The 'Other World' in Which I Occasionally Live

I think I'm nearing the end of one of 'those' weeks.

The kind where I live in a world that's somehow 'removed' from reality.

It's been one of those weeks where I drive past the cemetery exit and think, 'How is it that I have a child buried only a couple miles from here?  Did all of that - last summer, October 5, October 6 -  actually happen?'

The kind of week where I take the kids to the pool almost every day and have actual conversations - like, more than 'Hey how are ya' - with people.  People I haven't seen in a year.  Or people I've just met.

It's been the kind of week where I have big projects to work on, and I've gotten sucked into my computer.  Microsoft Word and Vistaprint have been my companions this week.

The kind of week where I ignore my new friend.  Because in *this* world (the one I've been living in this week), I can't relate to her at all.  I couldn't possibly have gone through what she's going through.

The kind of week where I can breathe easier.  And it doesn't hurt quite so deeply.

But even in this kind of week, no matter how distracted or 'removed' I am from reality, there are reminders.  Even if they're not *Elliana* reminders.  Like - the invitation to a girls night out that I ignored because... well, because going out with a bunch of girls stresses me out.  Girls (moms) talk about kids.  They talk about babies.  They talk about nursing.  They share birth stories.  I have several birth stories.  But my most recent one - the most painful one - I can't share at a 'girls night out'.  

Reminders - like trying to help my husband coordinate a youth trip.  I used to be so good at things like that.  And now, I'm terrible at it.  Communicating with people overwhelms me.

And I. Just. Suck. At. Mommying. right now.  I'm impatient.  Short-tempered.  I wish the kids would just quit arguing, cooperate, clean the house, and fix their own meals.  This mommy right here is certainly not in any mood to lovingly serve her family.  *This* mommy would like to sit behind a piano all day.  I feel the need to get AWAY far more than I 'should'.  And I do get away - Jason is so good to let me get away when I really need to.  But 'getting away' isn't an opportunity to re-energize.  It's not R&R, so that  I can come home feeling refreshed and ready to take on the kids.  Getting away - right now, 'getting away' is giving attention to grief.  Something that *demands* attention, but gets so little when I'm just living life.  Getting away is giving attention to my daughter.  The one who's gone.

'Miss Congeniality' is on.  For some reason, I can relate to Gracie Hart really well tonight.  Not sure if it's the 'feeling completely out of place in a world that's normal to everyone else' or the 'just give me a gun and let me shoot something' thing.

Or both.  :-)

On Behalf of My Hurting Friends

I don't typically write with any particular 'audience' in mind.  My blog is a journal of my thoughts and feelings.  It's for my 'benefit' - a place to think out loud - a place to organize my thoughts.  But it's also a place to share with whoever may care to read about what's going on with me.

Through this blog, I've made some new friends.  Other hurting moms.  Moms who've lost babies or children.  I should update my 'blogroll' to include them.  I want to include them.  I love them.  :-)

Yesterday, I made another new friend.  I'm glad to 'know' her, but I wish more than anything that she'd never stumbled across my blog, and that she'd never been able to relate to what I've written, and that she'd never had to type out the word 'diagnosis' in reference to her baby.

My new friend has just recently received a poor prognosis for her unborn baby.  

I feel like there should be a great big space of nothing - just *silence* - after that sentence.  Space for tears.

We've only exchanged a couple of emails, but after reading about where she is right now, as well as having read about my other friends' experiences, I'm motivated to write *this* post.  

This road - the hurting one - can be lonely.  Very lonely.

This is where I deviate from the norm.  I'm no longer journalling.  I'm writing to... whoever happens to be reading.  You.  The 'audience'. 

'Disclaimer' #1:  This isn't meant to sound like a 'rebuke'.  Or like I'm venting.  This truly is an urgent plea, if you will.  The written word can be hard to interpret, so please 'hear' all of the following words with the gentlest tone possible.

'Disclaimer' #2:  I can't speak for all hurting people everywhere.  Everybody hurts differently.  But for the ones who hurt the way I have/do...

'Disclaimer' #3:  I am guilty of not doing exactly what I'm about to encourage all of you to do.

Here goes.  *Deep breath, Shannon.*

If you have a friend who is hurting deeply, *be her friend*.

These are great things to do for your hurting friend:  

• Pray for her from the privacy of your home. (I'm all for this.  Please DO pray for her.)
• Think about her often.  (This, too, is great.  To be thought of.)
• Cry for her when you think about her. (Because the tears of a friend mean more than anything.)
• Offer to help.  (Offering is never a bad idea.)
• Send her an email.  (Receiving a quick note from a friend really can 'help'.)

There is absolutely nothing wrong with doing any of those things.  They are good.  Kind.  Loving.  Meaningful.

But there's more you can do.

I think when I say *be her friend*, I mean GO and be her friend.

• Go over to her house, stand on her doorstep, knock, and when (if) she opens the door, cry with her.  
• Tell her that you're going to help.  And then tell her how you're going to help.  And then, help.  If she has children, say 'I'm taking my kids to the park, and I'm taking yours with me.  Which morning this week can I come and pick them up?'
• Take her a meal that she can either throw in the oven that day or freeze.  Just take it to her house and hand it to her.  Then hug her (tightly), and tell her you love her.  Take it when you have no pressing engagements afterwards.  Be ready to stay and talk/cry/listen, or be ready to leave if your hurting friend needs to be alone.
• If you don't know what to say, tell her that.  It's ok to not know what to say.  
• If you want to ask questions but you're afraid it'll upset her, ask.  Say, 'I've been wanting to ask you about some things - are you ok with talking right now?  Or would you rather not?'
• If you want to pray with her but aren't sure if she's even ok that, ask.

Just love your friend.  Go clean her house.  Sit in her living room with her (and whatever mess has accumulated).  Ask her to go get coffee.  If she says 'yes' to coffee, ask her when you can pick her up.  If you're not sure if she wants to 'talk about it' or if she would rather have a distraction, ask.  If she wants to be distracted, just make conversation.  About anything.  Your dog, the weather, the neighbor who makes for interesting conversation.  Anything.  If she's hurting anything like I have been hurting, I can tell you firsthand - it doesn't really matter what you say.  Just carry the conversation.  Pay attention to what she's not saying - if you can't figure out what she needs when you're with her, ask.  And if she can't verbalize it and just cries instead, hug her and/or cry with her.

If your friend is in hell (whatever kind of 'hell' it might be), jump in with her.  Jump into her hell.  Without the intention of dragging her out.  Just jump in.  

Hell is lonely.

I think the reason it's lonely is that people don't know what to say.  Or they're afraid of saying the wrong thing.  And, I'll admit, 'hell' isn't a fun place.  It's not fun to hang out with your friend in her hell.  I think most people avoid another person's hell out of fear.  

This can feel like abandonment to the hurting person.

And although I'm certain that no one is intentionally abandoning the hurting person...

(very hesitantly and quietly) I'm not sure that many people are intentionally loving the hurting person.

Don't be afraid of the hurting hell place.

Your friend needs you.  She needs to not be alone.

I am absolutely not claiming to be any kind of expert on hurting or grief or this worldly 'hell' that some people have to endure.  But, I know a small piece of it.  

So GO.  Love your hurting friend.  Not from where it's 'comfortable'.  But in her very uncomfortable, lonely, dark, deeply aching place.

**I should say that I have a few friends who have done this for me.  Who have jumped into my hell with me.  Especially over the last several months.  Thank you, dear friends.  :-)  I love you.

And then...

Laughter, friends, and 'good' for a couple days.  And then...

That awful dream.  My hands were holding only a tiny skeleton and ashes.

And the picture/post on facebook that I shouldn't have read, but did.  My breath catches every.single.time I see one of those pro-life pictures of a 12- or 18-week baby.  Or a newborn on a ventilator.  But this picture - this one was of a 24-week preemie baby laying on her mom's chest, skin-to-skin.  The doctor's had no hope that she would live.  So the mom wanted some time just holding her baby.

Sounds familiar.

But then I read this part:  (And WHY, you ask, did I read it??  Good question.)

"This is indeed a miracle baby," adds the doctor, "and I have seen nothing like it in my 27 years of practice.  I have not the slightest doubt that mother's love saved her daughter."

*That mother's love saved her daughter.*

It's an absolutely beautiful story, a miraculous story, and I am genuinely thankful that that little girl survived - that that mom didn't have to bury her child.

But what I do with that last statement... 'that mother's love saved her daughter'... I turn it into a statement of condemnation for myself.  And if I'm being honest, I might even twist it into a statement of condemnation for Someone Else.

Not gonna go there right now.  A couple kids need (more) breakfast, I (really) need to get ready, the picture of the skeleton in my hands is demanding (emotional) attention, and it's the 10th.  Funeral Day.  My attention and my heart are being pulled in enough directions.  If I can help it, I won't add guilt and anger to the list.

Laughter

I've laughed more than a few times in the last 2 days.  I've had 'down time' with more than a few people in the last 2 days.  I've felt 'good' more than once in the last 2 days.

I even played games tonight and got a little competitive.  A little bit of the 'old' me was around tonight.

I've heard/read that the loss of a child changes you forever.

It does.

The loss of Elijah when he was 2 weeks old, although it was temporary, changed me - it made me more compassionate towards moms who have had to say goodbye to their babies.  

The loss of our first Lindebaby (biologically) changed me.  It was my first really, really difficult journey through grief.  And it brought me to an encounter with the Gospel in a way I'd never experienced before.

The loss of our second Lindebaby changed me more.  Another encounter with grief.

The loss of our first foster baby, Matthew, changed me.  I had been 'mommy' to a little boy who had no mother, and he needed me.  And then... he was gone.  He had a father and a grandmother to take care of him.  He didn't need me anymore.

The loss of our twins changed me.  Oh, it changed me.  It was a battle, that journey through grief.  I wrestled with the goodness of my Father, my faith, His sovereignty, prayer, the curse of sin.

The adoptions of Elijah and Missy, and the births of my 2 boys, Levi and Seth, have changed me, too.  I'm a mom.  And just becoming a mom changes a person.  :-)

Elliana's death - I don't even know how to begin to talk about how it's changed me.  There are things about me that are different.  Lots of things.  And I've heard/read that this person, the one I am now - the mom who has physically cared for a sick and dying child just by carrying her for 7 months, the one who 'fought' for her, who has given birth to her, who has seen her laying in a coffin - this mom is different.  Forever.

But tonight, I saw a little bit of the old 'me'.  The really competitive 'me'.  The one who likes to win, who hates to lose.

The 'old' me that laughs.

I'm glad that I'm different.  Life is supposed to change when a baby is born.  If the birth of a baby is supposed to change me into someone's mom... but that baby, that 'someone', is gone... then something else has to change.

*I* change.

But... I kinda liked hearing the 'old' me laugh.  I think I'm glad that some of the 'old' me is still there.

Can't Remember

I remember so many moments of October 6, 2012 - 9 months ago today.  There are some parts of the day that are 'fuzzy' - I think because I may not have actually slept the night before, and I think I was also on pain meds because of the surgery.   But there are so many moments I remember vividly.

But... a year ago today, I can't remember at all.  July 3, 2012 is etched in stone on my brain.  And much of July 4 is as well.  But July 5, July 6 - I remember my mom came.  She stayed for a few days.  I asked her to come.

But I don't remember anything about them.

Mom, what did we do?  Did I do anything?  Say anything?  Did you just take care of the kids while I existed?  Or did I participate in life?  

I can't remember.  

Nine Months

23 Minutes

I was asked to attend this repeat c-section at 31 weeks, 5 days due to variable fetal heart rate decels.  The mother is a G6P2A3 (6 total pregnancies, 2 living children, 3 early pregnancy losses) with pregnancy complicated by known 9p tetraploidy of the fetus.  Prenatal ultrasound had shown a variety of abnormalities.  Spontaneous rupture of the membranes occurred a few days ago and the patient was admitted.  She received betamethasone and was managed expectantly, having gotten full counseling and a birth plan was in place.  I spoke with the parents tonight prior to the c-section to review their wishes and expectations for resuscitation of their baby.  We agreed that, should the baby show any respiratory effort after suctioning and stimulation, that I would resuscitate with respiratory support, including intubation, then observe for response to this intervention.

At delivery, there was still a large volume of clear amniotic fluid present.  The baby delivered vertex (head first) and had little muscle tone.  We bulb suctioned and gave stimulation, and she made one or two weak cries.  We placed the neopuff on her, but her heart rated dropped to the 60's, so we gave PPV (positive pressure ventilation) with bag and mask instead.  Her heart rate came up and color improved.  I attempted intubation three times.  She had a bilateral cleft lip, small jaw, and rounded tongue, all making visualization of the cords very difficult.  It appeared that the anatomy around her airway had not formed correctly.  Between attempts, we gave PPV with the bag and mask, keeping her heart rate 80-90 with fair color.  I spoke with the parents, who asked me to try one more time to intubate.  I made one more attempt and was able to intubate.  Breath sounds could be heard bilaterally, the heart rate came up to about 130, and her color became pinker, but an air leak could be heard.  This occurred at 14 minutes of life.  We secured the tube and placed the baby into the transporter.  At that time, her color became poor and her heart rate plummeted.  On auscultation (listening for sounds in the body, usually with a stethoscope), I could hear good and equal breath sounds; an assistant verified.  However, the heart rate was very low and her color was very poor.  At this point, I felt that the baby had failed to respond to usual resuscitative measures and that, given the known aneuploidy and malformations, further resuscitation, such as chest compressions and medications, were not warranted and would only serve to prolong the baby's suffering.  We ceased resuscitative efforts at 23 minutes of life.  I spoke with her mother and father, who wished to hold her.  We removed the tube and gave the baby to the parents.  She was having some agonal breaths and a very slow heart rate at that time.

Broken

I did it.  I smashed all (but one of) the glass bottles.

Yesterday, I thought it might be 'time'.  I knew I'd have a few free hours this morning, so I tried to find a 'safe' place for glass smashing.

I had a plan - a friend offered for me to throw all these bottles at their house.  But I was SO afraid that I would miss some of the glass in cleaning up, and that a child or animal would get hurt.

So... I asked a couple people.  Friends who know the area or have connections.  No luck.

I've considered going to the police department to ask if there's a building I could use, but I've been too afraid they'd send me straight to the psych ward.

Then I remembered that I know the city fire marshal.  So I went over to his office, sat down across from him, and said:  'You're going to think I'm crazy.  But do you happen to know of a building that I could use for breaking a whole lot of glass bottles, and NOT get arrested?'

He had a connection to someone who works for someone who owns an empty brick warehouse.

By 8:30pm last night, I had a plan.

And last night, I felt 'good' about the plan.  Sort of.

This morning, when I woke up and the weight of today hit me, I wasn't as sure about the plan.  I think I needed to go and throw all the bottles.  But I was really scared to.  

I don't want to analyze it too much.  That's exhausting.  But I was scared to actually go and throw/break/smash all the bottles.  It was a really big deal.  And it was really personal.  And I was afraid of it.  Really afraid of it.

But... this morning, I gathered some things and put them in the van.  The glass bottles, an empty plastic bin, a broom, a dustpan, socks and tennis shoes (because flip flops and broken glass don't mix), goggles (because my hubby and a sweet friend were worried about my eyes), an ikea bag, and... a cold beer.  Not sure exactly why I threw that in the box, but I'm glad I did.

On my way to the warehouse, I came to an intersection that has recently transitioned from being a 'no left turn' intersection to a 'go ahead and turn left' intersection.  I got to the light, it was green - no oncoming traffic - so I went ahead and turned.  It was only after I started turning that I noticed the 'NO LEFT TURN' sign BACK ON THE STOP LIGHT POLE.

WHAT THE HECK?!!!????

That intersection is only 2 blocks from the police department.  I was certain that I was about to get pulled over, me and my 50 empty beer and wine bottles.  Which, I was certain, would lead to a whole lot of questions.  And who knows what else.

Thankfully, the police were busy elsewhere.  :-)

Once I got to the warehouse, I unloaded my bottles, broom and goggles, and changed my shoes.  A sweet friend parked and waited outside - this warehouse wasn't exactly in a great part of town.

But it was the perfect warehouse.  Vacant.  Dripping water.  Right next to a railroad track.  The dissonant sound of the train's whistle was almost like background 'music' at times.

I'm not sure how much I want to blog about this.  Nothing I want to 'hide', but... I'm not sure how much I want to say.  Not sure how much I can say - it's difficult to put into words.

I can say this - I took one picture today.  I took a 'before' picture.  I think I may post that one.  I didn't take an 'after' picture.  I thought about it, and I didn't want to.

This was 'before'.




I threw the first couple bottles at the brick wall.  They bounced off the wall and shattered on the concrete floor.  Then I just started throwing the bottles at the floor.

It made a huge mess.

I cried.  Sat down on the ikea bag.  Drank the beer.  Cried.  Threw that bottle.

I'm really glad I brought that cold beer, by the way - partly because it just felt 'right'.  Partly because it was really hot in that warehouse.

I threw all but one bottle.  I'm not sure why I didn't throw the last one.  But I didn't want to leave without one bottle intact.

Last time I threw a bottle, I started to feel better only after I started sweeping up the mess.  

This time, I didn't want to clean up the mess.  I just wanted it to be... a mess.  A very big, ugly, broken mess.

My heart is broken.  My life feels broken.  I'm broken.

And *she* was broken.

I Remember

July 3 was harder.  Tuesday was hard.  But July 3 has been harder.

Memories today have been more like flashbacks.

July 3, 2012...

Elijah had spent the night with his best bud, Jeremy and Gina's son.  I remember driving to drop off Levi, Missy, and Seth at a friend's house before the ultrasound.  I got to the stop sign at the end of W Dr, and a song came on the radio.  'All of Me'.

I remember going through the Chick-fil-a drive through before my appointment.  I hadn't had breakfast, and, although my appetite was horrible during my pregnancy with Elliana, I knew that if I didn't eat, I'd feel absolutely awful.  I remember getting water instead of the coke I really wanted - because I was a *good mommy*, and good mommies drink their water when they're pregnant.  I remember seeing a young CFA employee who had Down's Syndrome.

I remember meeting Jason in the waiting room at my doctor's office.  I remember thinking about the 2 pairs of infant pj's we'd gotten just 10 weeks earlier - one blue and one pink.  I remember being excited about finding out which pair of pj's we'd be using.  :-)

I remember being nervous.

I remember being called back to the ultrasound room.  The tech was the same one who'd done our ultrasound of Seth in May (?) 2010.  She was nice.  Not very chatty.  I remember telling her that I'd probably ask a lot of questions.  I remember seeing all the important body parts and organs.  'This is the heart.'  'Here are the kidneys.'  'I'm measuring the head right now.'

'Do you want to know the sex of the baby?'

'It's a little girl.'  :-)

I remember being happy.  That might have been my last purely happy moment.  I've had happy moments since then, but... in the shadow of grief and aching.

I remember that moment.  Being happy.  Pink pajamas.  The cousin trio.

I remember sitting in another waiting room with Jason.  We looked at all of our pictures.  Pictures of our beautiful baby girl.  I remember texting family and close friends with the news:  It's a girl!

I remember moving to an exam room where we were going to see the doctor, just for a quick routine 18-week exam.

I remember the doctor walking in, a doctor I'd never met before.  She looked nervous.  She wasn't smiling.  She introduced herself.  Didn't really make eye contact.

'I've reviewed your baby's ultrasound, and I have some concerns.'

I remember phrases like 'a turned foot', 'possible heart defects', 'underdeveloped cerebellum', 'cleft lip'.

I remember crying.

Something about sending us over to the maternal fetal specialist, and discussing our 'options'.

I remember asking, 'What does this mean?  What are you saying?'  And the doctor's response: 'If she survives until birth, she may live a few hours, or maybe a few days.'

I remember the nurse handing me an entire box of kleenex when we left the office.

More crying.  We had a little time before we had to be at the hospital to see the maternal fetal specialist.  It was lunchtime, but neither of us was hungry.

I remember the tv in the maternal fetal specialist's office.  And the constant news reports about the death of Andy Griffith.

Another (very long) ultrasound.  I wanted to enjoy it - to be happy watching our little girl wiggle, but all I could think was, 'Is that really my baby up on the screen?  The broken one?'

Lots of measurements.  I think Jason asked lots of questions.  The tech was very patient.  Our tech, 'A' - we sort of became friends, I think.  :-)

I remember the specialist coming in and talking to us.  Telling us that everything we'd heard a few hours earlier was accurate.  That our baby girl's prognosis was poor.  That he suspected she had either trisomy 13 or 18.  Both fatal genetic disorders.

I remember not understanding.

The 'options' came up again.  I remember asking what the options were, hoping that there was a 3rd one that I didn't know about.  There wasn't.

And then, the decision about whether or not to have an amniocentesis done.  It was awful.  Just awful.

I remember walking out of the office back into the hospital hallway.  I looked down the hall towards the hospital entrance and saw a great big bunch of pink balloons.  A (happy) mom was leaving the hospital with her (living) baby girl.

I remember sitting in the car with Jason, crying.

I remember going to Qdoba.  I think it was around 3:30 or 4.  I hadn't eaten since breakfast.  But again, I knew that if I didn't eat, I'd feel awful.  Although, feeling worse than I already did was unimaginable.

I remember sitting in the car in the shopping center parking lot, knowing that I had to call my family and tell them.  I made 2 phone calls.  I said it twice.  I cried through both calls.  I couldn't bear to say it again.  And as much as I hated to not be the one to tell the other 2 members of my family, I had to let someone else do it.  I just couldn't.

I remember my head hurting so badly that I was nauseated.  Jason drove us to a nearby drug store and bought some tylenol for me.

I remember talking about whether or not we should drive home together in one car, or drive both vehicles back home so we wouldn't have to deal with getting the other car back home later.  We drove separately.  I drove straight home.  Jason went to pick up the little ones.  Elijah spent one more night with his friend.

I remember pulling into the driveway.  One of my sisters had ordered pizza and had it delivered to our house.  I remember the pizza guy pulling in behind me.

I remember walking up to the basement door and seeing a gift bag.  I could see a little girl's outfit on top.  And I knew.  My dear friend, Beth, had been one of the people I'd texted that morning with the 'it's a girl' news.  Beth had left the gift.

I couldn't take the sweet little girl things out of the gift bag.  It hurt too much.

I remember laying on the couch.  The kids coming home.  Trying to will the headache to go away.

I remember texting Beth, something like 'Need to see you tonight.  Good news turned into a nightmare.' She wrote back that she was at the emergency room with her son, who'd had a seizure, but that she'd come up to my house once they got back home.  That was a long night for Beth.

I remember writing an email to family and close friends, telling them what had happened that day, and asking them to pray.

I remember Beth coming over and sitting on the couch with me.  I remember telling her what I'd heard that day.  I remember her tears.  For a little while that night, I had no more tears to cry.

I don't remember going to bed.  But I remember needing sleep.  Needing to not think anymore.  Or hurt anymore.

How is it that a year has passed?  How is it that she was just here?  And now she's gone?

Nothing is the same.  Everything is different.

Except... Jesus.  He's the same.  He hasn't changed.  I don't get that - that He was good when Elliana was formed, that He was good when I was driving to that ultrasound appointment, and that He was good when we were facing our daughter's mortality.

I don't get it - that He was still good when she died.

I don't get it.  But I know it to be true.  It brings me comfort and pisses me off all at the same time.

Tuesday or July 3

Tuesday, July 3 last year was the day that life turned completely upside down.

I remember scheduling that 18-week ultrasound at one of my June doctor's appointments.  I remember looking at my calendar, and the receptionist suggesting July 3, saying that the office would be closed on the 4th, and 'wouldn't it make your 4th of July celebration a little more fun if you had your ultrasound the day before?'

It was a Tuesday.

So... will tomorrow (Tuesday, July 2) be the horrible, horrible, anniversary/repeat/continual flashback day?  Or will it be Wednesday, July 3, the *actual* anniversary?

Or maybe neither day will be hard.

This is SO unpredictable.

Unpredictable.  

This past Sunday, I played the piano with a great group of guys at a great church, and I really did have a great time. Until about 20 minutes before the end of the second service.

Up until then, I felt pretty good, I could breathe easier, the music - oh, the music - was wonderful.

And out of nowhere, as I sat in the 'green room' with the band waiting for my cue to do a transition, grief showed up.  Like an unwelcome guest.  It was just... there.

It's so unpredictable.  It came, it weighed on my chest, made it hard to breathe again, and made me want to crawl into the big black hole.  Into solitude.  Into that place where I am the mom of a dead child.  And nothing else really matters.

Unpredictable.

Will tomorrow be a hard day?  Or Wednesday?  Or neither day?

Or Thursday?

Friday?

All I know for sure is that a year ago on Tuesday, July 3, I woke up ready to find out if Baby Lindegren was a boy or a girl.  I was hoping for *girl*.  I got ready, dropped the kids off at a friend's house, and drove to my doctor's office.

I parked, rode the elevator up to Floor #2, expecting (but with a slight twinge of doubt) that I'd be riding back down that same elevator in an hour or 2, having heard, 'It's a ______!  Beautiful, healthy baby ______!  Looks like your due date is accurate, keep taking your prenatal vitamins, and come back to see us in a month.'

That's not at all what happened.