tight, tucked her into her bassinet and paged
the nurse to come for her. The nurse who
had cared for us the evening before and all through that day was busy with a
birth down the hall, so someone else came in around 4 p.m. We each gave our newborn girl one last kiss before she was
wheeled out of the room. And that was
it.
We
gathered our bags, took one last look
around the room and walked down the hall.
The sounds of a woman in active labor filled the hallway. We'd heard the first cries of several new
babies throughout the night and day. It
was still hard to believe that our story wouldn't end the same way. Hardly anyone noticed us as we walked past
the nursing station, down the elevator, through the hallway and out to the car. Just the two of us.
As I write this, three months have passed since the day
Bella was born. We held a memorial
service locally and laid her to rest in Arlington National Cemetery. We were lucky to have these events captured
in photographs by Elizabeth Shaw in a beautiful photo story you can see here. Since we met Beth, we have found too many
things in common for our acquaintance to be just a coincidence. Surely the hand of God brought us together and
I will always be grateful for her friendship and the enormous contribution she's made to our journey of healing.
After learning that Bella died and I'd need an induction
that night, I was convinced that she was going to be born with a knot in the
cord or some other obvious accident. We'd been so closely monitored due to a scare
earlier in my pregnancy. Just three days
before she died, she had passed her biophysical profile with flying colors. She should have been born healthy. During the ultrasound which confirmed the
lack of cardiac activity, we were told that the fluid levels were normal. After she was born, we saw that the cord and
placenta were normal. She was normal. They'd drawn numerous vials of blood for
testing and we opted to have an autopsy performed. Everything has come back completely normal. Furthermore, I have no chronic health
problems and was proactive in making healthy choices during my pregnancy. We will probably never know what went
wrong. Her cause death is a mystery.