It's Over

Last Friday, we went in for our D&C. The procedure itself was very simple and quick; it would take a grand total of 15 minutes to be completed. It seems like something all too quick for the magnitude of what it meant.

I was awake for the procedure but given medicine that was supposed to make me forget everything. The medicine didn't work, for which I am actually very grateful. It may sound strange, but I was afraid that if I had no memory of the events, it would be like I somehow wasn't there for our baby in the final moments she was on earth.

We got into the procedure room and immediately it had an empty feel to it. Like the room itself knew what its purpose was and it was ashamed to fulfill its duties. There were no pictures of flowers on the walls or calendars to make follow-up appointments. There were no mirrors with clothes hooks and no signs asking you to remember to bring all prescriptions with you to your appointments. It was just a small, windowless room with shelves and a counter on one end. The drawers were labeled with various equipment and supplies. Chux in one drawer. Sodium Chloride in another drawer. IV supplies in another. There was a small bed in the center of the room and over in the corner was the machine that would take my baby away. I can't remember what the machine was called -- which is something I find so strange since my eyes were locked on that machine the entire time we waited for the procedure to start.

Ryan and I went into the room and sat on two plastic chairs while the nurse so gently explained what would happen. She told us that this was most likely due to a chromosomal abnormality in the baby and not anything I did. She told us that the odds of this happening again were very small. And she told us where our baby would be buried. It helps us tremendously to know that our baby will be buried in a holy place and not just thrown in the trash like a piece of garbage. She also gave Ryan and I each a medal to carry with us that says "In Loving Memory" on one side and a small poem on the other. It was so nice to be in an environment that treated our baby as an important little person who was loved and not just a "clump of cells".

Ryan was able to be in the room with me while they prepped me for the procedure. They started my IV, put a blood pressure cuff around my arm and they put the little "ET" monitor on my finger to measure my oxygen saturation level. They also hooked me up to a machine that monitored my heartrate and as they put the sensor over my heart, I immediately wondered if the machine would be able to tell that it was broken.

Once they had me prepped and Dr. came in to talk to me, Ryan had to step out and the procedure began. I remember her explaining what she was doing, but I was very far away. I laid there, staring up at the canister lights lit with energy-saving compact fluorescent bulbs. The one to the right of me was burned out and for some reason, my eyes were drawn to that one odd bulb the entire time... as if it was a symbol of the life that had burnt out inside of me.

The Dr. and the nurses were telling silly stories about children, although I do not remember what exactly they were about. I heard them from a distance, but I was busy having an important conversation with God and my little one. A conversation that even now, I can't put into words. It was purely a conversation to and from my heart.

When the procedure was over, and they were wheeling the cart out of the room, I craned my neck so I could watch it leave. When the nurse noticed I was looking, she seemed to purposely step in my way and I wanted to shout "Look out! I'm watching her go!" like I would watch my other children cross the street to make sure they arrived safely on the other side. I understand her desire to shield me, but it was something I needed to see and again, I was thankful that the amnesia medicine was not working.

Shortly after, Ryan was able to come back into the room and they monitored me for a bit before we were free to go. I still can't believe how fast it all went for something that will stay with me for a lifetime. And more.

And now that it's officially over, I sit here and type this and feel impatient with myself to "get over it". I feel like the outside world expects me to go back to "normal" when my life will forever be anything but. I think some people probably don't understand the loss I feel over a baby that was never even visible. And I fully realize that it could be worse.... I could have been 35 weeks pregnant and discovered then that my baby had passed away. I could have delivered my baby and then lost it an hour later. I could have had my baby, watched it grow to be an 18 year old who died in a car accident. But no matter how I try to rationalize it, my sadness remains. I had opened my heart to this new little one, and now the space that was once occupied by the promise of its future is left hollow and empty.

I know time will soften the wound. At least that's what I'm told. But for now, in the quiet moments throughout the day, my mind drifts to my little heaven-baby and reminds me of what I am missing.... and also what I have gained. My baby's life was very short by normal standards, but it's a life that has forever changed who I am as a person and one that has cemented my beliefs in what really is important in this life.