Down Came the Rain

Saturday, May 5, 2012 started quite normally. Brian woke up early, as he usually does, and I slept in. He came to wake me at 11 so I could have something to eat before our 3D ultrasound appointment at noon. I got dressed, did my makeup, fixed my hair, and we headed out. I felt just fine, maybe a little less ravenously hungry than I usually am in the morning, but fine. We stopped at Panera for a quick breakfast, and headed over to Bella Angel Imaging in Maple Grove. We had gone there for several 3D ultrasounds when I was pregnant with Max, and we loved it. We even brought Nana to see one, and she was amazed. My friend Jessie and her daughter Raegan joined us, too. As we filled out our registration form, we excitedly discussed how we were hoping to find out FOR SURE gender, as my last ultrasound had suspected girl, but we wanted absolute proof. I hopped up on the comfy bed in the viewing room, and Brenda scanned my tummy. There she was, my beautiful baby girl. We looked and did indeed see proof positive that she was a Girl. Jessie and Brian chatted back and forth, but something troubled me. She wasn't moving. I whispered to Brenda, "Can you see if you see her heartbeat? She's not moving..." Brenda had me move from side to side, empty my bladder, change positions...but nothing changed. Our baby wasn't moving. Everyone tried to stay positive, but Brenda said calmly, "I think you should get this checked out. I hope it's nothing, I hope baby is just sleeping, but just in case, have a doctor look at it." Brenda makes it very clear that she is NOT medical, and we knew that, so we appreciated her advice to go to the hospital. 


The ride to Maple Grove hospital seemed endless, but we finally arrived around 1 pm and were checked into an exam room. When the doctor came in, he tried to remain positive, too. He asked me a series of questions: Was I in pain? No. Was I bleeding or leaking fluid? No. Did I have any physical symptoms? No. When was my last ultrasound? April 16. Was everything normal then? Yes. When was my last doctor's visit with a heartbeat check? April 24. Was the heartbeat audible then? Yes. He said everything sounded fine, but they'd do an ultrasound just to check. I was wheeled down to the ultrasound room, and the tech was very pleasant...at first. I have had dozens of ultrasounds in my lifetime, so I know what I'm seeing on the screen. But today, I wished I could un-know. She scanned my abdomen, and measured my cervix, my uterus, a bunch of benchmarks that made no difference to us. But baby wasn't moving. She used the Doppler setting to check blood flow in the placenta. Barely even color, much less how much color there should be. She checked the blood flow in the umbilical cord. Even less. She checked the heartbeat in a visual form, not audible, but I knew what the lines meant. She measured baby's head, abdomen, legs, etc. She looked at the heart. It was still. A few tears rolled down the side of my face that was away from Brian. The tech's face was tight and somber. She told us that she wasn't allowed to share what she was seeing, that we'd have to wait for the doctor. I've heard that at the beginning of an ultrasound, but techs are always eager to share good news and reassure you. This tech was silent. She wheeled me back to the exam room, and carefully worded her comments. She didn't say, "Have a good day," but instead, "...take care, okay?" I knew it was bad. As soon as the door closed, I started crying. Brian asked what was wrong, and I said, "This is not good. It's not good news. She's gone." He started to tear up as well. We waited endless minutes until the radiologist's report came back and the doctor walked in. (at this time it was about 3 pm) He sat down and put his hand on mine. "Well...this ultrasound showed...pretty much what the other ultrasound showed..." "She's gone?" I asked, "Yes, the baby is gone. I'm so sorry." I started crying again. He went on to explain that he would call the on-call doctor from my clinic upstairs and have her come down to talk about my options. I tried to listen and take in what he was saying, but it still seemed surreal. That would be the first of many times that word would come to mind over the next few days. The ER doctor left, and we made calls to our family and friends to let them know what had happened. It was so hard to say the words out loud. I told Brian that saying we "lost" the baby seemed so stupid. We didn't misplace her. She isn't a set of car keys. We won't somehow find her again. She was taken from us. Even though we knew God was the Taker, and He had every right to do so, it seemed so cold and cruel in that moment.


Dr. Harris came down and sat with me. She, too, tried to speak gently and be empathetic. She explained that the normal option of a D&C procedure wasn't an option because of how far along I was (16 weeks), if I wanted to go that route, it would be a D&E procedure, which they didn't do at this hospital or anywhere nearby, but there was a clinic I could go to and make an appointment, but they also couldn't guarantee that the baby would be removed...all in one piece. More tears. No, I replied, I didn't want to wait, and I didn't want my baby in pieces. I couldn't bear the thought of going home and waiting any more. She explained that, in that case, the best option was to induce labor with a drug called Cytotec, which is inserted in the cervix in pill form. I explained to her that my first pregnancy's labor had ended disastrously with an emergency c-section because my cervix didn't dilate. She replied that Cytotec works differently than Pitocin (what I had been given with that labor), and we have every reason to think it WILL work this time. She said it could take 12-24 hours, and I would be admitted to the hospital and monitored. That seemed like such a long time, but it did seem like the safest option, so we agreed. I got an IV and was wheeled upstairs to Labor & Delivery.


I delivered Max at this same hospital. I had walked these floors before. We had happy memories, which were fading by the second. It was about 4 when I was wheeled into a room at the very end of the hall, away from all of the new mothers with their healthy babies. I felt resentful, but at the same time, I didn't want to hear a new baby's cries right now, either, so I understood. Brian wiped away tears. I asked him what he was thinking. "We're not supposed to be here yet...we're not supposed to be here until October..." I know. They had removed all of the normal delivery items from the room, which was thoughtful.  Our nurse, Kelly, came in and introduced herself. She told us both how sorry she was for our loss, and I could tell she meant it. She held my hand, and she had tears in her eyes as she talked to me. She walked me through the process, and said that we were going to get through it together, that she would be here for me. I was allowed to have an epidural if I wanted, or other pain medications. Ironically I was the only patient in L&D that day, despite a thunderstorm and a full moon. Dr. Harris came in and said they decided they'd let me eat dinner, which was a relief as I hadn't eaten all day. She also sat with us and explained that we had options to test the baby after she arrived, to see if we could get any answers as to why this happened. She explained that we could have chromosome testing done, which just involved a small tissue sample from baby's thigh, and a sample from the placenta. We could also opt for an autopsy, but she warned us that it's very hard to find things like heart defects in a heart that's smaller than your pinky nail. We were told we didn't need to make any decisions that moment, we could think it over. They said they'd give us some time to settle in and eat, and then they'd place the Cytotec. A tech came in and collected what seemed like 100 vials of blood, which was tricky as I was dehydrated from not drinking all day.


My mom called then, and shared with me a thought that had just come to her. She said she was standing in the kitchen, when she realized, that our baby was with Nana in heaven. Nana had been the first to hold Max, and now was the first to hold this baby, too. She had always insisted that babies be brought DIRECTLY to her upon entering any party or function, and would act offended if ANYONE DARED hold a baby before SHE did :) My mom said she could picture Nana in heaven, smug as a bug, smiling and holding my baby. More tears, but this time tears of comfort.


I thoroughly enjoyed my dinner, and my aunt and cousin came to visit me, which was a welcome distraction. Brian hadn't wanted to leave me, but with them there, he felt comfortable running home to collect our phone chargers and let the dog out. At about 7, my visitors stepped out while Kelly placed the Cytotec tablets in my cervix. She strapped on a contraction monitor, and advised me not to get up for an hour and a half or so, and let her know if my pain or pressure changed. They came back in, and my aunt gave me updates on my contractions from the monitor. I felt cramping, but nothing horrible. My aunt and cousin left around 8, and Kelly came in and sat with me. She asked if we had discussed what we'd like to do with the baby's remains. We talked about a few options, and she said that one was to have the hospital cremate the remains, and then have the ashes sprinkled at a place called Babyland in Minneapolis, where premature babies and infants are buried. I cried, and something about that option just felt right. A place just for babies. Hmmn.


The cramping gradually increased, and I became more uncomfortable. The pain wasn't like menstrual cramps - this was much much lower. Kelly explained that it was because, unlike a full-term labor, my uterus was much lower, which made sense. Around 11, Kelly had to depart, and a new nurse named Dana came in and introduced herself. I told her that the pain was increasing, and she asked if I wanted an epidural. I didn't feel THAT bad yet, so I opted for a dose of Fentanyl, which I had had before, and she said that should help with the pain but moreso relax me, which sounded lovely. She gave me 50 cc's of Fentanyl and said I could have 50 more if I wanted, but we'd start with that. It did relax me. I felt drowsy and calm. But I still felt pain. I asked for the other 50 cc's, and that didn't touch the pain, either. I counted contractions every minute and a half, that lasted 40 seconds each. Dana checked me, and said she could feel the baby's head, but my cervix was still closed. Everything had dropped down, though.


By midnight, the pain was intense. It felt like incredible pressure, but also stabbing, sharp pain. Dana asked again if I wanted an epidural. She sat with me and said I didn't need to feel this pain if I didn't want to, that it was perfectly understandable. I knew what she meant...it's one thing to go through immense pain with the goal of a healthy baby at the end. It's another to go through it all, knowing that you're going home with empty arms. I agreed that an epidural would be a good idea. She said she would call the anesthesiologist, but I would need to have a bolus of IV fluids before the epidural could be placed. She connected the IV, and I waited. I wasn't watching the IV, and it turned out my hand was turned funny and it wasn't flowing, so that took more time. I went back and forth to the bathroom. I swayed, rocked, leaned, and concentrated on my breath. A thunderstorm raged outside, and it seemed fitting. I had wanted to let Brian get some sleep, but eventually he woke up and I filled him in on what was going on. Dana came in and said they wanted to take more blood to do a test to ensure I was clotting properly, so I didn't bleed out when the epidural was placed. It was now about 1:15 am. I was in worse pain than ever. About 2:00 the lab tech came in to take the blood sample for the clotting test. At 2:30 Dana said that because of the delay, Dr. Harris had agreed to allow me another 100 cc's of Fentanyl, to give me a break. Again, it relaxed me, but the pain was the same. I cried for the first time about the pain itself. I sobbed as Brian rubbed my shoulders. "It's...Not...Fair...I shouldn't have this much pain and no baby...it's not fair...no one should have to go through this...I want it to be over..." Brian did his best to keep me calm. Dana checked me again, no dilation.


At 2:45 I needed to use the bathroom, yet again. As I was sitting there, I felt a gush. I tried to control it, thinking, I cannot bear to deliver this baby into a toilet. I winced and looked down, but thankfully, no baby. I told Brian to call Dana and tell her my water broke. I waddled back to the bed. Dana checked me again, and said I was maybe at a 2-4 now. She asked if I still wanted the epidural, since it could be soon now. I was shaking in pain. The anesthesiologist was right outside. I knew it could be any minute, but it could be hours. I had him come in. I sat on the bed with my legs hanging down, Dana positioned herself in front of me. I've had great anesthesiologists. I love them. This one was a turd. He decided, despite my telling him that I had had an epidural and 2 spinal blocks before, and I was sobbing and shaking, that now would be a good time to give me a history lesson on epidurals. I felt another gush. I looked down and saw blood. Dana assured me that was ok. I told her that I suddenly didn't feel any pain anymore. She said it may just be a momentary relief since the pressure from the fluid was gone, but I waited, and it didn't return. Cautiously, I laid back in bed, felt the urge to bear down, and in one push, baby was out.


I. LOST. IT. I literally cried hysterically, like I have never cried before. I couldn't breathe. I didn't know what to do or say. Dana spoke into her little walkie-talkie, "Vanessa is Delivered." The words stung, they hung in the air. She covered baby with the pad underneath me, and I tried to explain why I was hysterically crying. It was overwhelming. To go from thinking you were getting an epidural, to delivered, in 2 minutes...I didn't prepare myself. I thought I had more time. It caught me completely off guard. I asked Brian to wait behind the curtain for a moment. I've known women who have had miscarriages and delivered babies, I've seen pictures of the babies, I thought I was prepared. But now, in this moment, faced with my own baby, I froze. I didn't know what to do. Dr. Harris came in and Dana cut the tiny umbilical cord. Dr. Harris pulled gently on the umbilical cord, and the entire placenta came out, intact, in one push. She had cautioned me that sometimes placentas at this stage are troublesome, and if it didn't come out, I would need to have it surgically removed. I was relieved that it came out easily. She assured me that there was no indication in the baby or the placenta as to why this happened - nothing appeared wrong.


Dana asked if I wanted to see the baby. I said yes, but asked her to give me a minute. She assured me I had all the time I needed, there was no rush. I asked her what the baby looked like, to prepare me. She said she looked fine, she hadn't suffered any trauma. She said she had perfect little features, but warned me that all babies at this stage look slightly alien-like, with larger heads. She wrapped the baby in a blanket and handed her to me. I looked at her and somehow found extra tears to add to my hysterical crying. My baby. My sweet little girl. This isn't supposed to be. You aren't supposed to be out here. You belong inside me. Her skin hadn't formed yet, so she was red, like blood. She was purely blood-infused tissue with no firm skin covering. But she was beautiful. Her eyes were closed, with tiny eyelids. Her nose, lips, ears, arms, legs...even fingers as thin as threads, tiny feet with even tinier toes. I told Brian he could come and see her if he wanted to. He had already been crying, but, like me, found more tears when he saw our little girl. Dana and Dr. Harris left us for a few minutes, and we cried together, and prayed for the Lord to watch over our precious daughter. We told her how much we loved her. I held her close to me and rocked her back and forth. It felt impossible to infuse a lifetime of love into her in that moment, but heaven help me, I tried. I knew I was holding only a body, only a shell without her tiny spirit. But it was all I had. I never got to look into her eyes, I never heard her breathe or saw her turn to the sound of my voice. I never got to interact with her. I just prayed that somehow, from heaven, she could look down and see this moment, and see how much her mommy loved her and missed her. My heart ached for her to move, to smile, to breathe, to do something. Just a moment. Just to know she heard me. I handed her back to Dana. She asked if we wanted to keep her in the room, but I said no. It was too painful to look at her, knowing she wasn't really there, and she wasn't coming home with us.


Brian and I tried in vain to sleep. The beds were uncomfortable, and we were both too distraught. As morning came, I was allowed to eat breakfast, and we were asked to make a decision on what we would like to do with the baby's remains. We discussed it and decided that the option of having her ashes sprinkled in Babyland seemed right for us. Anything else would've involved a funeral home having to take custody of her remains, for which they would charge an exorbitant amount, and it would be dragged out even further with paperwork from the hospital and the funeral home and then a service and a burial, and we were just emotionally exhausted. We had prayed over our baby, we knew her soul was in heaven, and that was enough. A sacred space for babies taken to heaven seemed special to us, it felt right. I don't normally like the idea of cremation, but for a body that came from nothing, and didn't complete its journey into the world, returning it to the earth in ashes seemed appropriate. Beauty from the Ashes. We named our baby girl Grace.


We were given a beautiful box made from recycled paper and pressed flowers, and inside was a tiny baby hat, our baby's footprints in plaster, and a necklace. There is a group of ladies that makes hats for all of the babies born in the hospital. We received one when Max was born, and it meant a lot to receive one for Grace. The necklace, she explained, was the outline of a heart, for me to wear. The inner heart portion was put on Grace. They took a picture of her with her tiny hand resting on the heart. Her tiny footprints were in a plaster oval, surrounded with lace, aside a little keepsake birth certificate with her birth information. She weighed 26 grams (.9 ounces) and was 8 inches long. The morning nurse, Ginny, said that the nurses did take some pictures of Grace. She encouraged us to keep them, even if we never looked at them, just to know we had them. We agreed, but have not seen them yet. Ginny cried with us, too, and said she had lost a baby herself so she knew what it was like. She got our paperwork ready and we prepared to go home.


I opted to walk out, as opposed to a wheelchair. She asked me which way I'd like to go. I said I didn't care. She said quietly, "Well...there's less chance of seeing babies...this way..." I told her it was alright, I didn't mind. Healthy babies are what's supposed to happen. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. God bless them and their healthy babies. I was jealous, but I was trying not to be bitter. I'd have to see babies eventually. 


We arrived home, and Brian received a few calls. I heard him start to cry as he re-told the story and answered questions. He came upstairs sobbing. We had both taken turns at that. We were both beyond over-tired, drained, and emotionally and physically exhausted. We talked for a few minutes, and then collapsed into sleep.


I've told everyone I'm taking this moment by moment. Emotions come in waves. I'll be fine, then sobbing, then back to ok again. I'm trying to just let myself feel what I feel, let it wash over me, and release it. There are dark moments when this seems insurmountable, like life will never be OK again. But I know it will. I came home and walked into a house full of love, full of life. I have a full life. I have children, and a job. We have plans for the future, things to look forward to. Someone once told me, when you go through a trial, think back on all you've been through, and think, out of all that, is this the one thing that is going to Break you? Is this the mountain you're going to die on? The answer is always No. I have children who need me. I need to be here for them. Heaven is taking care of Grace. The only person who could take care of her better than we could, is God. And He is.