Gratitude

I'm obviously a virgin (occasional) blogger. I keep this site mostly as a diary, because I had created it to write about Oliver when I was pregnant with him and after he died I didn't know what else to do with it. It never occurred to me anyone else would read my words or care enough to write back.

I was too upset to go to my own family for comfort tonight, but finding that strangers have been reaching out to me all along gives me strength. I don't know why. Thank you.

It's funny, I only feel inclined to write on the very worst days. I feel like only rock bottom drives me here. I suppose that's not really funny at all.

It's been a month now since I've had any evidence that this baby is alive. 11 weeks on Thursday, so no movement (or stillness) yet to encourage me (or terrify me). I've survived the four weeks since the last sono mostly numb, mentally preparing myself for the worst and all the while berating myself for not giving this baby the faith it so deserves from me. If I could just make it to tomorrow morning, atleast I would know one way or the other.

But now I won't. They lost my appointment. So sorry, transitioning to electronic medical records you know. But don't worry, we can get you in with Dr. X (not my doctor) on Friday. FRIDAY?!! That's an eternity from now. It might as well be next year. I will never make it. I've cried and cried tonight, considering all the possibilities. I could check myself into the emergency room, say I have abdominal pain. They have to check the baby. I don't dare check into my own ER, they don't know I'm pregnant and besides, I'd have to face them all at work tomorrow. I'm not behaving very professionally.
So another ER then. ER staff hate it when asymptomatic pregnant women check in just to get sono'd. It's wasteful. I'd wait in the bathroom so as not to take up a room, and pay for the whole thing out of pocket, just to know this baby is alive.

I'm glad no one is here to comfort me. Especially no one I love - my pain is too deep to be comforted tonight, and I'm afraid I would lash out at the wonderful people in my life who least deserve it. I know my husband would kindly say "it must be okay honey, you're still vomiting. That means healthy, high hormone levels." And he would be right and still I would yell "Shall I count for you how many times I vomited after Oliver was dead?! Have you forgotten?" which would be cruel, because of course he has not.

I don't yell at my husband, and I don't check into emergency rooms for no reason. Atleast I don't think I do. I hardly know myself anymore.

I feel like I'm drowning. I don't think I am strong enough to survive this pregnancy. I wish Oliver was here with us, where he belongs, and that we weren't even thinking about having another baby yet because he's keeping us so busy.
But he's not. And so I am six weeks pregnant again. Or not - the sonogram was not terribly promising.
I am so afraid. I feel like I could sit on the couch and cry for days, in a way I haven't cried since the first month after Oliver was born. I'm so afraid I am going to run Richard off, acting like such a nut. He says it's okay, but I know watching me this way, needing so much, must wear him down. How can you keep loving a person who has nothing to offer you but her own fears?
He said the kindest thing a couple of weeks ago, he said "Sarah, you're so strong. It makes me proud to be married to you." It made me feel all the more ashamed now of how weak I truly am. I feel skeptical of this baby, and I am ashamed of feeling that way. I feel like we will go in for the sono on Thursday and they will confirm what must be true: this is not a real baby. It will never come home with you. And I will say goodbye again, except this time to a baby I could never really believe in in the first place.
I keep trying to find perspective. I don't handle early pregnancy hormones well - they make me emotionally labile I know. I cried a lot more often than usual during the first trimester of my pregnancy with Oliver, and then there was no reason to. I guess it's to be expected that I would be a wreck now. But knowing that doesn't get rid of that weak feeling I carry around - like I'm constantly on the verge of melting into a puddle on the floor where I belong.

Everyone has two memories. The one you can tell and the one that is stuck to the underside of that, the dark, tarry smear of what happened.
-- from Amy Bloom, "Away"

How strange

I work in a major urban emergency room. As I was walking in to work today, I was nearly run over by a cluster of people pushing a stretcher, and on the stretcher was a woman screaming. Also on the stretcher with his umbilical cord still attached was a crying newborn baby. And as I stopped to let them go by, the first thought that passed through my mind was "how strange." I was not thinking "how strange that this woman seems to have delivered her son moments ago in the parking lot" (it happens fairly often). I was thinking "how strange that the whole business should be so loud."
Professionally I know better of course. I have been at other births and they are often very loud - mother screams, father screams, baby cries, staff yells. I, however, have only given birth once, and one of the few things I can bear to remember about that time is how very quiet it was. The nurse was very quiet when she told me when to push. The on-call obstetrician barely spoke. My husband quietly told me I was pushing well. I had an epidural, so no need to scream. And my son, of course, my son was quietest of all of us. It was almost as if because he made no sound as he passed into the world, no one else could either.
After they rolled by, I went on to work, but I've been thinking about the scene all day. It's the first birth (or aftermath) I've seen since Oliver died. How odd that this women could lay down in a parking lot and birth a perfectly healthy boy, and with all the support I had I could not get my son here safely.

Yesterday my husband was walking out of Whole Foods when a checker called out to him "Excuse me, have you lost a son?"
She said it twice before she pointed to a little boy wandering around by himself. She just wanted to know who the little boy belonged with.

Milk

I had heard of donating breast milk for sick babies, and so I asked at the hospital if someone could help me make arrangements. I was at a smallish suburban hospital, and no one there knew anything about it. I was so determined that there had to be a way to make it happen that I asked them to bring me a breast pump anyway, so I could start my body on a regular pumping schedule. Looking back I must have seemed crazy.
With some help from my mother and husband, I tracked down Mother's Milk Bank of North Texas.
I pumped every 6 hours around the clock for the last 6 weeks, and I just weaned this past week in preparation for going back to work. As I read that, it seems sort of obsessive. But I am so grateful I did it. I had been very committed to breastfeeding Oliver and am a huge believer in the value of it, it broke my heart to waste the milk my body was working so hard to make for my lost son. The hospital I work at has a huge NICU, and so many of the babies can't tolerate formula but their moms are unable to pump enough milk for them due to premature delivery or other problems. My co-worker's daughter was born at 24 weeks, and she tells heartbreaking stories of her NICU physicians and nurses explaining again and again how much her weak, sick baby needed breast milk, and that she would pump and pump until her nipples bled only to get one ounce, or maybe two on a really good day. What an incredible gift I had to offer, then, that I could pump 8 ounces in a sitting without any trouble or complications. What better way to honor my son and begin to forgive my body. And I hope, had we suffered a different tragedy and had a need like that that I could not fill, that another mother would have reached out anonymously to help me and my child.

Today is my second wedding anniversary. My husband is asleep in bed. If he knew I was awake I know he would want to talk, want to comfort me. But I got up quietly and tucked pillows next to him so he would continue to sleep. He's carried my pain in addition to his own so many times when I could not bear it, he deserves a break.

Our son Oliver was born and died on April 3rd, 2008. Actually, it would probably be more accurate to say he died late at night on April 2nd and was born on April 3rd at 39 weeks and 5 days. I had a perfectly healthy pregnancy. Oliver was perfectly healthy too, except that I know that from his autopsy and not from his apgar scores. He died during my early labor, probably because of the umbilical cord tucked next to his head that was compressed during contractions. During my lowest moments I think that literally means that my labor, my body, killed my baby. And I just want to die too.

Fortunately I'm more sane than that most of the time, which is good because I'm going back to work today. I'm afraid. I went to the allergist yesterday, and I filled out a questionnaire that asked "any recent hospitalizations?" I wrote "vaginal delivery." To be thorough or polite, or maybe both, she said "congratulations, and how is your baby?" I wanted to say "dead, thank you for asking." Sometimes I think I must really be an asshole, that I think of saying things like that to perfectly nice people, innocent bystanders to my tragedy. But I didn't. I mumbled something about "stillborn." And then she offered me a prescription for an antidepressant. She meant it as a kindness, the only way she could think of to ease my pain. But it seems absurd - a pill a day to fill the hole in my body and my soul that was my son.