Written the night before his original due date
March 5, 2011
He was supposed to be born on August 26.
Thanks to my understanding doctors, ultrasounds were done almost weekly throughout the first trimester. It was the most fascinating progression of events I’d ever observed, watching the little lima bean sprout limb buds, then arms and legs, then hands and feet, fingers and toes. Mine was a very active little guy who appeared to be doing gymnastics and waving to me every time I saw him on the screen (“Don’t worry, Mom! I’m okay”).
At 11 weeks I underwent CVS testing, and on my birthday a genetics counselor called with the most tremendous news: it’s a boy, and he’s chromosomally perfect! I cried tears of joy for two hours straight: at last I could relax and believe this was really happening.
During the second trimester walking through baby stores became a pleasure, and little books, toys, and outfits began to accumulate at home. Maternity leave plan details were figured out at work. I started to “show” and wear actual maternity clothes. Doctors said he’s looking great, fine, beautiful!
More positive news at the big, mid-pregnancy ultrasound: the baby’s head, skeleton, and every other part were pronounced ideal. However, inexplicably a week later I started to cramp and bleed. Three more ultrasounds in four days’ time, though, showed that the little guy was still strong and kicking. The symptoms subsided. I dared to breathe and hope.
And then my water broke. Thank goodness my mother was there –although to this day I have no idea how we managed to make it to the hospital in our panic.
Throughout labor and delivery, I remained in denial. The process was probably harder than it had to be because I was trying to hold the baby in and make this nightmare not be true. As soon as he was finally born, the dreaded words “placental abruption” echoed through the room. I kept asking hospital personnel: can’t you DO something??
Of course, they couldn’t. At not quite 19 weeks’ gestation, there was no saving him. Paul David (“little beloved”) was born on March 28, 2010 at 5:53 p.m. with a beating heart but limited time. We held him until he died 1 hour and 22 minutes later.
At 11 weeks I underwent CVS testing, and on my birthday a genetics counselor called with the most tremendous news: it’s a boy, and he’s chromosomally perfect! I cried tears of joy for two hours straight: at last I could relax and believe this was really happening.
During the second trimester walking through baby stores became a pleasure, and little books, toys, and outfits began to accumulate at home. Maternity leave plan details were figured out at work. I started to “show” and wear actual maternity clothes. Doctors said he’s looking great, fine, beautiful!
More positive news at the big, mid-pregnancy ultrasound: the baby’s head, skeleton, and every other part were pronounced ideal. However, inexplicably a week later I started to cramp and bleed. Three more ultrasounds in four days’ time, though, showed that the little guy was still strong and kicking. The symptoms subsided. I dared to breathe and hope.
And then my water broke. Thank goodness my mother was there –although to this day I have no idea how we managed to make it to the hospital in our panic.
Throughout labor and delivery, I remained in denial. The process was probably harder than it had to be because I was trying to hold the baby in and make this nightmare not be true. As soon as he was finally born, the dreaded words “placental abruption” echoed through the room. I kept asking hospital personnel: can’t you DO something??
Of course, they couldn’t. At not quite 19 weeks’ gestation, there was no saving him. Paul David (“little beloved”) was born on March 28, 2010 at 5:53 p.m. with a beating heart but limited time. We held him until he died 1 hour and 22 minutes later.
After he was pronounced dead at 7:15, the nurses made impressions of his feet, dressed him up, and took a bunch of pictures. Then they wrapped up the little clothes and blankets for me to keep. At the time I thought all of that was kind of morbid, but I am so very glad now because I treasure those mementos more than anything.
After that, they handed him back to me and moved us to another floor where I wouldn’t hear other babies crying. A compassionate decision, but the nurses up there weren’t as sensitive. One kept reminding me that when I was ready, she would take Paul to the morgue. I lost count of the number of times she said “morgue,” but needless to say that word upset me more with each utterance and I was NOT about to hand him over to her. In fact, I ended up keeping him in my arms all night long.
After that, they handed him back to me and moved us to another floor where I wouldn’t hear other babies crying. A compassionate decision, but the nurses up there weren’t as sensitive. One kept reminding me that when I was ready, she would take Paul to the morgue. I lost count of the number of times she said “morgue,” but needless to say that word upset me more with each utterance and I was NOT about to hand him over to her. In fact, I ended up keeping him in my arms all night long.
By chance, my own wonderful doctor happened to be on the overnight shift; she checked in several times, encouraging me to make the most of the few precious hours I would ever be able to spend with my tiny son. While "luck" was not exactly the word of the day, I do recognize that fortune was on my side in this case; another could easily have been far less respectful.
I am grateful to say that three good and caring friends also came by that night: Jenn, who drove many miles despite a severe weather advisory; Maggi, who was up against a huge work-related deadline; and Wendy, whose son Ethan was celebrating his own birthday the very same day.
In the morning, there was a visit from a woman who worked in the birth certificate office, and then a kind grief counselor who gave me some reading material; after that, there was nothing left to do but go home. I was given a teddy bear to hold while riding out in the wheelchair—a thoughtful gesture, but not exactly the way I’d pictured leaving the hospital after giving birth.
Mind-numbing details followed: arranging and waiting first for an autopsy and then for the cremation while trying not to think about either one; picking out an urn for the child who should have been the one to someday choose mine; trying to wrap my head around the fact that I wasn’t pregnant anymore even though I still looked it.
It’s amazing how quickly you find out who your true friends are in times of trouble. Some people I’d thought I could count on have essentially disappeared, while others that I wouldn’t have assumed would be supportive truly came through (and continue to do so). For the most part, though, I feel like there is some kind of societal taboo that prevents me (or, apparently, just about anyone else) from mentioning Paul at all, almost as if it would be impolite to make people uncomfortable by bringing up the topic. This makes for a fairly lonely existence since he is constantly on my mind.
It’s amazing how quickly you find out who your true friends are in times of trouble. Some people I’d thought I could count on have essentially disappeared, while others that I wouldn’t have assumed would be supportive truly came through (and continue to do so). For the most part, though, I feel like there is some kind of societal taboo that prevents me (or, apparently, just about anyone else) from mentioning Paul at all, almost as if it would be impolite to make people uncomfortable by bringing up the topic. This makes for a fairly lonely existence since he is constantly on my mind.
At social gatherings when everyone else is talking and laughing and passing around photos of their kids, I feel disconnected from this world in which virtually no one speaks the name of my child or asks to see his picture. I'm aware that many are likely operating under the assumption that to do so would upset me, but in truth the few times it has happened felt like finding water in the desert. It can be difficult sometimes to tell the difference between those who have already forgotten and the ones who just don't know what to say.
It’s been a tough summer. I've spent countless hours during sleepless nights working on a scrapbook of all those ultrasound pictures and the ones taken by the nurses; that’s been somewhat therapeutic. The brightest spot was a visit from my sister and her family --although it is painful to know that Paul will never have a chance to play or grow up with his sweet cousins who would have loved him so much.
It’s been a tough summer. I've spent countless hours during sleepless nights working on a scrapbook of all those ultrasound pictures and the ones taken by the nurses; that’s been somewhat therapeutic. The brightest spot was a visit from my sister and her family --although it is painful to know that Paul will never have a chance to play or grow up with his sweet cousins who would have loved him so much.
After attempting to join a hospital-based infant loss support group -but showing up to discover that I was its sole member, I have at last managed to find solace in talking on line with some women whose circumstances are similar. It has been helpful to learn that my experiences, even including the upsetting flashbacks that occur at inopportune times, are not unique and will someday be less frequent and intense. They have also helped me to understand that no mother ever really "gets over" having her child predecease her. Instead, we just slowly learn how to live with it.
That will not be easy. By some outrageous twist of fate, my next-door neighbors on BOTH sides were pregnant one month ahead of me and just had their babies in the last few weeks, so I’m surrounded by strollers, car seats, and other reminders of what might have -should have- been.
And tomorrow is August 26.
And tomorrow is August 26.