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."