One thing that people do not often talk about when dealing with death is that there are so. many.decisions. Decisions you don't even think about when you are not used to doing death. Decisions you do not want to make. Decisions you do not know how to make.
One decision we had to make was whether or not to let the boys meet Lyddia. I did not know whether this would be weird, morbid, to pass around a dead baby. I was scared of the questions they would ask. Would they be gentle? Would they even care? Surely they would not understand.
Bu we felt that they needed to meet her. To see her. To understand that this thing they had been talking to for months and months was real. To see the hands that moved and the feet that kicked them when they touched my belly. To see that her ears were real, and they heard their words of love and excitement they spoke to her.
I also think that this was an important time for Adam and I. Part of a loss like this includes the crushing loss of all your dreams and visions for the future. I had often imagined her running around this new house we had been working on and moved into while she was inside of me. I painted her room and pictured her gowing up in it. So, in a way, I needed to see her here, at our house, at least once.
The funeral home had gone to pick her up from the hospital after we left, and then they brought her to the house the next morning. It turns out that it was a sweet sweet time for our family. We were blessed to have another Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep photographer, Paula Davis, come and take pictures of the family holding and meeting her. The pictures that she took are so special and something that we will always cherish.
Henry was so gentle, and very eager to hold her, as was George. They touched her, inspected her, and asked a lot of innocent-- and some very hard-- questions. I feel like we fielded the hard questions by just being honest. Though this all, right or wrong, Adam and I just wanted to be honest with them...in the midst of our own confusion...about what what happening.
There were tears, of course, but there were also some smiles, and laughs. We all cooed over her, trying to decide who she looked like. It was almost easy to imagine this was a normal scene. That nothing was wrong. Almost.
After a few hours reality set in. The people from the funeral home came. We filled out paperwork and signed our names. We walked our baby out to the car. We handed her over, and said goodbye for the last time. I said goodbye to my constant companion, the baby I carried with me for the past 9 months.
I was so tired. I was one day postpartum, but I didn't feel like I had the right to rest. Resting is for people who have babies in their arms. Rest when the babies rest- isn't that what we tell new moms? When do you rest when your baby is dead?
For the rest of the world this was Halloween. Children all over the country were dressing up and getting ready to consume massive amounts of sugar. You sometimes forget that when these horrible things happen the world does not stop. People still go to work. Halloween still happens. You still need to go to the grocery store. Life does not stop even when you are absolutely sure the world as you know it is crumbling.
And so for us, life went on. The boys went trick or treating. Family and friends came into town, and we started planning a memorial service.
Monday, November 17, 2014
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Giving Birth to Death 2
We drive back to Atlanta with our precious doula, and arrive around 1:45. I have discovered that in this, the darkest of times, there are tiny specs of light that creep through to help light the way. My friend good friend Katie- a rabbi and one of the wisest people I know- shared with me that in the Jewish faith the idea of "angel" is not seen so much as a dancing infant in the sky, but rather it is interpreted as "messenger". I believe that the support team I had with me at my birth-- my doula, my midwife, my doctor and my sweet husband-- were all angels in that moment, messengers helping me to navigate this treacherous path. They anticipated my needs without me having to ask and we worked hard, together, to bring forth birth to death.
Some people have asked me later, when telling what happened, why we went to Atlanta. I have to say, as hard as all of this was, I don't think I could have asked for a better birth scenario, given the circumstances. We checked into the hospital and they knew we were coming. They showed us to our room, and for the first time in my life upon entering a hospital, they did not touch me. There were no 'non-negotialbles' like hep-locks, no food or drink, taking my blood pressure, temp and putting me on the monitors. They did not touch me. Dr. B ran interference for me and insisted I be left alone. To create a sacred space. To bring this life, this life that was so loved and then lost, forth into this world.
My contractions were there, but manageable. With each contraction I tried to calm by body and focus on bringing her forth. There was a part of me that wanted it all to be over. However there was a part of me that did not want her to come. I was not ready to walk this road that I knew lay at the end of the birth.
Childbirth is usually a time of great physical suffering we bear to bring forth life into the world. The cries and pains bring joy at the end. The sweet anticipation make the pain bearable. But I knew there was no joy at the end of this birth. No high pitched cry and squirming flesh reaching for me. I don't know how to do death.
I rested off and on through the night. About 2 or 3 Dr. B came in to see me. He has a way about him that is just so....present. We talked about options, he said my body was working and we could just let it keep working or we could do some other things. I decided to wait. To see if my body knew something my head did not. If my body knew what it needed to do, even though my head and heart were missing that information. Dr. B stuck around. He stood at the end of my bed, he sat on the floor with his head between his legs. I truly believe he sat there and suffered with us. I learned later that he stayed for an hour, there in that room with us. At 3 in the morning. Like there was not another place he wanted or needed to be.
We roused a little more around 6. Adam woke up, took a shower, and we just waited. We sat on the ball, walked the halls, came back rested a little and walked the halls more. I wanted to walk, but I also found it was hard to walk these halls. These halls were filled with beeps counting heartbeats, screams of new voices and the air of sweet anticipation of life. My room did not have any of that. I did not have any of that. My room was full of pain and tears. Stillness and silence. So we would swiftly leave Labor and Delivery and walk other halls, stopping for contractions, and then beginning again- each step a funeral dirge rather than a dance of joy.
Around 12 Dr. B came in an checked me again and I had not made as much progress as I thought I had- the story of my birthing life, right? We talked about options again, and though I fear IVs like crazy, I began to contemplate doing a dose of pitocin. I hated IVs and I hated pitocin even more, but I also didn't know how much more I could take. I was tired. My body was tired, my spirit was tired, my emotions were tired. I had spent it all and feared I might not be able to do what I was being asked to do.
And I did not want this to drag into the next day. I know it may seem weird in the midst of all this to even consider what her birthday would be-- this birthday was not one we would be one we had to worry about planning a party for-- but I just had this fear of her being born Halloweeen....on this one day of the year that we talk about death and all things scary- but not in a healthy way, more in a morbid skeletons-and-chainsaw-haunted-house kind of way.
I decided to take an Ambien and get some rest. My team wanted to use this time to get a little rest as well- we were all tired. I laid down and tried to sleep a little.
As sometimes happens, just when laboring mamas think it's never going to end, things begin to pick up. The next 2 hours are a bit of a blur to me, but I know the contractions kept coming stronger and stronger. At some point I wanted to get in the shower, and while I was in the shower I realized I needed to start pushing. My team was rallied, and with a few minutes of pushing Lyddia was brought earthside.
I was as ready as one can be for this moment. I had no idea what she would look like, or what to expect. But I was amazed by how beautiful and perfect she was. Almost perfect. There were no screams, no rush to weigh and measure. No one was in a rush to do anything. I held her in my arms, against my bare chest and just wept. This sacred moment that I had shared with my boys, I now shared with my only daughter. That moment of holding this baby that had grown inside of me for the past 9 months, holding her skin on my skin...it was still sacred, but it was all wrong. I knew it was all wrong. This wasn't the way I had been picturing it for months and months. It was beautiful, but it was all wrong.
There was a photographer from Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep that came to the hospital. At first, I was scared of taking her picture before we could wash her and dress her. I wasn't sure I would want those pictures. But I was wrong. Those are my favorite pictures. Because I can see her whole body. See her beauty and wholeness.
We washed her, and dressed her in a beautiful dress my mom had been working on for months. I'm sure my mom imagined Lyddia running and playing and spilling things on this dress. Of wearing it for family pictures or special events. Who knew this would be the dress she would wear in her death. Who knew this would be the only dress she would ever wear.
We take her footprints and hand prints. We swaddle her in blankets and pass her around. We weep. We all weep for this loss. For the loss of this life, for the loss of expectations, and the loss of a future. There is so much loss we don't even know how to wrap our minds around what we have lost.
After a few hours we learn that we cannot take her home with us, as we had thought we would. It turns out there are laws about taking a dead body across state lines. And that's what she is. She is no longer my baby I am carring around inside of me. She is now a dead body. I weep again, fearing the thought of leaving her there. I am so tired I have nothing left inside of me.
Like a corpse myself, weak and broken, we leave the hospital. I am amazed that, for the first time in my life, leaving a hospital, I am not wheeled out. With whatever strength I have left, I shuffle down the halls to my car and we drive back home to my living children.
Some people have asked me later, when telling what happened, why we went to Atlanta. I have to say, as hard as all of this was, I don't think I could have asked for a better birth scenario, given the circumstances. We checked into the hospital and they knew we were coming. They showed us to our room, and for the first time in my life upon entering a hospital, they did not touch me. There were no 'non-negotialbles' like hep-locks, no food or drink, taking my blood pressure, temp and putting me on the monitors. They did not touch me. Dr. B ran interference for me and insisted I be left alone. To create a sacred space. To bring this life, this life that was so loved and then lost, forth into this world.
My contractions were there, but manageable. With each contraction I tried to calm by body and focus on bringing her forth. There was a part of me that wanted it all to be over. However there was a part of me that did not want her to come. I was not ready to walk this road that I knew lay at the end of the birth.
Childbirth is usually a time of great physical suffering we bear to bring forth life into the world. The cries and pains bring joy at the end. The sweet anticipation make the pain bearable. But I knew there was no joy at the end of this birth. No high pitched cry and squirming flesh reaching for me. I don't know how to do death.
I rested off and on through the night. About 2 or 3 Dr. B came in to see me. He has a way about him that is just so....present. We talked about options, he said my body was working and we could just let it keep working or we could do some other things. I decided to wait. To see if my body knew something my head did not. If my body knew what it needed to do, even though my head and heart were missing that information. Dr. B stuck around. He stood at the end of my bed, he sat on the floor with his head between his legs. I truly believe he sat there and suffered with us. I learned later that he stayed for an hour, there in that room with us. At 3 in the morning. Like there was not another place he wanted or needed to be.
We roused a little more around 6. Adam woke up, took a shower, and we just waited. We sat on the ball, walked the halls, came back rested a little and walked the halls more. I wanted to walk, but I also found it was hard to walk these halls. These halls were filled with beeps counting heartbeats, screams of new voices and the air of sweet anticipation of life. My room did not have any of that. I did not have any of that. My room was full of pain and tears. Stillness and silence. So we would swiftly leave Labor and Delivery and walk other halls, stopping for contractions, and then beginning again- each step a funeral dirge rather than a dance of joy.
Around 12 Dr. B came in an checked me again and I had not made as much progress as I thought I had- the story of my birthing life, right? We talked about options again, and though I fear IVs like crazy, I began to contemplate doing a dose of pitocin. I hated IVs and I hated pitocin even more, but I also didn't know how much more I could take. I was tired. My body was tired, my spirit was tired, my emotions were tired. I had spent it all and feared I might not be able to do what I was being asked to do.
And I did not want this to drag into the next day. I know it may seem weird in the midst of all this to even consider what her birthday would be-- this birthday was not one we would be one we had to worry about planning a party for-- but I just had this fear of her being born Halloweeen....on this one day of the year that we talk about death and all things scary- but not in a healthy way, more in a morbid skeletons-and-chainsaw-haunted-house kind of way.
I decided to take an Ambien and get some rest. My team wanted to use this time to get a little rest as well- we were all tired. I laid down and tried to sleep a little.
As sometimes happens, just when laboring mamas think it's never going to end, things begin to pick up. The next 2 hours are a bit of a blur to me, but I know the contractions kept coming stronger and stronger. At some point I wanted to get in the shower, and while I was in the shower I realized I needed to start pushing. My team was rallied, and with a few minutes of pushing Lyddia was brought earthside.
I was as ready as one can be for this moment. I had no idea what she would look like, or what to expect. But I was amazed by how beautiful and perfect she was. Almost perfect. There were no screams, no rush to weigh and measure. No one was in a rush to do anything. I held her in my arms, against my bare chest and just wept. This sacred moment that I had shared with my boys, I now shared with my only daughter. That moment of holding this baby that had grown inside of me for the past 9 months, holding her skin on my skin...it was still sacred, but it was all wrong. I knew it was all wrong. This wasn't the way I had been picturing it for months and months. It was beautiful, but it was all wrong.
There was a photographer from Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep that came to the hospital. At first, I was scared of taking her picture before we could wash her and dress her. I wasn't sure I would want those pictures. But I was wrong. Those are my favorite pictures. Because I can see her whole body. See her beauty and wholeness.
We washed her, and dressed her in a beautiful dress my mom had been working on for months. I'm sure my mom imagined Lyddia running and playing and spilling things on this dress. Of wearing it for family pictures or special events. Who knew this would be the dress she would wear in her death. Who knew this would be the only dress she would ever wear.
We take her footprints and hand prints. We swaddle her in blankets and pass her around. We weep. We all weep for this loss. For the loss of this life, for the loss of expectations, and the loss of a future. There is so much loss we don't even know how to wrap our minds around what we have lost.
After a few hours we learn that we cannot take her home with us, as we had thought we would. It turns out there are laws about taking a dead body across state lines. And that's what she is. She is no longer my baby I am carring around inside of me. She is now a dead body. I weep again, fearing the thought of leaving her there. I am so tired I have nothing left inside of me.
Like a corpse myself, weak and broken, we leave the hospital. I am amazed that, for the first time in my life, leaving a hospital, I am not wheeled out. With whatever strength I have left, I shuffle down the halls to my car and we drive back home to my living children.
Thursday, November 06, 2014
Sunday, November 02, 2014
Giving Birth to Death 1
It was a routine midwife visit. The night before I met with my doula and she, Adam, and I anxiously talked about my upcoming birth. There was no fear, only excitement. Fussing over the details. When should I call her, what were the best words to help me relax and feel at peace. Lyddia was moving, jumping around all through it.
As i drove to my midwife I listened to my birthing affirmations. "Your baby is health and strong." "Your body is taking good care of your baby." "Babies are born on their birth days." I had no idea that, for me, this was not true. None of it. I basked in my false confidence as I walked in to meet with my midwife, telling her everything was good. Baby was low and may come soon. Feeling more uncomfortable and ready to not be pregnant anymore.
We chatted for a bit. she took my blood pressure- a little high. Not too high, but high for me- the one who was superwoman. The one who ran, did half marathons and yoga and took daily walks. The one who dutifully blended up green things to drink instead of coffee. Who always remembered to take her vitamins and took DHA fish oil every night to make sure her baby girl would have a healthy brain and be smarter than all the boys in her class. My midwife figured I was probably just a little stressed.
She came over and felt Lyddia- her well trained hand like eyes, seeing through my belly to know just how she is sitting. Which lump is a bottom and which lump is a head. She seemed to be in that same position she was usually in. Head down, bottom on the right. she seemed to like to hang out over there. Then she listened for the heartbeat. She was using a fetalscope, which most midwives do, their ears sharpened to the tiny faint sounds of the tiny hearts. No need for the loud dopplers or sonograms of the highly technalize medical world. She couldn't find the heartbeat. While she was searching we felt Lyddia give a strong swift kick. "Oh, sorry baby girl, I feel you." she said. She gently switched to a doppler, saying she must just be in a weird position. She asked if I had eaten anything. Yes, yes, of course I had. But to trying to get Baby to move, I ate a snack- yogurt and strawberries with sugar. I did some squats trying to get baby to move around so we could get her in a better position to hear her heart. Still we could not hear it. Baby might be in distress she said. Let's go to Atlanta to see my backup doctor and get an ultrasound.
"Sure", I said. Still basking in that confidence of being in control, after all, there was the kick. We felt the kick. I hope she didn't flip. I hope I don't have to get a c-section. These are my thoughts.
We drive to Atlanta and meet the doctor. A man, I am convinced, is not a doctor but an angel here on earth. The ultrasound tech starts the ultrasound with him standing behind her watching the screen. He gently places his hand on her shoulder and she moves. He takes over waving the wand back and forth like some magical spell, wishing for the best. There is no sound. There is her body, the heart is still. There is no movement at all. Why is she so still? Why is the heart still? Is your machine broken? This must be someone else's baby. Mine has a heart that is beating.
He gently places his hand on my arm and says, "there is no cardiac movement." I squeak out a cry. I hear my midwife squeak out a cry. He pauses for a moment and is just still. I am weeping now, thinking why is he not doing anything? Why is he just sitting there. CAN'T WE DO SOMETHING? WE NEED TO DO SOMETHING. Save my baby! My mind is screaming at him, but my mouth is silent. He begins waving the machine again over my swollen belly. Back and forth. This must be a mistake. He is going to find it. He stops over her heart.
It is still.
still.
still.
He turns on the sound for the briefest of seconds.. A flat line. He gently types in "No FH" No fetal heartbeat. I know he is recording it for the records, things he has to do, but each action feels like a personal assault on my own failure to keep my baby safe. Each keystroke is a hammer, nailing the final verdict in.
I don't know how to do death. Adam is not there. Should I wait for him? I can't tell him on the phone. I need Adam to be there. I decide to call. Find out how far he is. About 45 min away. Slogging through Atlanta traffic. Can't they clear the roads? He needs to be here NOW. Don't they know I need him here? I have to tell him over the phone. I can't wait an hour to tell him. I cry it out, "There is no heartbeat. They can't find a heartbeat." As if saying it this way will make it 'their' fault, a cosmic mistake rather than true reality. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to do death either. Who does? Who comes to this place prepared with what to say, what to do? I call my mom. She cries out "Oh Kara, no." She is weeping on the phone too.
The next hours are an eternity and a blink of an eye. Other phone calls. More crying. Waiting for Adam. Waiting for Adam. Waiting. I have a dead baby in my belly. I don't know how to do death.
Adam gets there, we meet with the doctor and discuss options. He is not in a hurry. He sits quietly with us. He leaves, tells us to take our time. We decide to go home, see the boys, and return tomorrow morning to begin inducing birth. Birthing death. I don't know how to do death.
We pick up the boys at our friend's house. She is my friend. She is my doula, preparing to coach me through birth. She didn't know she was also signing up to somehow coach me through death as well. She has been making the calls I hadn't even thought about. Funeral Homes. Talking to my midwife about the process. We talk about what Lyddia might look like. I will realize many hours later, once I am home and Lyddia is no longer inside of me, that all of this is a rare blessing- to be prepared long before the time is here, to begin to wrap my mind around it all, and not be scared when the time came. Our culture does not talk about death. I don't know what death looks like. I don't know how to do death.
We go home with the boys, act like nothing is wrong. Henry jumps out of the van an pauses to give Lyddia a hug and a kiss. "Hello Lyddia, this is your big brother Henry." He says, like always, making sure she will know who he is when she comes out. He has been anticipating her before she was even created- wishing for a baby sister, asking for a baby sister. I joke with him months before we knew we were pregnant- trying to explain that there wasn't a baby store. It was a big decision to have another baby. He knew, from the time we told him I was pregnant that she would be a girl- the sister he has been asking for. I weep again for the loss of seeing him be a big brother to a sister.
I take a bath, Adam jumps on the trampoline with the boys, still acting like there is nothing wrong. Wishing there was nothing wrong. Wishing this was just another Wednesday night at home. He is so brave. He plays with them and feeds them. I cannot even face them.
I sit in bed, still wet from my bath and call Henry in to talk to him. He and George are arguing over a pumpkin toy. He is distracted and I try to tell him this is important and I want to talk to him. "Is this going to be a special surprise?" No, my precious loved one. A surprise, yes, a dark twisted joke of a surprise. Not the one I want. Not the one I have been anticipating for 9 months.
We try our best to explain. We tell him that we found out today that Lyddia's heart is not beating. She has gone to be with God. She won't be living with us. "But she's right there" He says, pointing to my round belly- still full of a grown baby body. Still feeling the same on the outside. "So she is not going to live with us? You are going to leave her at the hospital?" Oh my dear God, how do we do this? We fumble through the explanation as best we can. We put the boys to bed and begin to pack our bags, trying to think of what you take to a birth. That is not a birth of life. I don't know how to pack for death.
About 10pm my mother calls to update us on where they are, and as I am talking to her I feel my water break. This is not atypical for me. For all my other births my water has broken first to symbolize birth coming. I go to the bathroom. Instead of 'water' there is blood. Everywhere. This is not like my other births.
We decide to go to the hospital in Atlanta, and realize we need to leave tonight rather than waiting for the morning. We call a friend, and go and try to tell Henry we are leaving for the hospital.
"To take Lyddia out of your belly?"
"Yes."
As i drove to my midwife I listened to my birthing affirmations. "Your baby is health and strong." "Your body is taking good care of your baby." "Babies are born on their birth days." I had no idea that, for me, this was not true. None of it. I basked in my false confidence as I walked in to meet with my midwife, telling her everything was good. Baby was low and may come soon. Feeling more uncomfortable and ready to not be pregnant anymore.
We chatted for a bit. she took my blood pressure- a little high. Not too high, but high for me- the one who was superwoman. The one who ran, did half marathons and yoga and took daily walks. The one who dutifully blended up green things to drink instead of coffee. Who always remembered to take her vitamins and took DHA fish oil every night to make sure her baby girl would have a healthy brain and be smarter than all the boys in her class. My midwife figured I was probably just a little stressed.
She came over and felt Lyddia- her well trained hand like eyes, seeing through my belly to know just how she is sitting. Which lump is a bottom and which lump is a head. She seemed to be in that same position she was usually in. Head down, bottom on the right. she seemed to like to hang out over there. Then she listened for the heartbeat. She was using a fetalscope, which most midwives do, their ears sharpened to the tiny faint sounds of the tiny hearts. No need for the loud dopplers or sonograms of the highly technalize medical world. She couldn't find the heartbeat. While she was searching we felt Lyddia give a strong swift kick. "Oh, sorry baby girl, I feel you." she said. She gently switched to a doppler, saying she must just be in a weird position. She asked if I had eaten anything. Yes, yes, of course I had. But to trying to get Baby to move, I ate a snack- yogurt and strawberries with sugar. I did some squats trying to get baby to move around so we could get her in a better position to hear her heart. Still we could not hear it. Baby might be in distress she said. Let's go to Atlanta to see my backup doctor and get an ultrasound.
"Sure", I said. Still basking in that confidence of being in control, after all, there was the kick. We felt the kick. I hope she didn't flip. I hope I don't have to get a c-section. These are my thoughts.
We drive to Atlanta and meet the doctor. A man, I am convinced, is not a doctor but an angel here on earth. The ultrasound tech starts the ultrasound with him standing behind her watching the screen. He gently places his hand on her shoulder and she moves. He takes over waving the wand back and forth like some magical spell, wishing for the best. There is no sound. There is her body, the heart is still. There is no movement at all. Why is she so still? Why is the heart still? Is your machine broken? This must be someone else's baby. Mine has a heart that is beating.
He gently places his hand on my arm and says, "there is no cardiac movement." I squeak out a cry. I hear my midwife squeak out a cry. He pauses for a moment and is just still. I am weeping now, thinking why is he not doing anything? Why is he just sitting there. CAN'T WE DO SOMETHING? WE NEED TO DO SOMETHING. Save my baby! My mind is screaming at him, but my mouth is silent. He begins waving the machine again over my swollen belly. Back and forth. This must be a mistake. He is going to find it. He stops over her heart.
It is still.
still.
still.
He turns on the sound for the briefest of seconds.. A flat line. He gently types in "No FH" No fetal heartbeat. I know he is recording it for the records, things he has to do, but each action feels like a personal assault on my own failure to keep my baby safe. Each keystroke is a hammer, nailing the final verdict in.
I don't know how to do death. Adam is not there. Should I wait for him? I can't tell him on the phone. I need Adam to be there. I decide to call. Find out how far he is. About 45 min away. Slogging through Atlanta traffic. Can't they clear the roads? He needs to be here NOW. Don't they know I need him here? I have to tell him over the phone. I can't wait an hour to tell him. I cry it out, "There is no heartbeat. They can't find a heartbeat." As if saying it this way will make it 'their' fault, a cosmic mistake rather than true reality. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to do death either. Who does? Who comes to this place prepared with what to say, what to do? I call my mom. She cries out "Oh Kara, no." She is weeping on the phone too.
The next hours are an eternity and a blink of an eye. Other phone calls. More crying. Waiting for Adam. Waiting for Adam. Waiting. I have a dead baby in my belly. I don't know how to do death.
Adam gets there, we meet with the doctor and discuss options. He is not in a hurry. He sits quietly with us. He leaves, tells us to take our time. We decide to go home, see the boys, and return tomorrow morning to begin inducing birth. Birthing death. I don't know how to do death.
We pick up the boys at our friend's house. She is my friend. She is my doula, preparing to coach me through birth. She didn't know she was also signing up to somehow coach me through death as well. She has been making the calls I hadn't even thought about. Funeral Homes. Talking to my midwife about the process. We talk about what Lyddia might look like. I will realize many hours later, once I am home and Lyddia is no longer inside of me, that all of this is a rare blessing- to be prepared long before the time is here, to begin to wrap my mind around it all, and not be scared when the time came. Our culture does not talk about death. I don't know what death looks like. I don't know how to do death.
We go home with the boys, act like nothing is wrong. Henry jumps out of the van an pauses to give Lyddia a hug and a kiss. "Hello Lyddia, this is your big brother Henry." He says, like always, making sure she will know who he is when she comes out. He has been anticipating her before she was even created- wishing for a baby sister, asking for a baby sister. I joke with him months before we knew we were pregnant- trying to explain that there wasn't a baby store. It was a big decision to have another baby. He knew, from the time we told him I was pregnant that she would be a girl- the sister he has been asking for. I weep again for the loss of seeing him be a big brother to a sister.
I take a bath, Adam jumps on the trampoline with the boys, still acting like there is nothing wrong. Wishing there was nothing wrong. Wishing this was just another Wednesday night at home. He is so brave. He plays with them and feeds them. I cannot even face them.
I sit in bed, still wet from my bath and call Henry in to talk to him. He and George are arguing over a pumpkin toy. He is distracted and I try to tell him this is important and I want to talk to him. "Is this going to be a special surprise?" No, my precious loved one. A surprise, yes, a dark twisted joke of a surprise. Not the one I want. Not the one I have been anticipating for 9 months.
We try our best to explain. We tell him that we found out today that Lyddia's heart is not beating. She has gone to be with God. She won't be living with us. "But she's right there" He says, pointing to my round belly- still full of a grown baby body. Still feeling the same on the outside. "So she is not going to live with us? You are going to leave her at the hospital?" Oh my dear God, how do we do this? We fumble through the explanation as best we can. We put the boys to bed and begin to pack our bags, trying to think of what you take to a birth. That is not a birth of life. I don't know how to pack for death.
About 10pm my mother calls to update us on where they are, and as I am talking to her I feel my water break. This is not atypical for me. For all my other births my water has broken first to symbolize birth coming. I go to the bathroom. Instead of 'water' there is blood. Everywhere. This is not like my other births.
We decide to go to the hospital in Atlanta, and realize we need to leave tonight rather than waiting for the morning. We call a friend, and go and try to tell Henry we are leaving for the hospital.
"To take Lyddia out of your belly?"
"Yes."
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