For the first time in almost 6 years, there is no crib set up in my house.
Seth (2 years and 8 months) graduated to a toddler bed tonight.
When I talk about him, I can't call him 'my youngest'. Because he's not my youngest. There's another who's younger than him.
But here, on this earth, he's the youngest one I have with me. And I know I spoil him. I still lay down with him at nap time - he falls asleep, snuggled up next to me. He loves to be carried around on my hip, and I indulge him (and he's little enough that I can still do it fairly easily). One of us (usually Jason) sits in his bedroom while he falls asleep at night, because it brings him (and me) comfort.
I don't have my Elliana here at home to hold and snuggle, so I guess I have held and snuggled Seth a bit more than I should.
But I figure it's ok. For now. It's ok.
The crib is gone.
Her absence feels so very big tonight, and it just hurts.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Weeping Willow
I went to a wedding yesterday. One of my piano students got married. I feel really old. :-)
I don't purposefully look for Elliana in every situation or circumstance I'm in. I do have special ways of remembering her. Like my yellow purse. Or the 2 calendars in my house that are still hanging on the October 2012 page. I do seek ways to remember her. And honor her place in our family, even though she's not living in our home.
Sometimes, when I'm least expecting it, she's just there - or rather, the heaviness of her absence is just there.
Like at the wedding yesterday. I really wasn't expecting the wedding to be difficult, except for having to be in a large group of people.
But when 'dad' was giving the bride away, Elliana's absence, and her absence 20+ years from now, was just staring me in the face.
After the ceremony, there was a pre-reception. I didn't intend to stay, but I had to walk through the pre-reception area to get to the parking lot. I stopped at a sweet display of photos of the bride and groom, just to look for a minute. Another couple, who buried their oldest child a few (?) years ago, came over to the photo display. I haven't talked to this couple in months - maybe even years. But when they came over and said 'hey' to me, I *think* I saw a great deal of compassion. And understanding. It was on their faces, and in their voices. Even in just that one word. Things like that just... help.
The wedding took place only a few minutes from the cemetery, so when I left the wedding, I stopped at the cemetery for a few minutes.
Something's been bothering me the last few times I've gone to the cemetery. One of our neighbor's (not Baby Boy, who was buried just a week after Elliana) has some new flowers. I have issues with the new flowers.
They're really big. Like, way too tall for that little vase, which means they're leaning to the side. Guess which way they're leaning. And these are tiny plots, just big enough for babies, so they're really close together.
And they're 'cascading' kinds of flowers. Which means that they're cascading almost on Elliana's flowers and stone.
I've tried 'fixing' the too-tall, cascading flowers - trying to get them to cascade closer to the 'correct' stone. And they're fine when I leave the cemetery, but when I go back, there they are - crowding the only place on this Earth I can claim as my little girl's.
Yesterday, when I drove up and saw those &$!# cascading flowers invading my territory, and feeling the affects of several days in the big black hole, I just about lost it. But when I got out of the car and knelt down to touch Elliana's stone, I was able to 'see' the neighbor's flowers differently. At that moment, the cascading flowers reminded me of a weeping willow. They sort of looked like flowing tears.
And all of a sudden, they became a picture of compassion.
When I left the cemetery, I didn't have any more issues with the cascade. I love it. And I'll be sad when that neighbor has new flowers.
I don't purposefully look for Elliana in every situation or circumstance I'm in. I do have special ways of remembering her. Like my yellow purse. Or the 2 calendars in my house that are still hanging on the October 2012 page. I do seek ways to remember her. And honor her place in our family, even though she's not living in our home.
Sometimes, when I'm least expecting it, she's just there - or rather, the heaviness of her absence is just there.
Like at the wedding yesterday. I really wasn't expecting the wedding to be difficult, except for having to be in a large group of people.
But when 'dad' was giving the bride away, Elliana's absence, and her absence 20+ years from now, was just staring me in the face.
After the ceremony, there was a pre-reception. I didn't intend to stay, but I had to walk through the pre-reception area to get to the parking lot. I stopped at a sweet display of photos of the bride and groom, just to look for a minute. Another couple, who buried their oldest child a few (?) years ago, came over to the photo display. I haven't talked to this couple in months - maybe even years. But when they came over and said 'hey' to me, I *think* I saw a great deal of compassion. And understanding. It was on their faces, and in their voices. Even in just that one word. Things like that just... help.
The wedding took place only a few minutes from the cemetery, so when I left the wedding, I stopped at the cemetery for a few minutes.
Something's been bothering me the last few times I've gone to the cemetery. One of our neighbor's (not Baby Boy, who was buried just a week after Elliana) has some new flowers. I have issues with the new flowers.
They're really big. Like, way too tall for that little vase, which means they're leaning to the side. Guess which way they're leaning. And these are tiny plots, just big enough for babies, so they're really close together.
And they're 'cascading' kinds of flowers. Which means that they're cascading almost on Elliana's flowers and stone.
I've tried 'fixing' the too-tall, cascading flowers - trying to get them to cascade closer to the 'correct' stone. And they're fine when I leave the cemetery, but when I go back, there they are - crowding the only place on this Earth I can claim as my little girl's.
Yesterday, when I drove up and saw those &$!# cascading flowers invading my territory, and feeling the affects of several days in the big black hole, I just about lost it. But when I got out of the car and knelt down to touch Elliana's stone, I was able to 'see' the neighbor's flowers differently. At that moment, the cascading flowers reminded me of a weeping willow. They sort of looked like flowing tears.
And all of a sudden, they became a picture of compassion.
When I left the cemetery, I didn't have any more issues with the cascade. I love it. And I'll be sad when that neighbor has new flowers.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Glass
I blog more on hard days.
Not all days are hard. Some are manageable. Some days are so busy that I don't have enough time to let the weight of grief feel so heavy. Some days I laugh more, get more done, can breathe easier. It's always there - the weight of grief - but some days, it's just kind of like... background noise, maybe?
Most days, I can stay out of the big black hole, and stay afloat.
But the past few days, the big black hole won.
This morning, Jason took all the kids out for a couple hours. I had a list a mile long of things I could have done. But I'm finding that when I have 'down time', I usually wind up not being able to decide what to do, and then I start thinking. And then crying. It's just a great big downward spiral.
I did manage to get one load of clothes out of the dryer, and another load started. I sat down on the steps to try to decide what to do next. I started thinking. And the thinking did not go in the direction of what to do next. My thoughts went to Elliana.
And then the tears started.
Then, I realized I'd been sitting there for 15 minutes, just thinking (and crying).
And then, I got angry. *Really* angry.
Remember that desire I've had to throw something? Yeah. Desire became reality today.
I remembered an empty beer bottle we had in the recycling bin at the top of the steps.
I went and got the beer bottle.
I went through my basement door into the driveway.
I walked (And that's not nearly a strong enough word, by the way - what's stronger than 'walking'? Marching? Whatever it was, it was very purposeful.) around the great big bin holding all of the kids' riding toys.
Just looked up the word 'throw' in the virtual thesaurus. My favorite synonyms are bold.
Then I heaved/catapulted/launched that beer bottle at the brick wall.
It made the best sound EVER. And it shattered into so many pieces. And the pieces went everywhere.
Then I sat down in the driveway and cried.
I didn't actually feel better until I got the broom and dustpan, and started sweeping up the broken glass. Once I started sweeping, I felt like I could breathe again. Breaking that glass bottle helped.
And I wanted more. I wanted to break more, shatter more, make a bigger mess.
I wanted to go upstairs and get some of my breakable dishes. But, I do have to think somewhat practically. I do have children who play in and walk through the driveway a lot. I do have to think about keeping the driveway safe, and not only of using it for anger management and creating a pool of broken glass.
Not all days are hard. Some are manageable. Some days are so busy that I don't have enough time to let the weight of grief feel so heavy. Some days I laugh more, get more done, can breathe easier. It's always there - the weight of grief - but some days, it's just kind of like... background noise, maybe?
Most days, I can stay out of the big black hole, and stay afloat.
But the past few days, the big black hole won.
This morning, Jason took all the kids out for a couple hours. I had a list a mile long of things I could have done. But I'm finding that when I have 'down time', I usually wind up not being able to decide what to do, and then I start thinking. And then crying. It's just a great big downward spiral.
I did manage to get one load of clothes out of the dryer, and another load started. I sat down on the steps to try to decide what to do next. I started thinking. And the thinking did not go in the direction of what to do next. My thoughts went to Elliana.
And then the tears started.
Then, I realized I'd been sitting there for 15 minutes, just thinking (and crying).
And then, I got angry. *Really* angry.
Remember that desire I've had to throw something? Yeah. Desire became reality today.
I remembered an empty beer bottle we had in the recycling bin at the top of the steps.
I went and got the beer bottle.
I went through my basement door into the driveway.
I walked (And that's not nearly a strong enough word, by the way - what's stronger than 'walking'? Marching? Whatever it was, it was very purposeful.) around the great big bin holding all of the kids' riding toys.
Just looked up the word 'throw' in the virtual thesaurus. My favorite synonyms are bold.
THROW (throh)
Part of Speech: verb
Definition: propel
something through the air
Synonyms: bandy,
barrage, bombard, buck, bunt, butt,
cant, cast, catapult, chuck, dash,
deliver, discharge, dislodge, drive,
fell, fire, flick, fling, fling off, flip, floor, force, heave, hurl, impel, lapidate, launch,
letfly, let go, lift, lob, overturn, overwhelm, peg, pellet, pelt, pepper, pitch, precipitate, project, push, put, scatter, send, shove, shower, shy, sling, splatter,
spray, sprinkle, start, stone, strew, thrust,
toss, tumble, unhorse, unseat, upset, volley, waft
Then I heaved/catapulted/launched that beer bottle at the brick wall.
It made the best sound EVER. And it shattered into so many pieces. And the pieces went everywhere.
Then I sat down in the driveway and cried.
I didn't actually feel better until I got the broom and dustpan, and started sweeping up the broken glass. Once I started sweeping, I felt like I could breathe again. Breaking that glass bottle helped.
And I wanted more. I wanted to break more, shatter more, make a bigger mess.
I wanted to go upstairs and get some of my breakable dishes. But, I do have to think somewhat practically. I do have children who play in and walk through the driveway a lot. I do have to think about keeping the driveway safe, and not only of using it for anger management and creating a pool of broken glass.
Friday, April 19, 2013
*Here*, Part 2
I don't think it was just the couple across the aisle that got me *here* - where I was last night. Unable to focus or write.
It was lots of things.
It was the start of my day - an interaction with one of my children that was necessary, but draining.
It was the challenge to look at life as 'glass-half-full'. I had 2 simultaneous (and silent) responses to this challenge: 1) Maybe I could give that a try? 2) Take a baseball bat to the nearest storefront window and smash it to pieces, and then use my (beautiful, new, bright yellow, and very large) purse* as a weapon of sorts against the 'challenger'. Don't think I would have actually hit this person - she was very sweet and sincere.
*My purse. I'm not a bright color, lots of accessories, add-a-pop-of-color kind of girl. But right after my appointment with the neonatologist, I had a little time to kill. And since I only had one of my children with me, I wandered into a store that I'd heard about - Charming Charlie's. I looked around for a while, never really intending to buy anything. But I've become a bit of a spontaneous shopper, and when I saw the big, bright yellow purse, it made me smile - reminding me of my little ray of sunshine, Elliana. So I got it. It's the best purse ever. And it would make a good weapon, but I like it too much to hit anybody with it. :-)
It was the walk through the zoo with 2 of my boys and being around so many people. Being with my boys at the zoo was good. Seeing their smiles and excitement was good. Being around all those people, even though I didn't know or really talk to any of them, was tiring.
It was the trip to Hobby Lobby, specifically for the purpose of getting more pink and white flowers for Elliana's vase at the 'garden' (that's what my little ones call the cemetery - Elliana's garden). I sort of enjoy picking out flowers, especially with the help of my kids. Levi (5) asks things like, 'Do you think Elliana would like these?' and 'If I make Elliana a card, how can we get it to her?'
It was the hour-and-a-half of teaching piano students. Although I enjoy teaching, it was just... more people. I like those people, by the way - my students. They're sweet girls. :-)
And then it was the school recital, the one I wrote about last night. Sitting in a room full of people. Most, I don't know. And most, I didn't talk to. I tend to 'hide' in crowds. It's in a crowd of people that I can feel most alone, and I just want to crawl into a hole.
And... the baby girl I wrote about last night. I know the 'dad' of this couple who sat across the aisle from me. I haven't talked to him in years. But I know that this is his first baby, and even though I never actually looked at him, I could tell that he might be a bit smitten with his daughter. As he should be. :-)
It was so many things that got me to that point last night. Where I just couldn't think a complete thought anymore. Didn't want to think anymore.
Maybe one day, it won't hurt quite so much.
It was lots of things.
It was the start of my day - an interaction with one of my children that was necessary, but draining.
It was the challenge to look at life as 'glass-half-full'. I had 2 simultaneous (and silent) responses to this challenge: 1) Maybe I could give that a try? 2) Take a baseball bat to the nearest storefront window and smash it to pieces, and then use my (beautiful, new, bright yellow, and very large) purse* as a weapon of sorts against the 'challenger'. Don't think I would have actually hit this person - she was very sweet and sincere.
*My purse. I'm not a bright color, lots of accessories, add-a-pop-of-color kind of girl. But right after my appointment with the neonatologist, I had a little time to kill. And since I only had one of my children with me, I wandered into a store that I'd heard about - Charming Charlie's. I looked around for a while, never really intending to buy anything. But I've become a bit of a spontaneous shopper, and when I saw the big, bright yellow purse, it made me smile - reminding me of my little ray of sunshine, Elliana. So I got it. It's the best purse ever. And it would make a good weapon, but I like it too much to hit anybody with it. :-)
It was the walk through the zoo with 2 of my boys and being around so many people. Being with my boys at the zoo was good. Seeing their smiles and excitement was good. Being around all those people, even though I didn't know or really talk to any of them, was tiring.
It was the trip to Hobby Lobby, specifically for the purpose of getting more pink and white flowers for Elliana's vase at the 'garden' (that's what my little ones call the cemetery - Elliana's garden). I sort of enjoy picking out flowers, especially with the help of my kids. Levi (5) asks things like, 'Do you think Elliana would like these?' and 'If I make Elliana a card, how can we get it to her?'
It was the hour-and-a-half of teaching piano students. Although I enjoy teaching, it was just... more people. I like those people, by the way - my students. They're sweet girls. :-)
And then it was the school recital, the one I wrote about last night. Sitting in a room full of people. Most, I don't know. And most, I didn't talk to. I tend to 'hide' in crowds. It's in a crowd of people that I can feel most alone, and I just want to crawl into a hole.
And... the baby girl I wrote about last night. I know the 'dad' of this couple who sat across the aisle from me. I haven't talked to him in years. But I know that this is his first baby, and even though I never actually looked at him, I could tell that he might be a bit smitten with his daughter. As he should be. :-)
It was so many things that got me to that point last night. Where I just couldn't think a complete thought anymore. Didn't want to think anymore.
Maybe one day, it won't hurt quite so much.
*Here*
Thoughts are turning like a storm in my head - just can't sort them all out.
Do 'stages of grief' (I hate the stages of grief - makes me feel like I'm living out a formula) repeat themselves over and over and over again? Because I'm back in that ADD/can't-focus-on-anything mode.
Even in trying to write, I can't focus on the computer screen. Or finish a thought.
***OK, I give up. I've started writing this post three or four times now, and it's just not working.
Maybe tomorrow.
What got me *here*?
Perhaps it was the couple sitting across the aisle from me at a school recital tonight. Or rather, their baby girl. Partway through the recital, 'mom' walked in and quietly took the aisle seat next to her husband. I never actually looked at them, but out of the corner of my eye, I could tell that the baby, probably five or six months old, had fallen asleep on her mother's chest.
And it made that empty space on my chest feel so very heavy.
Do 'stages of grief' (I hate the stages of grief - makes me feel like I'm living out a formula) repeat themselves over and over and over again? Because I'm back in that ADD/can't-focus-on-anything mode.
Even in trying to write, I can't focus on the computer screen. Or finish a thought.
***OK, I give up. I've started writing this post three or four times now, and it's just not working.
Maybe tomorrow.
What got me *here*?
Perhaps it was the couple sitting across the aisle from me at a school recital tonight. Or rather, their baby girl. Partway through the recital, 'mom' walked in and quietly took the aisle seat next to her husband. I never actually looked at them, but out of the corner of my eye, I could tell that the baby, probably five or six months old, had fallen asleep on her mother's chest.
And it made that empty space on my chest feel so very heavy.
Friday, April 12, 2013
That Death May Die
Crown Him the Lord of life
Who triumphed o'er the grave
And rose victorious in the strife
For those He came to save
His glories now we sing
Who died, and rose on high
Who died eternal life to bring...
...And lives that death may die.
Who triumphed o'er the grave
And rose victorious in the strife
For those He came to save
His glories now we sing
Who died, and rose on high
Who died eternal life to bring...
...And lives that death may die.
Friday, April 5, 2013
23 Minutes
Our personal belief is that our daughter's life began long before the moment she was born. Her life began when she was conceived. And her life, no matter how short it was, has changed me forever.
I wouldn't have it any other way. :-)
I guess, in my mind, Elliana's life sort of has 3 parts to it.
The longest part of her life was spent growing inside of me - about 7 months.
The shortest part of her life was spent under the hands of a doctor who was trying to save her - 23 minutes.
The last part of her life was spent laying on my chest and in her daddy's arms, with a couple other brief visits in loving arms, where she took her last few breaths and her heart slowly stopped beating - 2 hours and 56 minutes.
These are Elliana's delivery notes - the details of part of her story. I paraphrased at times.
On October 5, 2012, exactly 6 months ago tonight...
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. 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.
I wouldn't have it any other way. :-)
I guess, in my mind, Elliana's life sort of has 3 parts to it.
The longest part of her life was spent growing inside of me - about 7 months.
The shortest part of her life was spent under the hands of a doctor who was trying to save her - 23 minutes.
The last part of her life was spent laying on my chest and in her daddy's arms, with a couple other brief visits in loving arms, where she took her last few breaths and her heart slowly stopped beating - 2 hours and 56 minutes.
These are Elliana's delivery notes - the details of part of her story. I paraphrased at times.
On October 5, 2012, exactly 6 months ago tonight...
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. 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.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)