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.
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