The Nightmare Continues.

They began inducing my labor Wednesday night.  Nothing they gave me for sleep worked.  The truth is, I was terrified to go to sleep.  Terrified that I wouldn't wake up.  Terrified that I would wake up. Terrified that I would wake up and think it was all a dream only to have reality come back to me.

We had to start making decisions before he was even born.  The doctor asked if we wanted to see him and hold him afterward the birth.  My heart stopped. I hadn't even considered that part of this ordeal.  I was immediately terrified again.  Terrified of what he would look like.  Terrified that his face would be one of pain and struggle and death.  There is nothing on earth that can prepare you to see a dead baby.  No amount of self talk, rationalizing, anything can ready you for that experience.  Especially when it's your baby.  Your baby that was kicking and tumbling around in your belly just 24 hours ago.  My husband luckily made the decision for us, and I am infinitely grateful that he did.  Yes, we wanted to see him and hold him.  For as long as possible.  My husband was not terrified like me.

Around 4pm on Thursday, the doctor decided my cervix wasn't making as much progress as it should be, and was still tightly closed.  My body continued to not want to let him go.  Initially, I refused pain medication.  I needed to feel every pain.  Every tear.  Every contraction.  I needed to punish my body for failing my beautiful child.  Eventually, the medical staff convinced me that I need it, and I consented to the epidural.  Then, a device which looked like a metal straw and a little balloon on the end was inserted into my cervix.  Its purpose was to dilate me from 0 to 5cm instantly.  The pain was immense.  And then came the heavy gush of my water breaking.  I felt life pouring out of me in waves.  I sobbed until there was no water left to replenish my tears.  This was really happening.  I was really getting ready to deliver a still baby.  My still baby.  My precious little son.

The contractions came quick and hard after that.  I pushed three times.  One, two, three.  And then he was out.  4lb and 14oz of perfection.  Soft, dark hair like Natalie's was when she was born.  All of my husband's facial features.  My little toe.  And such a look of peace on his little face. I couldn't being myself to open his eyes.  

He was so warm.  So pink.  If you were to hold him at that second, you may not even know that he had died.  I kept rubbing his little chest hoping for a miracle.  The miracle never came.

I examined every inch of his body.  He was perfectly formed - even the doctor said that there wasn't a thing visibly wrong with him.  He was exactly on target for weight and length for his gestational age.  There were no obvious abnormalities with the umbilical cord or placenta.  There was simply no visible reason for why this happened.    

The nurse bathed him and dressed him in a little blue gown, knit by a mother who lost her baby at the same hospital.  The nurse took some pictures, and so did we.  I wish we had known or been told about the Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep Foundation by the hospital.  There are several of photographers in our area affiliated with them, and it would have been a great service to have.

My husband and I were still in shock.  Our eyes, hollow and empty as we held our son close to us. We wrapped him and held him with us as all night long.  I was moved downstairs to another room, mercifully no longer in the maternity ward surrounded by the cries of new, living babies.   My body refused to sleep.  I laid awake all night with my baby and husband, cradled in the cramped hospital bed that we all three were sharing.  My husband and Nicolai, it was like they were lying, sleeping, gazing into a mirror at each other. Their faces are identical.  This is both a blessing and a curse on sleepless nights when I watch my husband sleeping.

Morning came, and by early afternoon I knew that it was time for us to let him go.  He was no longer the warm, pink baby that I had birthed the evening before.  He was beginning to change, and that is an experience no parent should ever have to see.  Death is a cold, cruel mistress full of blues and grays.

Our son was gone. And so was a part of me.

The Nightmare Begins.

I arrived at outpatient labor and delivery at 5:15pm.  The nurse told me to go back to the third room and wait; someone will be in to hook me up to the NST machine in just a few minutes.  I waited for what seems like hours, thinking, "my baby could be dead or dying, what the fuck is taking so long?"  It's ironic that's when I decided to get impatient, considering that I had gone from the morning until that second without taking any action whatsoever.  I keep urging my belly to move, just a little.  Let me know you're still in there, honey.  

Two nurses finally came back.  One puts the Doppler on my belly and tries to find the heartbeat.  Nicolai was almost 5lb at this point (according to the previous week's ultrasound), and his heartbeat was never hard to find.  She kept searching.  I was hooked up to a heart monitor as well, and I watch my own heart rate rise exponentially with each second of silence on the Doppler.  She still couldn't find it.  I started hyperventilating.  Suddenly, I heard a rapid heartbeat on the Doppler.  "Is that him, is he okay?!!"  "No, honey, that's your heartbeat."  

The nurse call downstairs for the ultrasound machine.  That terrible sinking feeling in my stomach grew worse.  The doctor who did my NST at my OB's office 2 days before came in.  He even remembered Nicolai's name when he saw me.  I was laying on the table with the nurse beside me.  The doctor was beside her, and the ultrasound machine was beside him.  I didn't have a clear view of it at first, as they were obstructing my view.  "He's okay, right?  You can see him now, and he's fine, right?  Right?  Please say something, he's okay, right?"  

I first knew that my baby had died when I saw the look on the nurse's face.  She clenched my hand.   I jerked up and looked at the monitor, and saw what no mother should ever have to see.  His little ribcage - calm, still, silent.  No heartbeat.  I screamed and let out a wail that could be heard throughout the floor.  "My baby,  NO, NO, NO, not my baby, please God, not my baby."

I felt my body slipping into shock.  My own screams sounded like someone else's in my ears.   I vaguely remember the nurses trying to hold me down so that I wouldn't fall off the table.  I remember the doctor asking me, "Lisa, where is Natalie?  Where is Daniel?  Who do we need to call for you? You don't need to be here by yourself."

My husband wasn't there yet, but I knew he was probably en route.  I knew my mom was on her way to our house.  I knew that Natalie was at home.  And I knew that my baby was dead.  At that moment, that was all that I knew in the world.  Time stood still.

I don't remember who I called first.  Either my mom or my husband.  All I was able to get out to them was, "The baby died.  The baby died.  Please come, I need someone here with me."

It was probably 15 minutes later that my husband arrived and collapsed in sobs on the table with me.  The nurses and the doctor left us in that tiny room alone for a few short minutes.  I don't remember what, if anything we said to each other.  We communicated only in wails and sobs.  "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry.  I killed our son.  He died inside me and I didn't even know it."

The doctor called my husband out of the room first to talk to him while the nurses tried to get my breathing stabilized.  "Lisa, we have to talk now about what comes next.  You and Daniel are going to have to make some very difficult decisions in the next few hours.  We need to get Nicolai out of your body soon so that your own health is not jeopardized.  We are going to need to induce your labor.  Trust me when I say that you do not want us to cut him out of your body.  You need to labor, as slowly and naturally as possible, so that minimal damage is done.  Nicolai is almost a full term baby, and it is going to take a significant effort to birth him.  It may be tomorrow night at this time before he is actually born."

I am not comprehending what he is saying to me.  I am inconsolable.  "Please, please do a C-section.  Please, I need this to be over as soon as possible."  I can't labor and birth him naturally knowing that he is dead.  I can't even look at my big, pregnant belly.  I can't touch it or lay my hands on it, knowing that inside of it is my my baby.  Dead.  My belly, which once housed life, has turned into a tomb.  Attached to me.  I can't get away from it.  I can't remove it.  It is a part of me now.

My own heart rate continued to skyrocket.  My chest physically and severely hurt.  Then the idea dawns on me, "What if I'm dying too?  What if the unseen horrible blackness that took over inside and killed my baby is now killing me too?  What if its deadly poison is slowly sinking into me now?"  Again, I become terrified.  "You can't do anything to me - you can't give me anesthesia, you can't give me any drugs, I'm dying too!  I can't give birth right now!  Don't you see that?  I can't breathe, my heart feels like someone is slicing through it with a hot knife!"  I shouted this to the doctors.  My subconscious was trying, in any way possible, to keep baby Nicolai safe and warm inside me, and not thrust into the cold, dark world that awaited him.  My body did not want to let him go.

Precursor to the Nightmare

It was October 24, 2012.  I hadn't felt the baby move since the night before.  My husband and I had fallen asleep to his energetic and rhythmic kicks, as I had every night for the past 33 weeks and 4 days.  I woke up the next morning, with a slight bit nausea and a twinge of cramping.  This was unusual for me, but it was mild, so I thought nothing of it.  I laid and soaked in a warm bath - my morning ritual before getting ready for work.  It was a time that Nicolai and I had to ourselves in the mornings.  A few brief minutes of quietness before the craziness of the morning arose, before my husband and my 4.5 year old daughter woke up.  A few minutes to mediate and reflect on the day.  He always woke up during bathtub time to roll around with me.  I would imagine him swimming in my belly as I floated in the tub.  But he didn't wake up that morning; and we would never be able to share those moments together again.

I should have known at that point that something was wrong.  Around the time that I registered he wasn't moving or waking up, I heard my daughter call my name from the other room.  She had stayed up late the night before, so I knew that getting her ready for preschool was going to be a challenge.  My mind switched from the stillness in my body to the responsibilities of the morning.  My mind was distracted with everything I had to get done at work that day.  I hurriedly got my daughter and myself dressed, popped her in the car, and halfway carried her still sleeping into the classroom at school.

I was acutely aware on the 45 minute drive to work that my belly continued to be silent.  I told myself that it was probably  because I had not eaten, and I was sure that as soon as I ate something or drank some caffeine, Nicolai would wake up.  After all, he had woken up every morning for the past 33 weeks and 4 days.  Why would today be any different?

I should mention here that nobody, even my OB, had ever told me anything about doing kick counts - not what they were, when to do them, and what to be aware of.  Kick counts were not something that I had done with my daughter 5 years before when I was pregnant with her.  Had I been doing kick counts that morning, I would have registered that something was seriously wrong hours earlier than I did. 

I got to work and was immediately sucked into the morning hysteria that comes with being a therapist at an outpatient mental health & substance abuse clinic.  I did an assessment on a woman slightly younger than myself who had just had an emergency C-section 2 days prior at the same hospital that I was supposed to be delivering Nicolai at in just a few weeks.  She had gone into pre-term labor and almost lost the baby.  Her baby boy would probably be in the NICU for at least a month.  She noticed my pregnant belly and said, "I don't tell you any of this to scare you, and I'm sure that things will go much smoother for you."

Later, a client asked me how much longer I had before my due date.  I jokingly said, "I wish I could deliver him today - i don't think my ankles can get any more swollen!"  Those were words that I would end up eating later that night.

I texted my husband at 9:20am that I hadn't felt the baby move all morning and how that seemed odd.  I texted him again at 11 - still no movement.  I still thought that I was being paranoid.  Afterall, babies stop moving around as much as they grow bigger inside - that's what everything I had ever read told me.  I tried to control my impulse to fly out the door and act on my paranoid feelings (which I have been known to do, too many times.) Those who know me well might classify me as a bit of a neurotic, and I have a tendency to jump to worst case scenarios at a drop of a hat.  But still, I stayed.  I didn't call my doctor.  I didn't go to the hospital.  I tried to talk my self down and rationalize the situation.  We were understaffed that day and I had so much to do.  12:30, I grabbed a hasty lunch, expecting him to jiggle around at any minute.  I visualized him napping inside my belly.  Still, nothing.  I told myself that if I didn't feel anything after my 1:00 group session, I was going to call the doctor.

Group ended at 2:00.  I had fully intended to call the doctor.  And then an emergency assessment walked through the door and I was the only one there to do it.  My boss was already pretty nonplussed at all the time I had taken off due to my pregnancy so far.   At that point I was going for twice weekly NSTs (I was considered high risk due to my diabetes - even though it was very well controlled) and had just had an ultrasound the day before.  It didn't help that both my OB and the hospital was 45 minutes from work, so each appointment meant 2-3 hours out of the workday that I was absent.

4:00 came.  I was now officially worried.  I called my OB and waited anxiously for the nurse to call back.  I tried occupying my mind by finishing my notes and approving the notes of others.  I chatted with coworkers.  Played with a baby whose mom had come in for a group.  Waited.  The nurse called back at 4:15.  I told her what was going on and she said that she wanted to call the doctor before she advising me of whether or not I should go to the hospital.  4:30, she called back and told me to go ahead to the hospital where they could hook me up for monitoring.  I had already left when she called.  The impending sense of doom had set in, and I knew that I was headed to the hospital whether the nurse advised me to or not. 

I called my husband and asked him to pick up Natalie from school.  I didn't want to scare him any more than I had already with all the text messages from the hours before.  He wanted to meet me at the hospital, but I insisted that everything was fine and that I didn't want Natalie stuck at the hospital with us.  I would be home by dinner. 

I kept trying to convince myself that I was just being paranoid.  I called my mom and told her the same thing I told my husband.  I told her that I was sure everything was fine, I was just going to go get checked out.  20 minutes later she called me back and told me she was heading to our house (about an hour drive) to stay with my daughter because my husband called and said he really needed to be with me.  It's like everyone subconsciously knew what was going to happen but me. I called my friend and told her the same thing I told my husband and my mom - that everything was fine, I was just going to get checked out at the hospital and I would call on my way home.  If I said it enough times, to enough people, maybe it would come true.

The closer I got to the hospital, the more nervous I became.  As I turned on the road that led to the hostpial, an ambulance with red lights and sirens rushed immediately in front of me.  For some reason, it registered with me that this was not a very good sign.  I wanted to turn around and go home.  I was scared.  Really scared.  I followed the ambulance at a comparable speed, parked, and ran to the emergency room.