November 17-19 2005

If you want happy, cheery sunshine, move on to another URL for a few days.

Figured I'd warn you, if you want to cover your eyes/ears and sing la la la you can. Me, the thought of imploding on retained emotions is asinine, but that's my perspective, what do I know, I hear imploding on emotions is the best thing since sliced bread...The coming days mark Sophia's birth date and I refuse to pretend it didn't happen or should be avoided or hidden or not talked about.

My hope is that these next few posts provide some insight, education, enlightenment, in whatever fashion, that some tiny value for someone else comes from what we went through. Life truly can change in an instant. The nagging every day stupid things that we make into big events, the dumb things we all place high priorities on, the stuff we let get in the way of time with the ones we love, they don't matter, seriously though, you don't need to lose a child to figure that out.

November 17th, 2005, "the realization"

E was online most of the evening, I hung Christmas decorations. Our 5th year in Maryland, our first time hosting Christmas, finally our turn. I'd gotten as far as laying the "house" decorations all over the floor and tables, but hung the stockings. Thinking about the individual stockings I'd bought for everyone, what to stuff them with... Deep in thought with everyone's needs for the get together, resolving to just stop caring about those who were "pulling back" from the get together, E and I were sad the previous 3-4 days upon hearing it, but decided to let go of the sadness... the pointless things you spend your energy on when so much more matters... If I weren't thinking about others that whole week,... would I have noticed a sign, was there even a sign to notice? All I noticed that week was that she was crazy active, every night at bedtime.

November 17th, 10 PM, a silent heart monitor

... must be the electronics..., I try again and again, I try to jostle her awake... the stunned look on E's face when I told him, I'll never forget. We drove to the hospital; silent, angry, frightened, bitter, completely empty of life, literally. Imagine your child dying, no matter how old, now imagine your only child dying, now drive you and your wife to the hospital. That drive, I won't ever forget, every curve of the road, the absence of trucks, wishing for an accident to wipe away the pain that was waiting for us that night. (months later we learned we both shared that thought) At that moment, I'd rather die with Sophia than face losing her. Ironic, we already knew what being a parent meant, before we lost her. When you spend 5 years trying, believe me, you figure a lot out along the way that you wouldn't have otherwise.

The headlights of oncoming traffic, like sensations of light from a calling tunnel, far away and yet right at hand. Not us, no, not us, we've been through too much, we've been slighted too many times, the miscarriage 2 years earlier and the loss of Sophia's twin early on, too many surgeries, procedures, emotional investment, all those years, waiting for her. Oh, the lesser challenges of life, and how small they really are.

November 18th, 12:45 AM, the drive home

We finish all the tests and sonograms, they tell us we need to induce soon, the next morning. We leave, sleeping pills in hand, silent, crying, our dreams somewhere, far out of reach, slipping further into the moonlight of an empty highway. I think about who I need to call, what needs to happen. We lose sight of what we want and focus on the bare minimum. We lay in bed, wrapped up tight together, trying like crazy to shelter each other from reality. Drained of every ounce of feeling, life, energy. E and I call our bosses and leave messages. He didn't want to talk to anyone, friends or family, a way to keep reality at bay a while longer? I could barely handle calling my mom that morning, I was more worried about her, who will be there for her, no family nearby, I remember apologizing, she had to cancel my shower that week, I felt guilt. I remember trying to write an email to get a mass note out to everyone that morning before we left for the hospital, I didn't like it, but what was our option? Say nothing, sit there and make dozens of calls as we figured out what to put in the "overnight bag" for labor and delivery? No one was there holding our hand taking care of our every need as we quickly reached basket case status, we did the best we could.

E, called his brother, I don't remember how or when or anything else until long after we return to the hospital. My memory is void. I think how horrible receiving that call must have been. I think of people who said/felt that Sophia's death wasn't like a real death anyway, she wasn't born alive. May they never face the death their child, may they never deliver a silent newborn, they would be crippled with loss. I know some can't understand, while others don't have the capacity/willingness to try and I no longer have the energy to care. Some have said "how can they not understand/imagine that's upsurd". You can tell by the look in the eyes, the tone of voice, it's easy to see, some just don't have that capacity, they're not bad people, they just don't have the capacity.

I'm calling it as we lived/saw it, don't shoot the person who says the emperor has no clothes on.

November 18th, 11:00 AM, the time had come

We arrive, at labor and delivery. They give us the biggest suite, bedroom and living room, full bathroom, hardwood floors, private corner room. I am convinced it was out of kindness. It must have been a horrific few shifts for the teams there, another couple delivered their dead child too that night, I asked later on, they only have about a dozen births like ours each year. Within a few hours I'm checked in and the IV's are dripping away to induce labor. In the same amount of time we spent registering for her at BabiesRUs, we decided; funeral or not, cremation or not, naming the baby or not, what to name her, to hold her or not, natural or not, counselor or not, the pamphlets let us know what physical and emotional changes we can expect, like when my breast milk came in and yes, it did, yet another slap in the face, only I didn't know it at that moment... We lay in a silent, dimly lit room (hiding from reality by choice), waiting... waiting for the medicine to kick in... waiting for it to be "over"... and yet, delivery didn't mark the end... it marked the official start of mourning. The unbearable silence of those hours, the monitors turned off so the alarms didn't sound "hey, there's no heartbeat". I've referred to it before, like the biggest tallest, most cavernous church or cathedral in the world, you are in there, alone, and it's silent, like being in an ocean with no life. We were alone, in shock, those hours, those minutes, those decisions, no one should ever have to face.

November 19th, 2:48 AM, her arrival

6 hours from the time we were supposed to attend our childbirth class, in that hospital, she came into the world, 1 day too late. We'll never know if she would have survived 1 day earlier. Just 1 day earlier. 32 weeks along is more than far enough along, so the specialists told me, infants are "viable" after 27 weeks... To think, the previous week I was worried about going into labor without having that class... more small life events that don't matter huh? We waited for the epidural to wear off, for my legs to "hold weight", with only E to care for me they wouldn't release me unable to walk. We left, from check in to check out, under 24 hours, just 8 hours after giving birth. When you lose a child, they worry less about physical recovery in the hospital and more about emotional recovery. I was wheeled through the waiting room, silently crying, a single tear drop at a time falling, drip drip drip like the second hand on a clock, onto my childless lap, where her box of things they gave me lay, a dress, a hat, hand/footprints, plaster footprints, a certificate of her birth, ID bracelet... with this sinking feeling in my gut that I'd abandoned our daughter there.

November 19th, after 11AM, our darkest daylight hours.

We drove home to see the contents of a baby shower a few weekends prior sprawled out on the entry foyer floor, intermingled with dozens of boxes of Christmas decorations. Home to where emptiness hung, like the stars in the sky on a clear night, for all the world to see. We left a note on the front door for the contractors "please don't do any work in the house today, we've suffered a loss", they were supposed to finish up the basement that week, we were making it a playroom and office space. We crawl into bed and hope we wake up and it was just a nightmare. I spent many a night reaching out to my shrinking abdomen... longing for a kick, a sign...

This next part may be hard for friends/family to read, this section isn't about blame, it's just reality ...don't blame the messenger, this is not about you. This is not a reflection of everyone and it's not meant to be internalized. Though there were 'stars of help' during that time, it wasn't always the case. Family and friends alike waited for us to make decisions, to tell them what we needed, in the face of major shocking life altering tragedy, the ability to make decisions and think, vanishes. People, every morning struggle with what clothes in their closet to wear to work... when put in perspective, can you imagine trying to make decisions after your child dies?

We needed someone to take the lead for us, to be strong for us, hold our hands and lead us down a path, any path, it didn't matter, their decision wouldn't have been better or worse than what we did manage to chose. We needed to be driven to/from the hospital, to have our hands held during delivery. To make dinner, phone calls, help us realize that we might want a funeral, a place to mourn. Someone to get us to take showers or even brush our teeth, to brush our hair, to let us know after the 3rd day the socks, underwear, etc really need to be changed, seriously, they did. Someone to handle our medical insurance and disability claims, to open the door for flower arrangement after flower arrangement, to answer calls, oh, the phone calls. At times we had over 30 messages on the phone, neither of us able to answer it, we'd stand there and listen, too shocked at all that happened to be able to pick up the phone. This type of loss, the sobbing, the intensity, phones just didn't cut it, we just couldn't contribute to phone conversations, we weren't capable. I kept a running list of everyone who called, time, date, etc and checked them off as we slowly, as in weeks and months, called back. I kept dozens of those calls on the answering machine, they were still on there when the movers packed the answering machine up with everything else 9 months later... they lost that box... I'll never hear any of those messages again. We needed someone to open cards, give thanks to those we could barely look at eye to eye, to give a few minutes of kindness to the dogs, to just live for us. We were incapable of anything.

Every time we had to ask someone, once or repeatedly for something was one more dagger in our heart, making the nightmare worse. I can't explain any logic behind that, but only that is how it felt. We found at times it was 'too hard' for others to hear the details, so we stopped risking sharing anything at all to avoid the pain of it. In an effort to make it easier for others, well, we made it horrible for us but I realize that we were not whole at that time, we just quit asking for help, quit taking care of things, quit 'living' barely past 'walking dead' for many weeks. We put on a great, positive face, full of strength seemingly, but really, who's that strong, that able to just 'move on and be fine'? Our game face was a fragile shell.

I remember holding E's hand as he drove, as the snow fell a few nights later, as he cried about never taking her sledding. I cried touching the outfit we gushed over that in Belgium, E bought for her, while I rested on the boat. I spent several nights after her death, sneaking into the unfinished nursery to sleep in a bed there, so as not to disturb the few nights E could sleep. I cried packing her things into boxes. We cried the night we picked up her crib... it arrived at the store 2 nights before, we got it 2 nights after she was born. We cried when we finished her nursery bookshelf, started before she was born, finished after. We cried and sobbed every time people left our house and left us alone, we silently screamed for them to not go, standing at the windows in tears, sobbing, too many nights we cried in our loneliness. Too tired, too much in shock to figure out how to move on.

We never really celebrated Christmas that year, no tree, I wanted no part of any present and it took hours for me to open things from E, other presents I opened days later. I was ashamed that we never finished Christmas shopping for others, ridiculous, I know, but I felt that way. I remember packing the presents we had bought into boxes and mailing them, many with apologies for not properly shopping, I have no idea if I even wrapped any presents. We hid away in a hotel an hour from home, to try to avoid everything that tore our hearts to peices. It was, simply put, the best we could do, it was what we needed, just 48 hours of escaping everything and everyone associated with what that year's holiday was supposed to be about. We didn't even take the dogs, they were boarded.

In the end, people, life around you, moves on and you just tag along. And so, time marches on, while mainly silence surrounds you, the people who don't know what to say, say nothing, leaving you in yet further silence. You go through the motions until you figure out how to breath again. We'll never forget those who shared in the rawness of our loss, who risked losing control along side us, who realized no matter how horrible they felt, how great their own loss in our situation was, that we were after all the ones who were supposed to be giving her life and failed.

When they stepped in, held our hands, they helped us realize we can breathe again and they helped us relearn how to do it. It's not been easy to get over the loss of our daughter, and in some ways there will always be a sense of loss, isn't that normal? We're talking about a life afterall. Parenthood, well, we don't need to tell you, it's not supposed to be easy. You're in it for life... it's just that sometimes you're in it not for the length of their life... but for the length of your life, even if they aren't there with you for the whole ride.