If you asked me how I've been doing lately, I've decided what I will tell you. I'll tell you what I've been doing. I could tell you how I've been doing, but that would take much longer. Longer than most people are looking for. So I'll tell you:
1. The first week after Marshall died, I started learning how to live again without him.
2. The second week, I planned his memorial and put together his scrapbook.
3. The third week, I started remodeling the upstairs bathroom. By myself. It's looking pretty good.
I found that there is a fine line between nothing and crazy, after you lose a child. There are many mornings when I wake up and cannot make myself get out of bed for a good thirty minutes. I feel nothing. I think so many things, like "Brittany, go get your butt in the shower. Get dressed. Get coffee. Do something. Anything." But I can't do it. I just lay there like a limp noodle until finally I start scaring myself with my nonchalance and start moving. Then, the key is to keep moving. Because once you stop- once you pause in the shower, or sit down on the couch, the nothing starts again. And then you have to worry about the one thing worse than nothing. Feeling everything- all of the pain and grief and lost hopes- they threaten to come flooding in if the nothing sticks around long enough.
So to combat the nothing, I discovered crazy. At least, what most people would consider crazy. Like consuming nothing all day but two cups of coffee until your husband comes home and you realize you really need to eat. But you didn't feel like eating prior to that anyway, because you were putting together your son's memorial program and deciding whether or not to bury him, and what cemetery, or should you keep the ashes at the house for a while? Like standing up for 10 hours straight at the kitchen counter working on his scrapbook without any breaks so that it would be done in time for the service. Because it had to be perfect. Because you know you'll never get to plan anything for him again. No birthdays, no Christmases, no Halloween costumes. So you put everything into those colorful pages, which seems crazy. To post pictures in a book of you smiling and pregnant, when you feel your heart physically breaking inside your chest. Like picking paint colors based on their name because you know somehow, it will make you feel closer to him. Drinking 6 glasses of wine in the hopes that it will make your mind turn off, just for a while. But it doesn't. Crazy.
I'm either running crazy 100 miles an hour, or sitting and drowning in a sense of complete hopelessness. But I guess, maybe crazy at this point in life is actually normal for recovery. Or at least I hope it is. Because it's the only way I know how. I just have to remember to pray, in the middle of all the crazy, because I know God is the only one who can save me.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Holding Marshall
To tell you the story of holding Marshall, I have to start at the end. To the part where I'm holding Marshall and saying you'll have to tell me when to let go, otherwise I'll hold him forever. It's very important for me to tell you that choosing to see and hold our son is one of the best decisions Kevin and I have ever made, because we had (kind) counsel to otherwise, and I need others who may go through, or know someone in the same situation, to know there is a light at the end of the dark delivery tunnel. Taking pictures was also a wonderful decision. Just look at how beautiful he is. It's strange to say, that the day of Marshall's birth is a day I never wish to forget, but it's true. It was the worst and also the best day of our lives. Because the day we lost our baby boy is also the first time we were able to hold him in our arms and kiss his precious face. But I know it won't be the last. Because God's plans are so much bigger than our days here on earth. Now, back to the beginning of the story.
After our OB and Kevin had convinced me that induction and natural delivery was safer and a better choice emotionally in the long run, I was transferred to a delivery room on the L&D unit. I sat staring at the radiant warmer and ambu bag and mask, which had been prepared to keep a live baby healthy, warm, and breathing. I thought how sad it was that the warmer would never be turned on for our little Tidbit, that there was no delivery team that would be called upon despite the fact that my son was a 24-weeker.
I thought being a NICU nurse would be a huge help during pregnancy and after delivery, but it turns out, it made things so much harder to lose my baby. For example, I knew that at 24 weeks gestation, my son had a good chance of surviving outside the womb, albeit with possible complications definitely not limited to but including vision and hearing problems, developmental delays, and brain bleeds. Nothing any mother would want. But in many cases, better than no life at all, I'm sure an overwhelming majority of NICU graduate mothers would agree. I also knew how easy it would have been for me to have been checked out at my work earlier that day, if I had really thought there was a problem. He could of survived. He could have made it. Those words kept echoing in my head. But you didn't catch it soon enough, I scolded myself. The guilt was almost more than I could bear. I'm sorry Tidbit, I whispered to him. I'm sorry, I told my husband. I'm sorry, I"m sorry. Everyone said, it's not your fault. We cannot interfere with God's plans. And this, I knew I could not argue with, but still the guilt clawed its way out from under any blanket of comfort I was offered.
Our nurse's name was Sherry. She did the best thing anyone could have possibly done for us at that point. She understood. I would never, never wish what we went through on anyone. Not my worst enemy. Not the most vile person on earth. But she had gone through what we went through. She was going on about her normal life and lived to tell about it. I cannot remember the exact details of her story, because I was not in my right mind at that point- I was doing good remembering to breathe. But I do remember she lost her baby much too late. Later than statistically she should have. l remember reading through the "Day by Day" pregnancy book I had when we reached 12 weeks. Look! I sang out to Kevin happily, it says here miscarriage after 12 weeks is less than 1%!. But less than one percent means it happens to somebody. I am somebody. Since then, I found out it only occurs in about 1 of every 160 pregnancies. Loss of pregnancy after 20 weeks gestation is called stillbirth, or fetal demise, and is pretty rare. So if it had to happen to 2 people, nurse and patient, I thought later it must have been God's hand that placed us in that room at the same time that night.
Sherry told us how for a second, she had wanted to change her assignment, that it might be too hard. But she didn't. And I'm so grateful. She didn't try to be overly cheerful. She wasn't silent, in fear of saying the wrong thing. She shared her story with us, cried with us, and mostly was there, still able to live. My doctor ordered every blood test imaginable in the hopes of knowing what caused our son's heart to stop beating. The ultrasound gave nothing away. Both the IV and blood work required 2 sticks each, which I didn't mind, because in comparison, the pain was nothing compared to what I was already feeling. Plus I"m a nurse, so I understood completely. My veins roll. I didn't know it at the time, but later I would be grateful for the bruises and mourn their disappearance. My battle scars. Proof that I delivered my son, in the same as any other mother. Physical evidence of my loss.
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It's hard to remember the timing, but I believe they started my induction around 4 or 5am- we had arrived at the hospital a little after 11pm and recieved the ultrasound around midnight. The plan was to give me 4 doses of the induction medication a few hours apart, but after the 2nd dose I developed a low grade fever which quickly spiked after the 3rd dose (I believe my highest temp was 104 just before Marshall was born) so they decided to skip the last dose in the hopes that my body would do the rest.
I had never experienced labor before, and I hadn't started research at this point. As the contractions gained strength I kept turning down the epidural. I remember watching Friends and actually laughing at one point (it was the episode where Phoebe is obsessed with Monica & Chandler's new arcade game). I was confused by this, as I was so deep in grief, and yet I somehow laughed for a couple of brief seconds. I felt so guilty at the time, but looking back I guess it was my body's compensation mechanism for distracting me just for a moment, as long as I would allow. As my fever increased, I started shaking and couldn't stop (my guess is a combination of the drugs and emotional shock), and I wanted more and more covers piled on. I was incredibly shaky on my feet but cautiously made my way to the bathroom and looked in despair at the sign on the door regarding car seat safety "Give your baby the best start possible" or something like that. But my baby would never get a start in this world. I returned to the bed and again turned down the epidural. I don't really know why. I think somehow I wanted my emotional and physical distress to match; I wanted to do things naturally as I had planned for a live birth; I wanted to feel something and was afraid of feeling nothing both physically and emotionally.
But finally... they convinced me of the epidural. My body was finally able to relax just a little. Our sweet little boy came soon after.
I'll never forget that moment. It was about 12 hours after labor induction started. My doctor wasn't there yet but I felt a huge gush followed shortly after by a very strong urge to push. I told my husband to get the nurse, because Marshall was coming now and I couldn't wait any longer. It hurt, pushing Marshall out. I was surprised, but then again not very familiar with epidurals, and later I was so glad to have felt every part of the experience, giving birth to our son.
I looked down as Marshall was born and felt so proud as I looked at my little boy, somehow bigger than I had imagined him to be at 24 weeks. He was just so... perfect. So tiny but big. It felt like my heart was breaking in two, and still does every time I remember that moment. I reached out for him and realized that I never, ever wanted to stop holding him. I remember saying, he looks just like his Daddy. He even had dark hair like Kevin. I kissed his eyes and traced his lips and ears; I felt his little fingers wrapped around mine; discovered his long little feet the size of my thumbs. All I wanted to do was hold him and keep him warm.
I ached to see him breathe; see his eyes; hear his cry. He was just so beautiful.
We swaddled him tight and took lots of pictures that I will treasure forever. We held him. We smiled through our tears because somehow this was both the hardest and happiest day of our lives all at once.
We heard the nurse in the room next door exclaim to another patient, "It's a healthy little boy! Congratulations! Now you have one of each-so exciting!" I was happy for the women but cried harder realizing even more deeply our loss, those future memories we would never be able to make with Marshall.
About an hour or two later the nurses rolled me to the postpartum unit. As we passed rooms with new healthy babies, I held our little boy who had already left this life in my arms. He fit so well right against my chest, right next to my heartbeat, which had soothed him his whole life.
The nurses told us that we could hold Marshall as long as we wanted. I like to think that God allowed Marshall to rest in his body for those precious hours that we held him. I think he did. Our little boy just looked so peaceful, so content. When I could no longer keep his little body warm, I couldn't bear it. So we called the nurses, who came and took our little boy away, wearing his tiny blue hat (a gift from volunteers that I will be forever grateful for) and his little green blanket. We couldn't bear to think of him without them.
I like to think, and have a beautiful image in my head, of an angel coming down and cradling our precious son in loving arms or nestled in warm angel wings on the way back to heaven. In my mind, I see the transfer of Marshall to the angel's arms occurring at just the same moment that we handed his little body to the nurse. Now, Jesus and the angels could keep him warm., hold him tight, and love him truly & deeply forever.
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Finding Out
The day before I delivered Marshall, I had been working my normal 12-hour shift, 7a-7p at the hospital. I work in the level 2 Neonatal ICU, with four babies to look after, so needless to say I had been quite busy that day. I thought during lunch and at the end of my shift, that I hadn't felt my little Tidbit kicking as much as normal. In my head I reassured myself this was most likely because I was busy and didn't have as much time to notice little movements, even though his kicks were usually so strong, especially for his age. I was about 5 1/2 months along at the time. In fact, just the day before his Daddy saw his kicks right through my pink dress for the first time. Oh, we had been so excited! So when I didn't feel kicks, I didn't freak out right away. I think I remembered him kicking that morning, I wasn't having any cramps or spotting, and a couple weeks prior, at our Gender reveal party, my sister-in-law, who is the mother to our then 5-month old nephew, had stated that during her pregnancy, she had at least one day where she didn't feel the baby moving at all. She said she had been scared, but everything had been fine. I took this as a reassurance that day, but now I curse the fact that we ever had that conversation. No matter how many people reassure me that it wasn't my fault, and no matter how much I believe that God would have called Marshall home no matter what if it was his time... Despite all this I still feel guilty, because I should have done something sooner. I work in the NICU, for crying out loud! My building is connected to the L&D building, which makes all of this so much harder to bear. I should have walked across the bridge to be checked on my lunch break. I should have stayed after work, instead of driving home. I should have been a better mother. I should have known, I should have known! But in my heart, I do believe God has a plan. That we cannot interfere. And in order to keep moving on with life, I have to constantly remind myself through the guilt that God would have taken him no matter what.
So that night after work on my way home, I picked up pizza and cinnamon bread sticks, then went home to Kevin. I told him I was worried about Tidbit, but he didn't want to be anxious too soon, and neither did I, so we did what you're supposed to do in these situations. I ate pizza and breadsticks, and waited. Still no kicks. I drank something cold and laid on my left side for 30 minutes while we watched How I Met Your Mother. Still no kicks. Kevin said maybe we can sleep and in the morning go to the hospital if still no movement (at this point it was about 11pm). But I said no, I won't be able to sleep. Let's call the doctor. So we did. And thank God, our OB was on-call. She said calmly yes, we should drive to the hospital, and when I asked her if this happens sometimes, she said well- if you've been feeling movements every day, they should not decrease, and since you've already tried eating something sweet and drinking something cold, lying on your side, it's probably best you get checked at the hospital- they may be able to pick up the heartbeat right away, but in case they don't, go to Memorial Hermann Southwest, so I can meet you there if there are problems.
On the way to the hospital Kevin and I discussed how we knew we were probably over-reacting, but how it was better to be safe. I felt several gas bubbles and wondered if that was kicks, thinking how I would feel foolish if everything was ok, but usually his kicks were so well-defined that I never questioned them, and now I was. We talked about how it would feel good to sleep in our bed later that night after we were reassured that everything was ok.
Everything wasn't ok. The ER sent us up to L&D right away, but when the nurse tried to find Tidbit's heartbeat, she couldn't. I thought I heard it at one point, but she said no, that's the placenta. I held onto hope that the placenta was ok, so that must mean he was ok. The nurse called the charge nurse in, and still no luck, so they called our OB. Apparently it would take her 15-20 minutes to arrive, and she would do an ultrasound. I asked several times why couldn't a resident there on the floor do the ultrasound? Insurance, insurance coverage... we have to wait for the doctor. By this time I was nervous but told myself everything would be ok. Kevin said the machines they were using were more outdated than the ones in his vet clinic, which I found hard to believe but took some comfort in. I went to the bathroom again to kill time.
Finally she arrived to do the ultrasound. My eyes immediately went to the area where Tidbit's heartbeat should have been. By this time in my pregnancy I was well-adept at this skill, but in confusion I stared instead at lifeless chambers, hoping I was looking in the wrong place. She carefully pointed out where the baby's head, arms, and legs were to the nursing standing beside her, before going back to the emptiness and stating, and that's where the heartbeat should be. Your baby's heart isn't beating. My world crashed around me as I turned my head towards Kevin and felt the deepest despair and anguish I pray that I will ever feel. I was sobbing so hard and in such shock that I don't even remember how Kevin responded, but he later told me his legs gave out, and he was kneeling on the floor beside the bed.
The next thing I remember is Kevin saying, We have to be strong, we have to be strong. I remember looking at the doctor and saying, what now? She told me I would have to be induced and deliver naturally, and I looked at her in horror. I pray that no one will ever have to experience this, but for those who have, I think they would agree with me that this is a mother's greatest nightmare. To go through the pain and expectation of labor just to deliver her dead baby. I cannot describe in words how horrible this moment in time was, how the world started spinning and crashing all at once. No, I told her. No. I want to do a C-section. Graciously but firmly she explained that not only would this be a bigger stress and risk on my body, but that it would leave a scar that would be a constant reminder every day. Kevin said Brittany, you can't do that. I can't lose you. We can't risk that... Still I didn't agree. I asked her a couple more times over the next few hours to explain again why natural delivery was necessary, and she did. She never got annoyed, but was firm, which I am so grateful for. She never said absolutely not, but in a way, she and Kevin gave me no choice. So I finally agreed to be induced, to deliver our dead baby boy.
The next several hours, it was all I could do to stay alive each minute. I couldn't see any further ahead in time than that. My mind could not and would not grasp what was about to happen.
So that night after work on my way home, I picked up pizza and cinnamon bread sticks, then went home to Kevin. I told him I was worried about Tidbit, but he didn't want to be anxious too soon, and neither did I, so we did what you're supposed to do in these situations. I ate pizza and breadsticks, and waited. Still no kicks. I drank something cold and laid on my left side for 30 minutes while we watched How I Met Your Mother. Still no kicks. Kevin said maybe we can sleep and in the morning go to the hospital if still no movement (at this point it was about 11pm). But I said no, I won't be able to sleep. Let's call the doctor. So we did. And thank God, our OB was on-call. She said calmly yes, we should drive to the hospital, and when I asked her if this happens sometimes, she said well- if you've been feeling movements every day, they should not decrease, and since you've already tried eating something sweet and drinking something cold, lying on your side, it's probably best you get checked at the hospital- they may be able to pick up the heartbeat right away, but in case they don't, go to Memorial Hermann Southwest, so I can meet you there if there are problems.
On the way to the hospital Kevin and I discussed how we knew we were probably over-reacting, but how it was better to be safe. I felt several gas bubbles and wondered if that was kicks, thinking how I would feel foolish if everything was ok, but usually his kicks were so well-defined that I never questioned them, and now I was. We talked about how it would feel good to sleep in our bed later that night after we were reassured that everything was ok.
Everything wasn't ok. The ER sent us up to L&D right away, but when the nurse tried to find Tidbit's heartbeat, she couldn't. I thought I heard it at one point, but she said no, that's the placenta. I held onto hope that the placenta was ok, so that must mean he was ok. The nurse called the charge nurse in, and still no luck, so they called our OB. Apparently it would take her 15-20 minutes to arrive, and she would do an ultrasound. I asked several times why couldn't a resident there on the floor do the ultrasound? Insurance, insurance coverage... we have to wait for the doctor. By this time I was nervous but told myself everything would be ok. Kevin said the machines they were using were more outdated than the ones in his vet clinic, which I found hard to believe but took some comfort in. I went to the bathroom again to kill time.
Finally she arrived to do the ultrasound. My eyes immediately went to the area where Tidbit's heartbeat should have been. By this time in my pregnancy I was well-adept at this skill, but in confusion I stared instead at lifeless chambers, hoping I was looking in the wrong place. She carefully pointed out where the baby's head, arms, and legs were to the nursing standing beside her, before going back to the emptiness and stating, and that's where the heartbeat should be. Your baby's heart isn't beating. My world crashed around me as I turned my head towards Kevin and felt the deepest despair and anguish I pray that I will ever feel. I was sobbing so hard and in such shock that I don't even remember how Kevin responded, but he later told me his legs gave out, and he was kneeling on the floor beside the bed.
The next thing I remember is Kevin saying, We have to be strong, we have to be strong. I remember looking at the doctor and saying, what now? She told me I would have to be induced and deliver naturally, and I looked at her in horror. I pray that no one will ever have to experience this, but for those who have, I think they would agree with me that this is a mother's greatest nightmare. To go through the pain and expectation of labor just to deliver her dead baby. I cannot describe in words how horrible this moment in time was, how the world started spinning and crashing all at once. No, I told her. No. I want to do a C-section. Graciously but firmly she explained that not only would this be a bigger stress and risk on my body, but that it would leave a scar that would be a constant reminder every day. Kevin said Brittany, you can't do that. I can't lose you. We can't risk that... Still I didn't agree. I asked her a couple more times over the next few hours to explain again why natural delivery was necessary, and she did. She never got annoyed, but was firm, which I am so grateful for. She never said absolutely not, but in a way, she and Kevin gave me no choice. So I finally agreed to be induced, to deliver our dead baby boy.
The next several hours, it was all I could do to stay alive each minute. I couldn't see any further ahead in time than that. My mind could not and would not grasp what was about to happen.
Sharing Marshall's Pictures
Tonight I put pictures of my son on Facebook. He was born 2 weeks ago today, on February 26, 2013 at 4:50pm. 13 inches long, 626 grams (1 pound 6 ounces), 24 weeks gestation, and absolutely beautiful. The only thing is, he passed away before I was able to deliver him. I will talk more about this later, but for right now my stomach is in knots as I wait to see how those beyond my close circle of family and friends will respond to his pictures. I miss him so much sometimes it feels as though I will never be able to eat again, that I want to throw something, and shout up to heaven, give him BACK! I want him back, I want to hold him, to kiss him, to feel him in my arms one more time. Please God. Just one more time. But really, I know that would never be enough. That always and forever I will want more time with him. So all I can do is cry helplessly and try with everything in me to remember each little detail about holding him that night. How my lips fit perfectly right over his eyes when I kissed him. How it felt to stroke his cheek and have his fingers wrapped around mine. How his foot was as big as my thumb- those big Meyer/Michalik feet from my side of the family. How I wished so much I could know what color his eyes would have been. How proud I was of that handsome face that looked just like his Daddy's.
But for now, all I can do is wait for another comment to his pictures. I want them to say, he's perfect. Just beautiful. I was looking through Facebook earlier today, which for the past couple weeks for me has always been a bad idea. I closed the computer and walked passed my husband as he asked me what was wrong. Everyone has pictures of their babies, I said, and broke down. Why should I have to hide my baby? Why can't I share his face with the world? I"m so proud of him. I want everyone to know him, to never forget him. So Kevin and I decided, ok. We can. So I did.
I know it may be a little unorthodox, to put pictures up of what the world may see as a dead baby. But to me, they are pictures of our perfect son. They're pictures from the most beautiful and most painful moments of my life. Moments that will stay in my heart forever. I know it's his little body I am holding, but in my heart I believe God allowed his little spirit to come back and rest in our arms for those few hours, so that we could tell him goodbye. I believe this with all my heart not only because I need to desperately, but also because there was a change in his face from the time he was born to some minutes after we'd been holding him. His face became more peaceful, just like a healthy preterm baby sleeping peacefully in our arms. It was God's gift to us, and I will forever be grateful. And I pray that the world can see him as I see him. A blessed gift from above, a gorgeous baby boy.
But for now, all I can do is wait for another comment to his pictures. I want them to say, he's perfect. Just beautiful. I was looking through Facebook earlier today, which for the past couple weeks for me has always been a bad idea. I closed the computer and walked passed my husband as he asked me what was wrong. Everyone has pictures of their babies, I said, and broke down. Why should I have to hide my baby? Why can't I share his face with the world? I"m so proud of him. I want everyone to know him, to never forget him. So Kevin and I decided, ok. We can. So I did.
I know it may be a little unorthodox, to put pictures up of what the world may see as a dead baby. But to me, they are pictures of our perfect son. They're pictures from the most beautiful and most painful moments of my life. Moments that will stay in my heart forever. I know it's his little body I am holding, but in my heart I believe God allowed his little spirit to come back and rest in our arms for those few hours, so that we could tell him goodbye. I believe this with all my heart not only because I need to desperately, but also because there was a change in his face from the time he was born to some minutes after we'd been holding him. His face became more peaceful, just like a healthy preterm baby sleeping peacefully in our arms. It was God's gift to us, and I will forever be grateful. And I pray that the world can see him as I see him. A blessed gift from above, a gorgeous baby boy.
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