Little Sister

Baby Dragon is still alive and healthy. We are combating jaundice with frequent feedings. This is working and it’s also packing on the weight. She’s gaining an average of 2 ounces a day!

The frequent feedings have left E and I complete zombies, but it’s worth it. Plus we just got the go ahead at her 2-week well child checkup to relax the feeding schedule to on demand. If we’re lucky she’ll give us a solid 3 ½ hours between feeds.

It’s been just 2 weeks and already she is changing so much. Her face looks more like a baby than a newborn. Her belly is distended now. Her arms and legs are thickening with new creases showing up daily. A few of her features resemble her big brother’s but for the most part she is her very own person. Although I wished for this baby to look like A it is so much better for me that she’s uniquely herself.

The feeding schedule afforded me barely an hour between feeds which meant I could either sleep for an hour, eat something and shower or make a few phone calls before it was time to put her back on. While I love the closeness of nursing, I am only just now beginning to enjoy her like I had hoped. Now with a bit more time in between sessions I can kiss her, play with her; just plain stop and admire her. Except that is dangerous territory. Whenever I take some time to stop and wonder at this tiny, beautiful being, I well up. I’m still trying to grasp that she is our daughter, that she is ours to keep.

I cry at least every other day. Sometimes because I am so grateful for Dragon and so in love with her. Sometimes because I envision our future with this child and already I want to slow down time – I want her to stay tiny and curled up for a long time. Sometimes because I miss A even more now that I know how it’s supposed to go. Sometimes I can’t even discern what brings on the tears.

To be honest, with the traumatic birth, general anesthesia and then strict nursing schedule I haven’t had much time to process it all. I need some quiet time to process her birth, how it all went down. I need to process that she is mine and allow the maternal connection to really sink in. I need to re-assess A’s birth now that I can compare it to a “normal” delivery experience. I need to re-mourn our darling son because now I understand much better what he and what we missed out on – there is so much more to grieve.

Like I said earlier, they detected the umbilical cord around Dragon’s neck at our weekly BPP. It was actually wrapped twice around her neck. This was the impetus to induce right away.  Most of that Wednesday we just hung out in the labor/delivery room. I was admitted early in the morning and the Cervidil wasn’t inserted until 3pm. So we ate, listened to her heartbeat on the monitor and tooled around the internet trying to calm our nerves.

By 11pm I was having painful contractions that required me to focus my breathing. At 3am the Cervidil came out. I was 2cm (I can’t remember what percentage effaced). I had hoped to be further along and was on the brink of tears. The hospital staff assured me this was good progress given we started at high, tight and not even 1cm. Some women, they said, require a second round of Cervidil.

After a 2-hour break, wherein I was allowed to eat again, they started the pitocin drip. Throughout this ordeal I was constantly doubting my decision to force my body into labor. Every half hour the pitocin drip was turned up a bit. By 6am we called our doula and she arrived. I continued to breath through contractions and tried to rest in between.

Our midwife, who is awesome, allowed me to continue to eat throughout the day. We changed positions, walked the halls and sat on the birthing ball trying to help things progress. When I was checked mid-afternoon and found to be 4cm I again felt like giving up. I considered how much “easier” it would be to have a C-section. I felt envious of the anonymous women in the room next to me who had delivered her baby hours ago (you’d think they’d soundproof the walls of labor/delivery rooms better). I wanted to call the whole thing off. My confidence was non-existent. My conviction to continue laboring without pain medicine was waning – big time.

In early evening I was 6cm and we were at the full pitocin dosage. The midwife gave me the option. We could stop the pitocin and take a break. (This was very enticing because I had been laboring since 11pm the day before without hardly a wink of sleep.) But when we started back up we’d have to start at the lowest dosage and work our way up again. Or we could dial the pitocin down a couple notches and see how we progressed. As tempting as it was to pull the plug and have a Pit vacation, I knew I didn’t have the mental or emotional endurance to start from scratch.

The pit was dialed down and I kept working through each contraction. They were getting very intense but I had a good 2-minutes between contractions, which was just lovely (no seriously it was; I’m not being sarcastic). By 6pm the midwife, doula and nurse were prepping the room for delivery. Baby was coming within the hour they said.

I continued to change positions as suggested by the knowledgeable team and baby sank lower and lower. The external heart rate monitor remained on Dragon the entire time. I could feel her very low in my pelvis but did not yet have the urge to push. The midwife suggested I lay on my right side. I did. Baby Dragon fell off the monitor so they suggested I flip to my left side as baby obviously didn’t like this side. I flipped over and then felt lots of discomfort high up under my ribs. This was unusual because all of the pain and discomfort had been down low. I mentioned this out loud but the nurse was too busy trying to locate Dragon’s heartbeat again.

The midwife reached in to check if I was dilated fully and could start pushing. What she felt entering the birth canal was a tiny hand, not a baby head. In addition she could feel a portion of cord.  This is where things get frantic. Immediately she paged the attending doctor who came in and confirmed Dragon’s hand and cord were coming first. Now there are a handful more staff in the room palpating my belly trying to determine how baby is lying. They wheel in an ultrasound machine and throw an oxygen mask on me. I am still having intense contractions and trying to breath best I can but the scene is panic inducing.

Someone shouts out to prep an OR stat and all of a sudden the cords and monitors are whipped off me and they’re wheeling my bed down the hallway. E has to remain in the labor room – there is no time for him to get prepped and they’ll be knocking me out with general anesthesia because I did not have an epidural.

The anesthesiologist is in my face urging me to focus on her and only her. She’s asking me pertinent questions about past surgeries and my experience with anesthesia. Simultaneously there are a dozen people rushing around the OR - two people are wrapping my calves, one inserts the catheter, another drapes and swabs my belly, two separate people strap my arms down, a resident is holding an oxygen bag over my face. It is crazy.

The doctor tells me they’re going to push the anesthesia and that’s the last I remember. Next thing I know, I’m groggily waking up in the post-op recovery room. I feel like hell and am very confused. E is there holding a bundled baby and tells me it is our baby. That our daughter is here safe and sound. I can hardly keep my eyes open. With the assistance of the doula, E manipulates my breasts and gives our tiny Dragon her first feed. I can’t muster the strength to raise my arms. Shortly thereafter E leaves with the pediatric nurse to accompany Dragon for her first bath and examination. I am pushed to our maternity recovery room to get settled. E and Dragon rejoin me a little while later but I’m still very drowsy.

Fortunately, she was never in distress and was healthy upon delivery. E says they brought her to him approximately 15-minutes after I was hectically wheeled out of the room. He was able to stay with her from that point on.

Supposedly what happened is this. The umbilical cord was not particularly long and it was wrapped twice around her neck. As she descended the tension on the cord increased. To relieve the tension and save her own life, she twisted at the last minute into a transverse position. The midwife says in her entire life, she’s never seen that happen. I have to credit our little girl for that maneuver and the incredible hospital staff who got her out so quickly.

Like I said, we are home and trying to adjust to the lack of sleep. Dragon is thriving and we are over-the-moon in love with her. Honestly, I just can’t get enough of her.

I may fade and in and out of the blogosphere, but I am always here reading and abiding. Thank you for taking the time to read to the end of this post.

Birthday Recap

A’s first birthday was last week. Here are some reflections of A’s birthday and the last week of anniversaries. I ended up calling in to work the day before A’s birthday. This was the date last year that we found out he had died.  After being induced that night, A was born late the next morning. Again the flashbacks tormented me and I cried much of the day but it was actually therapeutic. I was relieved to have extra time and space to rock his snowsuit and urn; to sit in the nursery; to face all of the brutal reminders that I actively ignore each day in order to function. I was relieved to be able to fall apart again, even for a short while.

On his actual birthday we laid low and stayed in. E worked but came home for an early lunch. We were together when the clock struck A’s birth time. I spent more time journaling, crying, reading books to A (and Dragon) and rocking in the nursery sobbing. E did not have anything particular that he wanted or needed to do to commemorate the day. In all honesty, I think he was just focused on surviving it himself.

We had previously sent out memorial cards (made from a customizable birth announcement). On the front was his name, three photos and A’s birth stats. On the backside was a brief message from E and I asking that folks join us in remembering our son and to honor his life by performing an act of kindness in A’s name – even an anonymous one. We feel that this spreads the positive impact of his brief life and ensures his spirit lives on. I got much good feedback from our family and friends about the card and the sentiment. Our OB provider even asked if they could hang the card on the wall with all the other (living) birth announcements. I tearfully consented.

For our own act of kindness we are donating a bunch of household goods to a local immigrant assistance organization. I would still like to plant a tree for A. Something that turns brilliantly vibrant this time of year. The hurdle is deciding where to plant it. I don’t want to put in our yard because we will likely outgrow this house in the next few years and I want to be able to visit A’s tree for the rest of my life and have it accessible to his siblings and others for many years. Perhaps one of the local parks or historical sites. One friend even suggested that when we do plant the tree, E and I each write A a letter and bury them with the roots time-capsule-style. I like that.

Additionally, I have started to organize a little memorial for the house. Ever since we brought A’s ashes home he typically hangs out in the bassinet in our bedroom. Obviously we will have to put baby Dragon in the bassinet (assuming all goes well). Besides I have some lovely mementos that I’ve been meaning to display. I’m thinking either the mantle or perhaps a shelf in our room where I can hang the glass locket with his hair, a charm with his name, a photo or two of our sweet boy and of course, his urn.

A few days after A’s actual birthday I noticed a definite shift emotionally. Not that I wasn’t excited about this new pregnancy before, but it feels more tangible now, the excitement more palpable. I am all of a sudden inspired to start taking care of things in anticipation of baby Dragon’s arrival. Mixed in is the motivation to take care of this A memorial project.

It’s almost as if my anguish, dread and resistance leading up to his birthday was all-consuming and now that it is over, space and emotional resources have opened up. I don’t know but it is a nice surprise. A little brightness after a very dark previous month.

The evening of A’s birthday, E and I were on the couch watching the tube and decided it was time to hit the hay. He clicked off the TV and we embraced. He whispered, “We made it through the day.” I half-smiled and replied, “We made it through the year.” It’s still crazy to think it’s been a whole year.

I am still struggling to get back on my feet and Halloween is going to be another major setback. In all fairness, the lead up to A’s birthday was intensely emotional for weeks prior to the actual event. Given the weeks of building to the apex, I imagine it will take a little while to recover. I am trying to be patient with that. I am also holding onto how therapeutic it felt to grieve heavily again. I plan to continue to make time to sit with him, sit with my feelings and face my reality.

Crazy Lady

I recently read Elizabeth McCracken’s memoir, An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination.  It recounts her experience of losing her firstborn child to stillbirth and her subsequent pregnancy, which ended with a living baby. There are a couple things where my perspective differs from hers, but much of what she says rings true. Below is a quote from the memoir.

Here is a character from a gothic novel; the woman with the stillborn child. Her hair is matted and black. Ghosts nest in it. Her white nightgown is mottled with book. In her hands is an awful bundle: the corpse she cannot bear to put down. She sings lullabies to it, rocks it in her arms. She says in a pleasant but tremulous voice, "Would you like to see my baby? He’s such a nice little baby. Such a little, little baby. Shh; he’s sleeping."

In the immediate months after A was stillborn I often felt like this gothic novel character. At the time, the image that popped into my head was that of a turn of the century insane asylum patient. The disheveled woman standing alone in the corner, eyes focused on some invisible point, talking quietly to herself, rocking slightly back and forth. Then, unprovoked, she blurts out, falls to the ground, curled into a ball she’s screaming and sobbing, shaking with emotion, unintelligible words break through the wails. She is inconsolable. The staff tries to get her into restraints but she is not present in their world.

The physical, hormonal, emotional and mental need to nurture was near constant in those early months. I often found myself in the fully prepared nursery - clean sheets in the crib, diapers stacked at the changing table, tiny clothes hanging in the closet, home-made mobile quivering from the ceiling. I would hang over the side of the crib, stroke my hand across the flannel-sheeted mattress, thumb the ultra-soft security blanket and cry. I would rest my head directly on the changing pad and just sob. Most times I would grab the fuzzy, hooded snowsuit size 3 months and sit in the family heirloom rocker. I would cradle that piece of clothing as if it was my son. I’d position the hood so that it held the shape of his infant head, running my finger along the side of the hood as if his soft cheek were there. I’d tickle the toes hoping against hope that his strong little feet would materialize inside the fabric. I’d read books to him this way. Or sometimes I just stared down as enamored mother’s do imagining what he’d look like.

Because we did not find out A’s gender until delivery, we did not own a lot of baby clothes. What we did have was all newborn to 3-months size. When I sat down to rock him over the spring and realized that he’d definitely have outgrown the snowsuit I was distraught. It felt like the severing of one of the few connections I had with A. I had personally bought that snowsuit just a couple weeks before he was born. Just he and I out shopping, one of the few articles of baby clothing that wasn’t a gift. I picked it out myself. It was his snowsuit. I couldn’t just go out and pick out another bunting the next size-up. It wouldn’t be his. It wouldn’t be the same. I had to face that my boy was really gone. Accept that’d he would have grown so much by then that I cannot know what he would have looked like.

Surely if any of the neighbors ever saw me alone in the nursery rocking and talking to my phantom baby they’d think I’d lost my last marble.

Even now when I want to push the last remaining co-workers or relatives to look through A’s photos I feel like that gothic character, “Would you like to see my baby? He’s such a nice little baby. Such a little, little baby.” Some of these people probably think it’s lunacy to have pictures of your dead baby and unconscionable to urge others to look.

Incompetence Reigns

Earlier this week I had to maneuver our car out of a tricky parallel parking spot that I shimmied into the day before. It took many minutes. I had the radio off, all windows down and was sweating from concentration and nervousness. I finally managed to free the car from the parking space. Due to the angle of escape, I pulled up closely next to the car in front of me and went to straighten myself out so that I could drive away when SCCRRRRAPE!

I wanted to fling myself from the car and surrender. I give up. I'm done trying. I quit life. I wanted to just run away, car running, door wide open; flee.

My tires were still cocked and I had accidentally caught the other car. It appears as though the damage is minor and there is only a small batch of scratches on my vehicle but I was still distraught. It took all my will power not to burst into tears right then and there. After I re-parked, wrote a note, left it on the other car and was safely inside my home, I sobbed.

I feel like such a failure. I’ve been driving for over a decade and I can't even park my own damn car on the same damn street I've been parking it on for over 2 years. WTF is wrong with me.

I cannot manage daily tasks and stressors anymore (Exhibit A the pile of dirty, stinking - literally - dishes in my sink). As soon as I heard the awful sound of my car scraping against the other my first thought was, Call E! Except he was out of town at high-pressure business meetings. Besides the poor bloke takes on enough of my crap. His once independent, capable wife now relies on him for practically everything. I just keep heaping all of my own stress, anxiety and baggage on top of his shoulders, which are already hunched with the weight of his own grief and strife.

I’m like an invalid who relies on E to carry me through each day, deferring to him for all decisions (even the most minor), expecting him to help maintain the last shred of my self-esteem, provide me with companionship and entertainment and so much more.

It’s been five days since the accident and I haven’t heard from the folks who own the other car. They have since driven the car. I’ve seen it parked on the other side of the street. This means they must have got my note. I wish they’d call so I could get some resolution. I’m willing to pay for the damage. But this state of pending only adds to my anxiety.

This stupid, avoidable accident is just another example of how incompetent I am these days.  I just suck at life lately. I feel so incapacitated. How long is this going to last? When will I be able to function well again? Will I ever feel like myself?

Cloudy with a Chance of Tears

The weather in Griefland lately has been mostly gray skies.  I don’t want to do anything. I prefer to curl up on the couch and bide my time until it’s time for bed. This is similar to the strategy I used in the early weeks after A died. Just get through this day.

Isolation is most appealing to me and I prefer to hide out in my house than spend time with anyone other than my husband. Poor guy, he tries to encourage me to at least come outside and enjoy the summer sunshine. But I just want to burrow inside.

And the crying. I am so weepy lately. Any little thing sets it off, but mostly it is the onslaught of thoughts and memories of A. For some reason, my brain keeps replaying the events surrounding A’s birth over and over and over again.

This weather pattern has been holding steady over Griefland for weeks now. What does it mean? Am I depressed? Is this normal grieving? Should I do something?

I attended support group a week or two ago for the first time in months. It wasn’t very helpful to me because there was a couple present who had just experienced a first trimester loss days earlier. All of the focus was on them – rightfully so. But I left feeling unfulfilled and a little disappointed that group wasn’t the magic pill to alleviate my symptoms.

I’ve also started back up regular individual counseling sessions. We’ll see how that goes.

In the meantime, I try not to judge my actions. I try to do what’s best for me, but is hibernating in mid-summer really best?

Lost

"We lost the baby."

Those were my exact words. That's how I announced the news the very first time, on the phone with my parents from the hospital. That’s how I informed various friends.  In the beginning, the word “lost” was much easier to say than "died" or "dead." But in a more literal sense we really did lose A. I did everything in my control to “keep” him; nourished myself with healthy food, drank quarts of water, rested, went to every single prenatal appointment, avoided extreme heat, unpasteurized cheeses and loads of other risks.

For nearly 10 months my body, mind, hormones and emotions had all been anticipating the arrival of our baby. We made adjustments to our life, stocked the house, made arrangements. Every aspect of my life was devoted to preparing to bring A home. So when we didn't bring him home I felt lost.

Most obviously, my body expected a baby and my breasts filled to bursting-levels with milk; hormones coursed through me compelling me to nurture. I've read about bereaved parents sleeping with their baby's stuffed animal or blanket. Personally, I felt compelled to rock A’s fleece snowsuit (and did so often). Surely emotions play a role, but I'm convinced on a more atavisitc level our bodies and brains push us toward cuddling and coddling. In fact, it’s been documented that chimpanzees, baboons and other primates will carry their dead infants for days, up to months. I can relate to that bond. I can understand because every ounce of my being wanted to stay with my son. Walking away from A was counter to eons of evolution it went against nature herself. Weeks after A had died, the thought occurred to me, “We could have snuck him out in our duffle bag! Then at least we’d have had a little more time together.” Intellectually I knew his deteriorating body would upset me, but that thought of taking him home did not generate from the intellectual part of my brain. It was more biological, instinctual.

More bizarrely, there have been a few instances where I genuinely felt the urge to go look for A. I felt that I needed to find him. It wasn't logical. It wasn't even conscious. But the message was clear; he should be here with me. In the middle of breakdowns I would sometimes sob, "Where is he?"

After so much anticipation and preparation it's natural that I'd feel lost without my baby. And it continues, months later just not as intensely.

Although he is lost, I feel lost without him.

Note: I considered linking to an image or video of a mother chimp carrying her baby’s corpse. But it was too disturbing. If you’re interested in learning more about how primates mourn, a simple Google search ought to do it.

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Happy first Easter Sweet Boy! And Happy first Dyngus Day tomorrow My Little Poopka!

I wrote the above entry earlier in the week to post today. Then this morning, I started my day, not even out of bed yet, bawling. I have not stopped crying all day. Is it the Easter holiday? Is it the many family gatherings? Is it the 6-month anniversary approaching?

It does not matter which combination of triggers keeps my tear ducts working overtime. The fact is I am especially sad and I miss my son extra today. I have not had a day like this since early on. I don’t have much more to say about it, but wanted to share openly how melancholy I am right now.

Homecoming

My mother-in-law, bless her soul, took care of all the arrangements with the funeral home and cremation. She graciously kept A’s urn at her house, safely and lovingly watching over him until we were ready to bring home. It’s been over 4 months since A died and was born. Just this past week we brought his ashes home.

Cupping the tiny urn in the palm of my hand I gave A a tour of his home. The home we joyfully prepared for him.

This is your front porch. Remember how we used to sit in the summer sunshine out here? This is your living room. You surely would have loved snuggling up on our huge couch. This is a spider plant – it doesn’t have any spiders in it; it just looks like a spider. This is a basil plant – can you smell it? This is your dining room. You’ll recall all the delicious memories we had in here! This is Mommy & Daddy’s room. You can come in anytime. We’re always here for you. This is the bathroom where we were going to have such fun at bath time. This is your room. Mommy & Daddy picked out everything here special for you. These are your books and your toys. Whenever you want a story, just ask, we’ll always read to you. This is the kitchen, Daddy’s making dinner right now. Do you smell that? Those are onions! And this is your backyard. In the spring, Mommy will teach you all the names of the different flowers. Daddy will grill up snacks during the summer. And we can all run and play in the yard.

After the tour, we returned to the nursery and I rocked my little boy’s ashes as if it were really him. “You know Love, this is the same chair that your grandma rocked me and your Uncle in when we were babies. And before that, your Papa sat in it when he visited his grandmother’s house. This rocker belonged to your great-great-grandmother. And your dresser is special too. That was Daddy’s dresser when he was a baby. Before that it was your great-aunt’s when she was little. It belonged to your great-grandparents. And now it’s yours my son.”

Finally, as we prepared for bed, E said, “Should we put him in his bassinet tonight?” I replied, “Of course. That’s where he belongs. Snuggled in, right next to our bed.” So I tucked A’s little urn in, wrapped in a flannel sheet and fluffy Sherpa blanket. Bending down to kiss him goodnight.

It was an intensely emotional day. I am so very happy to have A at home with us. We still haven’t decided if we’ll keep his ashes forever or if we’ll spread them somewhere special. But as I’ve learned during my tenure in Griefland, do not rush decisions. With time, we’ll know what the best choice is for us. Until then I am looking forward to more rocking, chatting and storybooks with my little guy. Welcome sweet boy.