November 14th, 2011
One year ago today I went to the hospital for a scheduled induction to meet our beautiful little daughter. One year ago today, I began to worry feeling less (which was really no) movement at all. I eased my worries by telling myself that my little one was ready for his/her arrival and that he/she had ran out of room. Stillbirth? That thought hadn't even crossed my mind. I mean, I know it occurs, but never at 40 weeks, right? I told myself that life was unfair, but certainly not cruel, like I quickly learned it is.
My husband and I drove to the hospital in silence. He, nervous about the delivery. Me, nervous about the delivery, but for other reasons. Neither one of us anticipated those dreaded words. As I recall it, no words were even spoken. No one needed to speak, after frantically searching for our precious daughter's heartbeat and two ultrasounds (the second with alleged better equipment) my husband's quivering chin and the silence in the room confirmed our worst fears. Our little one was gone. I kicked and screamed, but couldn't cry. I couldn't believe it. How could this be happening? I waited forty weeks to meet our little one. I prepared a nursery, ate healthy, exercised and followed every prenatal rule. Meanwhile, across the hall my co-workers 16 year old step daughter was giving birth to a perfectly healthy baby boy.
Through my husband's sobs and comforting words from the five month pregnant nurse, I heard the doctor say something about fluid in our little one's lungs...possibly indicative of a cord injury. But how? She had been moving today (hadn't she?) and I had just heard her heartbeat on the Doppler 5 days earlier. Larissa truly taught me that each of us only has this second and really taught me what a difference a day makes.
We spent the night holding one another and crying. I still was in disbelief and was convinced when my regular OB arrived in the morning, he would make everything alright. However, he couldn't work miracles. He entered the room, graciously extended his condolences and told me it was in my best interest to induce labor vs having a C-section. I was numb and nodded in agreement. He told me the process typically takes a while, but it didn't. I felt each of those labor pains and still get upset when women complain about childbirth. I think to myself "Imagine giving birth to death. Then, you would have a reason to complain." I felt my water break and after 3 hours of labor and just four good pushes, our little one silently entered this world. I heard the doctor say "Do you want to hold her?" Her? It was a girl...I always wanted a little girl and wasn't shy about admitting it. Is this my punishment? I am technically now a mom to a girl, but will never get to parent her. I waited a little while to hold her and when I think back to that day, I can still feel the weight of her in my arms (all 7lbs, 13oz). I envision her round little face and dark head of hair. I wonder if she will still have that really dark hair, what color her eyes are, what her cry would sound like, wonder what her little coos would sound like....I can go on. These are things I will never know.
It is now one year later. One year of growth for me, trying to come to some sort of acceptance with our tragic loss. Yes, there are terrible things in this world but what happened to us feels like it may possibly be the worst ever. I remember coming home to an empty house filled with reminders of what should have been. I vaguely remember planning Larissa's funeral. I remember like it was yesterday, my post-partum pain and soaking in the tub looking at my deflated stomach just sobbing and wondering "why?" I sit often one year later, watching my stomach move once again, with life inside. But this time it is different, when our little one stops wiggling, all I think is "Is this baby dead too?" It's been one long year of sleepless nights, for many months staying up at night crying for what we have lost, then many nights crying for what may never be again (after our bout with infertility) and most recently pleading and drinking water in the middle of the night so that our little one will wiggle and let me know he/she is okay. Sure, I put on a happy face in front of others. I try to hide my dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep with makeup. I pretend like every little girl I see with curly hair that may be Larissa's age doesn't affect me. However, I know everyone can see right through me. I long for my daughter each and every day. I still struggle with people's unintentional hurtful comments. I'm pregnant again, so all should be okay. But this child is an addition to our family. I am not a first time mom and know that this baby should be our final child (as we always wanted two). Larissa has also taught me to never make plans as their are no guarantees. I hope someday, if this baby makes it, to give life to yet one more little one. I still get jealous and envious every time I hear of a new pregnancy and/or birth announcement. I cannot help but think "your baby won't die." I even get sad when I see a pregnant mom with that fabulous glow. That used to be me. Now it is replaced with worry and hope that all will be well this time.
I love our precious daughter and am grateful to our 40 weeks together. Her little life is helping many moms who unfortunately walk in my shoes with the packet I've created in her memory. Tomorrow, on her birthday, instead of celebrating with presents and cake and a smiling happy one year old, my husband and I will be diligently putting our packets together and delivering them to local hospitals. Larissa has changed me in ways I cannot put into words. A part of me died with her. Time doesn't necessarily lessen the pain, but it does get easier to carry around with you.
My husband and I drove to the hospital in silence. He, nervous about the delivery. Me, nervous about the delivery, but for other reasons. Neither one of us anticipated those dreaded words. As I recall it, no words were even spoken. No one needed to speak, after frantically searching for our precious daughter's heartbeat and two ultrasounds (the second with alleged better equipment) my husband's quivering chin and the silence in the room confirmed our worst fears. Our little one was gone. I kicked and screamed, but couldn't cry. I couldn't believe it. How could this be happening? I waited forty weeks to meet our little one. I prepared a nursery, ate healthy, exercised and followed every prenatal rule. Meanwhile, across the hall my co-workers 16 year old step daughter was giving birth to a perfectly healthy baby boy.
Through my husband's sobs and comforting words from the five month pregnant nurse, I heard the doctor say something about fluid in our little one's lungs...possibly indicative of a cord injury. But how? She had been moving today (hadn't she?) and I had just heard her heartbeat on the Doppler 5 days earlier. Larissa truly taught me that each of us only has this second and really taught me what a difference a day makes.
We spent the night holding one another and crying. I still was in disbelief and was convinced when my regular OB arrived in the morning, he would make everything alright. However, he couldn't work miracles. He entered the room, graciously extended his condolences and told me it was in my best interest to induce labor vs having a C-section. I was numb and nodded in agreement. He told me the process typically takes a while, but it didn't. I felt each of those labor pains and still get upset when women complain about childbirth. I think to myself "Imagine giving birth to death. Then, you would have a reason to complain." I felt my water break and after 3 hours of labor and just four good pushes, our little one silently entered this world. I heard the doctor say "Do you want to hold her?" Her? It was a girl...I always wanted a little girl and wasn't shy about admitting it. Is this my punishment? I am technically now a mom to a girl, but will never get to parent her. I waited a little while to hold her and when I think back to that day, I can still feel the weight of her in my arms (all 7lbs, 13oz). I envision her round little face and dark head of hair. I wonder if she will still have that really dark hair, what color her eyes are, what her cry would sound like, wonder what her little coos would sound like....I can go on. These are things I will never know.
It is now one year later. One year of growth for me, trying to come to some sort of acceptance with our tragic loss. Yes, there are terrible things in this world but what happened to us feels like it may possibly be the worst ever. I remember coming home to an empty house filled with reminders of what should have been. I vaguely remember planning Larissa's funeral. I remember like it was yesterday, my post-partum pain and soaking in the tub looking at my deflated stomach just sobbing and wondering "why?" I sit often one year later, watching my stomach move once again, with life inside. But this time it is different, when our little one stops wiggling, all I think is "Is this baby dead too?" It's been one long year of sleepless nights, for many months staying up at night crying for what we have lost, then many nights crying for what may never be again (after our bout with infertility) and most recently pleading and drinking water in the middle of the night so that our little one will wiggle and let me know he/she is okay. Sure, I put on a happy face in front of others. I try to hide my dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep with makeup. I pretend like every little girl I see with curly hair that may be Larissa's age doesn't affect me. However, I know everyone can see right through me. I long for my daughter each and every day. I still struggle with people's unintentional hurtful comments. I'm pregnant again, so all should be okay. But this child is an addition to our family. I am not a first time mom and know that this baby should be our final child (as we always wanted two). Larissa has also taught me to never make plans as their are no guarantees. I hope someday, if this baby makes it, to give life to yet one more little one. I still get jealous and envious every time I hear of a new pregnancy and/or birth announcement. I cannot help but think "your baby won't die." I even get sad when I see a pregnant mom with that fabulous glow. That used to be me. Now it is replaced with worry and hope that all will be well this time.
I love our precious daughter and am grateful to our 40 weeks together. Her little life is helping many moms who unfortunately walk in my shoes with the packet I've created in her memory. Tomorrow, on her birthday, instead of celebrating with presents and cake and a smiling happy one year old, my husband and I will be diligently putting our packets together and delivering them to local hospitals. Larissa has changed me in ways I cannot put into words. A part of me died with her. Time doesn't necessarily lessen the pain, but it does get easier to carry around with you.
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