I had a baby 15 days ago. I can say that, I know it's true. But sometimes, it really feels like a dream. Probably because I spent most of my pregnancy waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. After eight years and two miscarriages, I really thought it would never happen for me. So pretty much every time I went to the doctor, I honestly expected the doctor wouldn't be able to find a heartbeat. It surprised me every time I heard it. Even once my baby got so big that I could watch him moving through my clothes, I still didn't really believe that I was going to get to have a baby.
But about two weeks before Matthew was born, it started to feel real. The house was full of baby stuff. We put together a crib and a stroller and a car seat. I washed load after load of baby sheets and towels and clothes. We bought diapers and wipes and a fancy bag to carry them in. We had a bag packed with one outfit for me, and five outfit options for our little man. I saw my doctor and had ultrasounds and everything was proceeding on schedule. I really started to believe that I was finally going to be a mom.
So when that shoe finally dropped, I was so unprepared. When the Doppler on my belly didn't find the heartbeat, I couldn't breathe. When the ultrasound confirmed that my baby was no longer alive, I wanted to die, too. I felt like a part of my soul had been ripped away. I was already in labor, so I was allowed to progress toward my eventual delivery. I labored for about nine hours, pushed for 20 minutes. I felt the same elation and euphoria that every woman feels once their baby is delivered for about a second, and then the soul-crushing reality sank in. Some part of me still hoped that there had been a mistake, that I would get to hear that beautiful first cry, but it never came. My son was dead.
I brought my infant son home in a four inch square box. How is that fair? My son is dead, and Kim Kardashian gets to perpetuate the next generation of exploited Hollywood children. How is that fair? Drug addicts and child abusers get to have healthy children, and I don't. How is that fair?
The answer is that it isn't fair. Because life isn't fair. We are told that all the time, but we always forget. Life isn't fair. Bad things happen to good people. Babies die. And we have no control over that. The only thing we can control is how we let these things affect us moving forward.
My son never took a breath on this earth, but every single pew in the church was occupied at his memorial. He was loved by so many, even though only a handful of people ever got to see him. And that love, along with the prayers and well-wishes that accompanied it, is what I can carry forward. Being angry or bitter won't bring my precious Matthew back. Nothing will. And holding on to anger or bitterness will only make me feel worse in the long run. So I will honor the memory of my son by waking up every morning. I will allow joy into my heart. I will laugh when I feel like it, and cry when I feel like it, and I won't feel guilty about either one. I will miss my son with every fiber of my being, but I will keep moving. And one sweet day, I will see my beautiful boy again. And he will be proud of the life I've lived.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Primitive forces
I think anyone that's ever been through childbirth can tell you that it has a very distinct smell. It's a primal smell. Of blood and earth and things that are older than recorded memory. And so it's fitting, somehow, that it is the only smell I will ever associate with my son, Matthew.
Matthew was stillborn on March 26, 2013. We knew for about nine hours before his actual birth that he was never going to take a breath. I will never know his favorite color. I will never know if he prefers bacon and eggs or pancakes for breakfast. I will never change his diapers or hold his chubby baby fingers when he takes his first steps. I will not choke back tears while I walk him in to his first day of kindergarten. I won't see his face flush with embarrassment when I insist on taking a million pictures of him with his date to prom, or excitement and pride when he walks across the stage to accept his diploma. I won't wear beige and cry through his wedding, or hold his first child in my arms.
So I can't feel sad about losing these things, because I never had them to begin with. What I feel is so much more primal. It is a grief that has no words. An all-encompassing, raw wound that stretches across every inch of my body.
Matthew never smelled like a baby - like powder or shampoo or lotion. He smelled primitive, like blood and earth, like the sweat and tears that poured from my body when I brought him into the world. His perfect cheeks were cool under my lips when I kissed him, and his long, nimble fingers - so much like his father's - curled so neatly around mine, even if there was no grip behind the motion. The nurses cleaned him up as much as possible, but his skin and hair were still stained and bore that primal scent.
I held my son for several hours before surrendering him to the hospital to prepare him for a post-mortem examination. He will be released tomorrow for cremation, and then we will bring him home to Arkansas to lay him to rest. I will never hold my precious Matthew in my arms again. I will only hold him in my memory. And in my mind, in my heart - these primitive forces of undying love and unyielding grief will stay with me forever.
Matthew was stillborn on March 26, 2013. We knew for about nine hours before his actual birth that he was never going to take a breath. I will never know his favorite color. I will never know if he prefers bacon and eggs or pancakes for breakfast. I will never change his diapers or hold his chubby baby fingers when he takes his first steps. I will not choke back tears while I walk him in to his first day of kindergarten. I won't see his face flush with embarrassment when I insist on taking a million pictures of him with his date to prom, or excitement and pride when he walks across the stage to accept his diploma. I won't wear beige and cry through his wedding, or hold his first child in my arms.
So I can't feel sad about losing these things, because I never had them to begin with. What I feel is so much more primal. It is a grief that has no words. An all-encompassing, raw wound that stretches across every inch of my body.
Matthew never smelled like a baby - like powder or shampoo or lotion. He smelled primitive, like blood and earth, like the sweat and tears that poured from my body when I brought him into the world. His perfect cheeks were cool under my lips when I kissed him, and his long, nimble fingers - so much like his father's - curled so neatly around mine, even if there was no grip behind the motion. The nurses cleaned him up as much as possible, but his skin and hair were still stained and bore that primal scent.
I held my son for several hours before surrendering him to the hospital to prepare him for a post-mortem examination. He will be released tomorrow for cremation, and then we will bring him home to Arkansas to lay him to rest. I will never hold my precious Matthew in my arms again. I will only hold him in my memory. And in my mind, in my heart - these primitive forces of undying love and unyielding grief will stay with me forever.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Nothing funny in this one, folks. Sorry.
So I'm not ignoring this blog. I'm really not. The problem is that I have this amazing new job that I adore. It's not taking up all my time or anything - hell, I work 12 hour shifts, so I have four days off a week. I have lots of free time.
I have to let you in on a little secret: people who work in hospitals are terrible, terrible people. Not really. It's just that with the work we do, we have to make jokes about it. We have to complain about patients who refuse to die and make fun of people who have really crazy illnesses or injuries. We have to do this because our work environment is kind of horrible.
It's almost worse since I work in a pediatric hospital. Which means I work with sick children. So when we complain about train wreck patients who are almost certainly going to die, we are talking about someone's child. When we make jokes about medical conditions and the horrible lives our patients are going to have if they ever leave, we are cracking jokes about how these people are going to live for the rest of their lives.
But the thing is we have to be like that. Because in the last three weeks, nine of my patients have died. Which means nine children died. I was there for three of the deaths. One was a rather peaceful affair - the parents decided to withdraw support, so they were able to gather all of their family together, and the little girl died in her mother's arms. Quiet and beautiful and heart-wrenching. One was a horrendous, messy affair - we worked like fiends, trying to save this kid. But nothing worked. And when we all straggled out of that room, covered in sweat and blood, the only sound from the room was the low, anguished moaning of the mother, holding her child for the last time. The last was the strangest of all - the little boy looked at his mother and his nurse, who were chatting in the corner, and said "It's time for me to go with the angels. I love you all very much." And then he just... died.
So we have to make jokes. We have to say things that sound horrible and heartless to others, because if we didn't, we would all lose our minds. It is our job to be caring and compassionate, yet for our sanity we have to maintain a level of detachment from our patients that seems inhuman sometimes. But every second we spend with these kids, they wiggle their way beneath our armor. We empathize with them, with their families. And when the unthinkable happens, we grieve and mourn alongside them. Only we can't show it. We have to put on a professional face and move on to the next child, the next family, the next heartbreak.
I have to let you in on a little secret: people who work in hospitals are terrible, terrible people. Not really. It's just that with the work we do, we have to make jokes about it. We have to complain about patients who refuse to die and make fun of people who have really crazy illnesses or injuries. We have to do this because our work environment is kind of horrible.
It's almost worse since I work in a pediatric hospital. Which means I work with sick children. So when we complain about train wreck patients who are almost certainly going to die, we are talking about someone's child. When we make jokes about medical conditions and the horrible lives our patients are going to have if they ever leave, we are cracking jokes about how these people are going to live for the rest of their lives.
But the thing is we have to be like that. Because in the last three weeks, nine of my patients have died. Which means nine children died. I was there for three of the deaths. One was a rather peaceful affair - the parents decided to withdraw support, so they were able to gather all of their family together, and the little girl died in her mother's arms. Quiet and beautiful and heart-wrenching. One was a horrendous, messy affair - we worked like fiends, trying to save this kid. But nothing worked. And when we all straggled out of that room, covered in sweat and blood, the only sound from the room was the low, anguished moaning of the mother, holding her child for the last time. The last was the strangest of all - the little boy looked at his mother and his nurse, who were chatting in the corner, and said "It's time for me to go with the angels. I love you all very much." And then he just... died.
So we have to make jokes. We have to say things that sound horrible and heartless to others, because if we didn't, we would all lose our minds. It is our job to be caring and compassionate, yet for our sanity we have to maintain a level of detachment from our patients that seems inhuman sometimes. But every second we spend with these kids, they wiggle their way beneath our armor. We empathize with them, with their families. And when the unthinkable happens, we grieve and mourn alongside them. Only we can't show it. We have to put on a professional face and move on to the next child, the next family, the next heartbreak.
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