The Day

I suppose it's about time I write about the day I found out that E died. I've been having some more mini freak out sessions tonight, so I'm again holed up in my room hiding from my family so I don't destroy them. I still have no news on the period/pregnancy issue, other than two pee sticks with just one pink line each. Perhaps getting a piece of E's story onto my blog will alleviate some of this tension.

On October 30th, 2008, I went to my regularly scheduled 20-week ultrasound. My husband stayed home to watch our two non-school-age children who are not allowed in the ultrasound room. Thus, I went to the ultrasound alone. I wore slippers, the kind with Sherpa and suede. I was too lazy to find real shoes and I thought they looked close enough to footwear that apparently pass for shoes these days.

Once going into the ultrasound room, I simply climbed up onto the table and awaited the gross gel application onto my belly. I was excited to see my baby. Some people may think that because this was my fourth baby, I would treat this ultrasound as routine or mundane. I definitely did not feel the adrenaline I felt when I prepared for my first child's ultrasound. But, I never take any of my pregnancies for granted. I was eagerly looking forward to seeing E again and I was curious whether her due date would change by a few days.

When the ultrasound tech started moving the wand (I really don't know what they call that thing) around my belly, she started asking about my due date and whether or not I wanted to discover the baby's sex (which we did not want to know). When she started pointing out my placenta, I interrupted her and asked if she could just start by telling me E's heart rate. She said, "Have you been having problems?" I said, "No. Not really. But, they have had a hard time finding the heartbeat the entire pregnancy. They've said it's due to the anterior placenta. So, I just always like to start with that."

God, this is hard to write. I'm trembling.

The following words echo in my head, "I'm not allowed to make a diagnosis, but I don't see one. I'm sorry." It took me a minute in stunned silence to process what she said to me and what it meant. Thoughts such as, "Oh, just move the wand a little more. Or, maybe baby's just turned funny" raced through my mind. I didn't move, but I glanced at the screen. I'll never forget how absolutely still E was. She was curled up into a tight ball. Tears silently streamed down my face as I threw my head back onto the pillow.

The ultrasound tech called my Nurse Practitioner, who saw me throughout E's pregnancy. NP Amy came into the room, looked at the screen, confirmed the news, and sincerely said, "I'm so sorry. Do you want to call your husband?" NP Amy handed me the phone. My husband answered and I barely got out the words, "They can't find a heartbeat." He said, "What? Are they sure?" As he choked on his words, he said he'd call my mom to watch the kids and he'd come to the hospital.

I then realized I was still lying on the table, ultrasound gel on my belly. I asked if I could go to the bathroom and when I got off the table, I saw my stupid slippers. It just stood out in my mind that wearing my slippers could have been a funny little anecdote to share with E, had she lived. Now, the slippers were just stupid.

NP Amy walked me through the hallway to the clinic and into a regular exam room where we waited for my husband. He arrived within 10-15 minutes. He entered the room with tears streaming down his increasingly contorted face and his arms outstretched to hug me. The three of us just cried for some time. NP Amy might have left the room for a bit, while my husband and I sat and cried more. My husband just kept saying, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you. I love our baby."

NP Amy tried to comfort us, but she knew there just were no words that could fix this. We're fortunate NP Amy was our care provider. I cannot think of one stupid thing she said; we all know the kinds of things that come out of people's mouths in this situation.

I already knew, from acquaintances and some friends' experiences, that I'd be induced into labor and deliver E vaginally. I am grateful I knew that because I think it prepared my mind for the scenario. I used to think that making a mother deliver a baby who already died was a cruel medical practice. After all, we still go through the pain of labor; but, the reward of holding a live baby is gone. Now that I faced delivering a baby who died, I felt grateful. At least I'd see my baby and know what he/she looked like. If I wanted, I could also hold my baby. Years ago, this option was not given to mothers.

The three of us talked about when to induce. I couldn't face delivering my baby immediately. I wanted more time to carry E. The next day was Friday and it was Halloween. I have three living children who were looking forward to school Halloween parties and trick-or-treating. I couldn't deny them those childhood memories, as long as it was in my control. Thus, we decided to induce the following Monday, November 3.

When my husband and I returned home, I felt dead inside. My mom greeted us at the door and I immediately threw myself onto the couch. It then became clear that my mom really didn't understand what happened. She said to me, "What did you find out?" I said, "Didn't he tell you when he left you with the kids?" She said, "He said they couldn't find a heartbeat." I just looked right through her and said, "Yeah." She said, "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry." She tried hugging me, but I just lay there without response.

I think that's enough for now. I'll gradually share more as I feel I'm able to do so.