Monthly Archives: April 2012

The Infamous Question

24 Tuesday Apr 2012

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When the doctor finally lifted my bed rest orders, Chris and I decided I should try to get out of the house some; re-enter the world.  It is funny thing, as much as you can wish for the world to stop turning when going through such a challenging time, that is simply not what happens.  Life goes on but getting back to it is much easier said than done.  It is much like trying to jump onto a moving train.

My first outing was to a nail salon near my house to get a pedicure.  Everything was going fine until the lady tried to make small talk.  Her first question although seemingly innocent was,

Do you have children?

I froze; it was as if the question paralyzed me.  Of course, she assumed I didn’t hear or understand her so she asked me again. I still didn’t answer.

It was that moment that I realized I don’t know how to answer that question.  If I say yes and acknowledge Ansley as my daughter the way I would like to, the questions will continue, with boy or girl, followed by how old until finally I have to say she is dead.  I couldn’t even say her name without crying, so this was probably not the best option if I was going to try to hold it together while in public.  But, if I say no, then I feel incredibly guilty for not acknowledging her.

The third time she asked me, I said no.  It was in a tone of me yelling it at her but in the volume of a whisper.  She didn’t ask any more questions, and I didn’t wait until my toes were dry to leave.  I couldn’t get out of there soon enough.  The guilt from that one little word was almost more than I could bear.

I asked Chris how he would answer that question when he got home.  He was as dumbfound as I was.  Maybe it would be easier if there was a word.  When your husband dies, you become a widow. When your wife dies, you become widower.  When children loose parents they become orphans.  What about when parents loose children?

It has now been over a year and I still struggle with this question.  Sometimes I say yes, but often I say no.  I have been able to justify in my mind that when I say no, I am only speaking about living children.  Do you have rather than have you had.  I realize it is just semantics, but it allows me to sleep at night.

Searching for my Rainbow

19 Thursday Apr 2012

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I needed to get out of the office for a few minutes today, so I popped over to a cute little gift shop nearby.  I had no intention of buying anything.  Just a change of scenery.   As I looked at all the pretty little things, a picture frame caught my eye. It read, “Have Faith in Your Dreams, and Someday Your Rainbow will Come Smiling Through” ~ Cinderella.

Everyone loves a good Cinderella quote, but it is interesting how many things now have a different meaning.  It was about 8 months ago that I first heard the term Rainbow Baby.  I was at my support group, Rock Goodbye Angle.  I wasn’t 100% sure of what it meant, but I thought I had a pretty good idea. Of course, when I got home I Goggled it.  According to Urban Dictionary,

A “rainbow baby” is a baby that is born following a miscarriage, stillbirth or neonatal death. In the real world, a beautiful and bright rainbow follows a storm and gives hope of things getting better. The rainbow is more appreciated having just experienced the storm in comparison. The storm (pregnancy loss) has already happened and nothing can change that experience. Storm clouds might still be overhead as the families continue to cope with the loss, but something colorful and bright has emerged from the darkness and misery.

Ever since I learned that term, I have been looking for a rainbow…literally.  If the sun comes out following a storm I will go outside and look for a rainbow.  I am yet to see one.  I feel like when I do, it might just be a sign that things will be okay.

We still don’t know if I will be able to have another baby.  The risks might be too great.  We hope to have those answers soon.  So for today, maybe, just maybe the picture frame was put there just for me as my sign.  I may have to wait a little longer to see my rainbow, but I will have faith.

Oh The Things They Will Say…

18 Wednesday Apr 2012

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Upon getting home from the hospital, I was under strict orders. 

Order 1) bed rest

Order 2) very limited company

I was not to get worked up at all as it could cause a major setback. I was seeing the doctor every other day to make sure I was continuing to improve.  My doctor was very careful to keep me as calm as possible in her office.   As soon as I arrived, I was immediately put in a room and was often escorted out a back door as to not come face to face with a pregnant women or new baby.  

At home, her orders gave me the perfect excuse to not talk about what had happened.  It was like a license to crawl into my very own dark hole (aka my bed) and not come out until I was ready.  I was still in the shock and denial phase of my grief, but I was beginning to get a glimpse here and there of pain and/or anger. 

When I finally felt ready to talk or more accurately couldn’t hide any longer; I gradually began letting people back into my life. Many people offered condolences and tons of kind words, but to say I shocked at some of the things said would be a complete and utter understatement.  I appreciate how hard it is to know what to say. I loved hearing people use her name; it provided comfort that she would be remembered. Some of my favorite and most helpful comments were:

–          “That just sucks” – this one was said by someone I wouldn’t expect to use  the word sucks. So it was very meaningful.

–          The classic “I’m sorry” and “Your in my thoughts and prayers”

–          “I know what you are going through… No, I take that back, I don’t know what you are going through, I have not walked in your shoes, but I am sure it is harder than I could even imagine.”

–          And finally, Chris’ grandfather, who is battling cancer and I were both told in one sitting that we looked well, he leaned over and whispered “Don’t we wish.”

 I also want to share some of the things that were less helpful to me and explain why, because some of these statements are not very obvious while others are. In full disclosure, if you think you might have said one of these comments to Chris or me please don’t feel bad; I have come to realize that none of the comments were meant to be hurtful and people only commented because they care and/or wanted to learn about what had happened. 

–          “Your still young” – What does that have to do with anything?  It is okay that I lost my daughter because I am young?

–          “So…Is it like you are allergic to babies?” or “Can your body just not hold a pregnancy?”  –  Really!!! How about a simple What Happened?

–          “You can always have more children” – Well maybe or maybe not.  That is yet to be determined. And even if I can, a new baby won’t replace Ansley.

–          “You have your very own angel now” – I didn’t want and angel, I wanted a baby.  This one I had a particularly hard time with and it is hard to explain why.  It no longer bothers me the way it once did although still not my favorite comment.  In my mind, every time someone called Ansley an angel it made her less of a real person and more of an inanimate object.

–          “God has a plan” ­­–Gotta tell you, I really didn’t like this part of his plan.

–          “Maybe it was for the best” – FOR WHOM?

–          In reference to my delivery, “At least she was small” – A) tell that to my contractions and B) had she been bigger/ stronger, she would have had a much higher survival rate.

–          “Imagine how hard this would be if you had known her” – The most shocking part of this comment was that it was made by a pregnant women.  I was speechless. The relationship between a mother and her unborn child is intimate and real.

–          “Why are you waiting so long to try again, you aren’t getting any younger”- This one was said recently, as if I needed the reminder that I am getting older.  I will be 32 in a week and a half. I know how old I am.

Going Home

11 Wednesday Apr 2012

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Almost a week had past, most of which was a blur.  The nurse came into my room and told me that I was doing better than they had anticipated and I may get to go home a day or two early.  My platelet count had climbed by about 100,000, and although I was not 100%, I was well out of the woods.

This sounds like it would be great news!  After all, nobody wants to be in the hospital.  But, I immediately had mixed feelings about leaving.

Later that afternoon, it was official, I was going home.  I changed out of my hospital gown into normal clothes.  Chris and I began to pack up the room we had called home for the last week.  I was sent so many lovely flowers and cards.  About half way through packing up, I got very emotional.  Leaving was about to be a cruel reality.

I would not be leaving the hospital with a baby in my arms. I would not be arriving home to “It’s a Girl” balloons tied to the mailbox. All the plans we had made, now just memories of a happier time.

A tech arrived with the wheel chair to take me to the car.  As I sat down, my eyes fixed on the bassinet that Ansley spent her day in.  It was now empty. On the way out, I noticed the sad rain cloud on my door.  I deemed it was fitting for how I felt.  None should ever have to leave labor and delivery without a baby.  I was empty; arms and all.

As we got outside, I couldn’t help but notice what a beautiful day it was.  The cherry trees were in full bloom, the tulips danced in the cool spring breeze.  It would have been a great day to introduce Ansley to the world.

 

Jesus Loves Me

04 Wednesday Apr 2012

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After losing Ansley, I knew I wanted some spiritual guidance; some words of inspiration, some scriptures that would start me down a path of healing.  I thought about calling Father Scott.  He had married Chris and me.  I had known him just about all my life.  I knew he would say the right things, the things Chris and I needed to hear.   The only thing that prevented me from calling was that I would have to tell him what happened.  And, every time I tried to talk about what happened I couldn’t get words out past the tears.  I would open my mouth to begin to talk and all I would do is cry. 

Nurse Linda was back on duty and asked if I would like to talk to the hospital Chaplin.  I thought this would be best.  I thought I would get what I needed without having to talk about what happened.  I thought this was what I wanted.

A nice older gentleman entered the room.  He said he had heard about our loss and was very sorry.  So far so good.  He then went into a story about his recent loss, his wife had passed away.  He jumped from that story straight into about 5 other stories of tragedy and death.   Well this was not helping at all.  I was too emotionally drained to offer much sympathy for the stories he told.  I was lost in my own grief. 

He had a small teddy bear in his hand and after each story, he would push the teddy bears paw and it would sing “Jesus Loves Me”.  I get it; his message for me was the same for each person in each story he told.  Jesus Loves Me.  But, this was not what I was expecting; I didn’t want a sing-a-long.

Finally, he asks if we can pray together.  I think to myself, finally!  As we all bow our heads and we begin to pray he plays the teddy bear again. 

I don’t remember exactly what he said, that is until about mid-way through the prayer.  He says, “And lord, I pray that Chris and Jessica will be BETTER people than they have been.” Chris and I immediately look up at each other.  I think EXCUSE ME, you don’t know me, are you implying that we are bad people, that we in some way deserved this?  But he didn’t stop there he went on to say, that if, IF, we are better people and live by his word that MAYBE he will bless us and we will see Ansley again in heaven.  IF -MAYBE!!!!

By this point my tears have faded away, I am far too angry to cry.  I wanted to throw him out of my room.  I just lost my daughter and these are the words you choose to comfort me!?!  He wraps up his prayer, as he plays the teddy bear one last time and hands it to me.  Everything in me wanted to throw it across the room, but I didn’t. 

Before he left, he told me about an upcoming surgery he had and that I would be one of the last people he would council.  His days as hospital chaplain were coming to an end. THANK GOD for that, I thought. 

It was few months later when Chris and I were watching TV and a 1-800-flowers commercial came on.  The commercial showed an arrangement that featured a very similar looking teddy bear, before I could comment, Chris changed the channel.  We were thinking the same thing.  I don’t think I like teddy bears anymore, and the song, Jesus Loves Me, takes me immediately back to a dark place that is filled with anything but love.

Delivery Day

02 Monday Apr 2012

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The time had come to deliver Ansley.  My contractions were almost constant.  In an instant, my hospital room transformed into a delivery room.   On one of my final pushes, I realized Chris was no longer by my side.  I looked around the dimly lit room, my eyes focusing through the tears, and see him in the far corner of the room facing the wall.  Within seconds he fell to his knees overcome with grief and although it didn’t seem possible, my heart broke even more.

A few minutes later Ansley was born.  She was so small; much smaller than anyone anticipated.  After all, it was just a month earlier that she was measuring big.  She was about the size a baby should be at 22 weeks.  Apparently, HELLP syndrome had been manifesting in my body for a few weeks.   Intrauterine Growth restriction (IUGR) is yet another complication caused by HELLP Syndrome.  Had we been able to have the c-section in time, based on Ansley’s size, her survival rate would have been less than 1%.

I asked the doctor why she died.  It was likely the perfect storm.  She was tangled up in her umbilical cord, although my doctor didn’t think that had much to do with it.   There was also a true knot in her cord; this combined with having a hard time getting blood, nutrients and oxygen from me was likely the reason.  She wasn’t going to order an autopsy.  At the end of the day, HELLP Syndrome was the cause of death.  She said they would send my placenta off for testing; that would provide more helpful information than an autopsy.

By the time the nurse had cleaned Ansley up and handed her to us, the sun had come up.  We studied our daughter memorizing every detail.  She had my lips, my nose, and the same little fold in her ear as I have.  But, she had her daddy’s long torso, and her face was the same shape as his.  She was a perfect blend of both of us.

As we looked at our daughter, I managed to convince myself that she was breathing.  And for just a minute I thought they were wrong that she wasn’t dead.  Chris assured me she was not breathing, but then I heard it again.  As it turns out, what I was hearing was the inflatable wraps they put on your feet and legs.   I had heard the wraps inflate and deflate for the last several days, but between all my medicines, the lack of sleep and the pure desire to have my daughter live I had forgotten all about them.

The nurse returned with the smallest little outfit I had ever seen.  We dressed Ansley and laid her in the bassinet.  She had many visitors waiting to meet her.   My parents were already in the waiting room and Chris’ parents were on their way.  Later that afternoon his grandparents and my friend Maren stopped by to meet Ansley.

Ansley spent the day in my hospital room.  It would be the only time Chris and I would have to spend with our daughter.  The hardest part of the day came that evening- when we were told we had to say goodbye.   I held my daughter for what would be the last time.

Just when I thought I was done for the day, emotionally, physically and mentally exhausted.  I was presented with paperwork.  The paperwork recorded Chris and I as her parents, her birth name and date and decisions like what funeral home she would be taken to and if we wanted her buried or cremated.  Decisions nobody should have to make on their child’s “birth” day.