Lost

Tomorrow, November 3, 2009 marks one year from E's birth. I suppose it's her birthday, after all it is the day I gave birth to her. I do feel more comfortable with 'birthday' versus 'angelversary' or some other term. (I know a lot of people do call the day of their child's passing his/her Angelversary and I respect that). I'm also not entirely comfortable with 'celebrating' E's birthday because the day doesn't represent the day she started her life outside the womb, it represents the day I had to physically let her go.

I discovered E died October 30, 2008. I had the choice to be induced that day or wait. I chose to wait, for so many reasons. The next day was Halloween and I wanted my other children to not miss out on enjoying parties, trick-or-treating, and dressing in costume because their mother was in the hospital giving birth to a sister that would not come home for them to hold in their arms. When people hear that I discovered E died on a Thursday and I wasn't induced until the next Monday, they unfailingly say, "You had to wait that long?" The thing is, I didn't have to wait that long. But with Halloween on a Friday last year, that meant the next two days were non-office days and my nurse practitioner would not be working. Plus, I didn't want to 'mess up' the weekend by spending it in the hospital away from my living children. But, the biggest reason I waited is because I just didn't want to let E go. If I didn't give birth to her, I didn't have to say goodbye. So I waited.

That Friday, Halloween, I dressed as a witch and I volunteered in my first grader's classroom at her Halloween party. That night, we trick-or-treated as a family. Saturday, my mom watched our living children while my husband and I went to pizza and a movie (I think it was The Changeling). We just sat there in the car, in the restaurant, in the theater. Numb. Sunday, we went to mass as a family. After mass, we drove aimlessly and ended up in a river town about an hour from our home. We threw rocks into the river, stopped for apples at an orchard, ate brunch, and attempted to tell our children why their parents were complete zombies. When we arrived home, a friend whose son was born still approximately a year prior was unexpectedly sitting in front of our house.

My friend took me to a coffee shop and she told me what to expect. I was afraid to give birth to a dead baby. I hate even saying or typing those words because I feel ashamed. I'm ashamed that I would fear my own baby. I am ashamed I would even call my baby 'dead baby.' The term seems disrespectful to me, as if 'dead baby' sums up my child's existence. As if the word 'dead' overshadows the word 'baby.'

When I wasn't with my husband or living children the days before E was born, I was in bed and on my computer. I had two objectives: 1. Decide upon one girl name and one boy name; 2. Familiarize myself with what a dead baby looks like. So, I researched baby names and I looked at pictures of dead babies. A lot of pictures. What kind of to-do list is that? Have you ever discovered a left-behind to-do list in your grocery cart? Imagine coming upon the things-to-do-before-giving-birth-to-my-dead-baby-list.

So, tomorrow is E's first birthday. We don't really have a plan. No party. No presents. No balloon release. I told the children I'd try to bake a cake. And we'll attend their weekly school mass. And we'll pray. I don't know what else to do.