Yesterday's post may have rocked your world. It certainly rocked mine. This is the continued story of that day. Its on the after side of my life. You should be warned, it's just as hard to read as the previous story. That was near death. This is actual death.
It's not like I grew up believing babies didn't ever die in childbirth. But you feel like its a thing that is being pushed to the past. That medicine is able to help us so much more. I know there is logic and things happen. It just doesn't ever seem like a thing, until you are in that moment wondering what just happened.
When you are in a room you recognize. The delivery rooms of the hospital. You took a tour of the hospital 7 years ago. And this you know, is the very farthest corner room. It is one of the biggest and there is stuff in the corner being stored because it is not used as often. We are in it out of kindness. We are as far away as possible, from the sound of a baby actually being born. We are in silence. We are in Stillbirth.
This is the hour that I got to experience real shock. Where the human form is so stripped of its being that all you are is a beating heart. And that makes you very aware of the unbeating heart in your life.
The nurses were still trying to get my blood condition under control. I continued to get transfusions in this room and the next. I remember thinking, "I don't know why I've been so afraid of needles my whole life, because they are all over me right now." I remember talking to Brandon but I don't have any idea what about. I can see me in that bed, and where he was sitting to my right, and talking to him. He tracked down a nurses charger for my phone because it was almost dead. And he knew, I didn't have my camera with me, and we were only going to get hours. He was preparing for what I didn't want to face.
They asked if we wanted to see her.
And my first answer was no.
I wasted one hour because I didn't know what was worse.
Seeing our daughter in death.
Or not seeing her at all.
There is nothing that can prepare you for this moment. Everything in life will tell you, pregnancy leads to a baby. I have had two pregnancies. Both have had high risk issues. Both my babies have gone to the NICU immediately after birth. And then both were brought to me, completely safe and fine. That is what my brain knows as fact.
This is stillbirth, and there is no making sense of it with fact.
We decided together when the time was right. And someone opened the door and from the hallway wheeled in one of the hospital bassinets. The clear walls of it showing a child inside. And then they handed her to me and I met my daughter for the first, and last time. There is a photo that exists of this moment. And I don't think the world could handle the raw emotion of it. My words pale in comparison. It is the most real photograph of a human, I have ever witnessed.
She was everything I thought she would be.
She had curls of hair all over her head. I silently thought to myself, "I knew you had hair, I've had the heartburn to prove it since 8 weeks." I was so excited she had hair, and at the same time, how unfair it was that I would never get to braid it, or put bows in it. Or see if those curls stayed like her moms. I touched them, I can still feel them in my memory.
Her fingers were long. Her little nails that I had dreamed of painting. I asked right before she arrived, how soon was too soon to paint tiny nails. I couldn't wait to share that joy with her. I couldn't wait till she would one day ask to paint mine, and the polish would be more on my skin than my actual nails. I let them wrap around my finger. They curled over it like a baby naturally does. But they never moved on their own.
Her feet. They are my favorite feature on a baby. And they were the only part of her skin that still held color. The first thing you will ever notice on a stillborn baby, is that their skin has no color. But her feet, they still looked normal. I hated and loved that at the same time.
Her features of her face were delicate and feminine. She was beautiful. I remember the doctor saying when he delivered her, how beautiful she was. She had Max's little nose. And Sawyers lips. She was their sibling. And I could see it. But they will never see her. I will never know if she shared their eye color. If her belly button was an innie or outie. I will never know if she was going to be plump like sawyer or scrawny like max.
She will never change. I will never know what could have been. As parents we like to say we wish our kids would stop growing up. But if you ask a mom who has lost a child. They will tell you, they wish with all the world that they could grow up, even one more day.
I knew I did not have one more day. I had 12 hours and they are the fastest 12 hours of my life. Somehow an hour before, 40 minutes stretched a lifetime. And now the hours were melting away. I can see in the photos on my phone, that there is hours where my body simply gave out. And her and I are sleeping in each others arms. It is painful to see after I cannot change it, how much I missed.
I only asked for one thing. The entire pregnancy I had dreamed of one experience I couldn't wait to have. It wasn't about the clothes or the bows. I wanted a baby to lay on my chest, when they snuggle into your neck. Their legs tucked under. I just wanted to cuddle her. I love the newborn stage the most. And I could not wait for those long awful nights where they wont go back to sleep and you end up laying on the couch with them on your chest. Its so simple. I just wanted the most simple memory in life, and it was being stolen from me.
So I held her, and I was so careful moving her to my chest. I felt like she was so much more fragile than a baby who is breathing. I was so afraid to hurt her. Feeling like I had already been the cause of her life cut short. I wanted her to know that she was loved, and I felt like I could somehow comfort her in that moment. But I was only comforting myself.
I watched Brandon hold her. He swaddled her and the nurse made a comment about how he was a pro wrapping her up. My heart might have broke even more in that moment. We know what a baby is like to hold. The weight of a child who is still, is unbelievably heavier. I saw my husband, a grown man, silently let the tears slip off his cheeks. He tried so hard not to let me see them in those first days. Because we both knew we were only adding more, and more heartbreak to each other.
Then my mom arrived. I remembered thinking, how is it possible that she is here? She lives in another country, and she just walked in the door. Anna is still in my arms. It's another thing that fate let land in the only way possible. Somehow in 9 hours, she found out, packed, and booked a flight, travelled internationally, and was here. And she is one of three people who got to hold Anna. We have a single photo of 3 generations of women together. I am holding my child not breathing, and my mom is holding me. It is gut wrenchingly beautiful.
Someone brought the only 2 newborn sleepers I owed. Both pink. A color that I am so sensitive to now, when I lived for it the day before at the baby shower. And a single pink bow. I have tiny pink outfits that range from newborn to 24 months. Neatly washed and folded, put away in drawers waiting for her. And these are the single two outfits she will ever wear. One in the hospital with me, in photos, that I could not give up. And the other sleeper, the one that she was supposed to come home in, little hello's all over it, that she was cremated in.
We sent my mom home to be with the boys. They were blissfully unaware at what had just happened to our family. At how close they came to losing their mom. And we wanted to spend the last hour alone with Anna. The clock continued to click, and a nurse kept pressing us to make the decision. It was after midnight.
May 20 had come and gone. And taken so much with it.
And then the moment came. That my daughter left my arms, and never returned. And there is simply no human way to describe that moment. It is every intensely horrific thing you can begin to imagine, and that doesn't come close to the feeling of stillbirth.
Having to say goodbye, before you said hello.
with love, lissa.
***A friend of mine who works in the NICU started walking me through the day. She gently prompted me to do things I would never get the chance to do again. She was with me from "I haven't felt her move in awhile," to "you need to have someone bring you clothes and a headband, you want to have that experience and memories." And she still texts me every couple days. I will never be able to thank her enough for making this experience slightly easier. Please hug and thank your nurse friends. Your doctor friends. Your midwife friends. They see and feel so much more than the joy you think they have in the job of delivering babies. They knew before me, that his happens too much.
