The Day Of...

Okay, I'm just going to do it. I'm going to write about the day it all went down. Why? Partially because some people have asked, partially because otherwise want to know and are afraid to ask. But mostly because maybe, hopefully talking about it will help take away some of the weight of the grief for me.

See, here is the thing about losing a child. Apart from the fact that is goes against nature for a parent to ever have to lose a child, it is a grief so deep that it's tangible. And it's capable of taking different forms. At it's worst it's a boulder, sitting on my shoulders, my chest. Weighing me down. Other times, it's like a mist; it wraps itself around me, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. Sometimes, it manifests itself in the people around me, making it's presence known in a whispered voice or overly sympathetic gaze.

Anything I can do to lighten that grief, I will do. I am searching for answers and this is where my journey started; Ironically enough with the day my world felt like it was falling apart.

H wasn't moving. It was noon and I realized that I couldn't remember the last time I felt her kick. Honestly, I wasn't overly concerned because mornings were usually her quiet time, but I was still worried. I did what I usually did if I wanted to get her moving. I ate candy and then laid down on my left side to start counting the kicks. But they never came. So I tried ice cold water. That always worked. Still nothing. Now I was starting to freak out. B offered to drive me to the immediate care but I couldn't handle the thought of that. The last ultrasound I had done there was the beginning of a weeks long miscarriage, just 11 short months before. I was not setting foot in that place if I could avoid it. Instead, B ran to Babies R Us and bought a home doppler. I tore into the packaging fully expecting a loud and strong heartbeat. But it never came. I had the OB on-call paged and she immediately told me to head to the hospital.

B got C up from his nap and we were on our way. Thankfully the drive was only a few minutes because I was fighting a rising panic that I knew would only subside with the sound of H's heartbeat. The wonderful nurse got me all hooked up and tried and tried to find a heartbeat. When she couldn't, another nurse came in with another doppler. No luck. I could feel the energy in the room change. They went into high alert and I started to shut down. The OB on call at the hospital was paged and he came in with an ultrasound machine. Two nurses, the doctor, B and C and I were all crammed in this tiny little room, just waiting to hear that I was overacting. But we didn't.

After what felt like the world's longest ultrasound, I finally couldn't take it anymore. "Can you find a heartbeat?" I asked. The doctor looked at me, slowly set down the ultrasound wand and said the  words that I never wanted to hear. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Short, tiny words. But their meaning, their impact, left me forever changed.

From there it was a blur. Another ultrasound, another doctor. Four blown veins to get an IV in. Having to decide between the vbac I wanted or move ahead with a C-section for our tiny breech baby. My father in-law arrived to pick up C; this whole nightmare bringing back a nightmare of his own 39 years before. The most painful, drawn out spinal ever, that sent ribbons of pain cascading thru my legs and up into my shoulders. Throwing up mid surgery. And finally the doctor saying "Oh. The cord. It's around her neck twice and it's really tight."

"It's around her neck twice and it's really tight." My baby strangled inside me. My only job was to care for and protect her. I failed and she paid the ultimate price.