Last Wednesday...

... I met with one of the neonatologists (Dr. S) we saw early in the week that I spent in the hospital.  He was not able to be present at Elliana's birth - I so wish he had.  Not that I doubt that abilities of the doctor who was there (Dr. D).  But I knew that Dr. S was for Elliana.  The very difficult conversation about whether or not we wanted 'heroic measures' taken, was with him.  During that conversation, he saw my tears, and I saw his compassion.

So, when I needed to talk to someone about Elliana's birth, I wanted to talk to Dr. S.  I trust him.

Once I got to the hospital last Wednesday, I had no idea where to go to meet Dr. S.  I assumed the volunteer at the front desk would be able to help me.  Not so.  The volunteer looked at me like I had bunny ears.  He started flipping through a notebook, trying to decide in which direction to point me.  He finally said that perhaps if I called up to the NICU, they would be able to help me.  He turned the notebook around so that I could see the extension number.  As soon as I saw 'NICU', my eyes filled with tears.  I'd kept my composure so well all morning (well, it was only 9:05am), but images of tiny babies flashed through my mind. Elliana never made it to the NICU.

That poor volunteer.  I'm sure he was terribly caught off guard.  I did manage to ask him if he would mind calling the NICU for me.  He called, and the nurses up in the NICU told him that Dr. S was not in that day.

I tried to control them.  But sometimes, the tears... they just happen.

The volunteer went to find someone who could help me.  He went rather quickly.  :-)

Finally, a very nice woman made some calls and figured out where I was supposed to go.  I arrived in the office 15 minutes late, and Dr. S was out looking for me.  In the NICU.  Obviously, I wasn't there.  So while I waited for him, I attempted to regain composure.

'Composure' lasted from the moment Dr. S walked into the office until we sat down in the conference room and he asked how I was doing.  About 45 seconds.  Oh well.

I could tell Dr. S was trying to help me relax.  He started asking about my other children, attempting to lighten the mood.  I realized how tense I was, and I forced myself to take a deep breath, sit back in the chair, and enjoy the 'easy' part of our conversation.

When 'small talk' was over, I wasn't sure how to jump into the conversation about Elliana.  I think my intention in meeting with him was to have some questions answered.  But when the moment was upon me, and it was time to ask the questions, they felt silly.  And I wasn't sure what to say.  Dr. S rescued me.  :-)  He said he remembered coming to talk with Jason and me late that Monday night, October 1. He sounded somewhat apologetic that he wasn't on call the night Elliana was born.  He asked what happened that day - what sent us to the operating room on October 5.

But that's a post for another day.

'The day your daughter was born,' he said.  To hear someone else say that 'your daughter was born' just helps so much.  She was real.  She mattered.

Dr. S had a copy of Dr. D's delivery notes.  And he started reading them to me.

One of the first things he said was that Elliana was born vertex.  She was born head first.  I didn't know that. A great big blue (?) curtain had kept me from seeing her.  In that moment, I realized that there were minutes of her life, her most 'alive' minutes on this earth, that I knew nothing about.

She was born head first.  Her little blond head.  It helps to know that.

He read through the rest of the notes - two paragraphs of information about my little girl.  Two paragraphs describing the first 23 minutes of her life on this earth.  All of Dr. D's observations about her, attempts to intubate her, successes, failures, Elliana's responses to what Dr. D was doing.  I heard all of it.

That, too, is another post for another day - her birth story.

And then Dr. S got to the part where Dr. D came over to Jason and me, while my incision was still being closed, and told us that despite all of her efforts, Elliana's heart rate was dropping, and she didn't think there was anything else she could do that would help her.  And we decided to 'cease efforts'.

Stop.  Wait.  I'm still trying to *process* everything you've just said about her first 23 minutes of life.  I can't go there - to the end.  Not yet.

So after a moment of quiet, I told him that hearing about her helped me.  And would he mind telling me again?

He told me again.  Not really reading directly from the paper, but referring it to it, looking at me, explaining it to me.

Another steady stream of tears.

He got to the 'end' again - the 'cease efforts' part - and I still wasn't ready to go there.  I hated to do it - I felt like a crazy person - neurotic maybe - but I asked him if he could tell me just one more time.

And he told me one more time.  The whole two paragraphs of her fight for life.

Then he got to the 'end'.  For the third time.

... 'But then, even with good air flow in her lungs, Elliana's heart rate plummeted.  And that's when Dr. D went over to speak with you and your husband.  She told you that she felt like there was nothing more she could do without prolonging your daughter's suffering.  And that's when you decided to cease efforts to revive her.'

Eyes closed, and managing to whisper, I asked him - 'Was that the right thing to do?'

A long, steady stream of tears.

When I opened my eyes, he was nodding his head.  He said that he believed that even if we had waited longer to have her delivered, even if we had decided to start CPR, even if we had asked Dr. D to please keep trying... the outcome would have been the same.  She was letting us know that her little body couldn't handle all of the genetic information it was trying to process.  Her body couldn't work that hard.

Dr. S made a copy of the delivery notes so I could take it home with me.  He was so patient with me - so very patient.

Thanks, Dr. S.

I walked away from my time with Dr. S with answers to some questions, a couple of very red, puffy eyes, and the story of my daughter's first 23 minutes of life.

23 minutes - that's another post for another day.