What a waste of time (Part II)

February 24, 2005

I know it sounds harsh, but I still feel that way. It's what I said to one of the nurses helping me during labor and delivery. Nine months of worry and discomfort, and all this time spent trying to squeeze out a corpse. What a waste of time.
Sure, I had many moments of joy and love and hopes and dreams and warm fuzzies, but it didn't amount to crap in the end. I'd gladly do it all over again to have my baby back.
As labor progressed, slowly, and they upped my dose of pit, I was asked if I was ready for the epidural. On the one hand, I didn't want to slow things down, but on the other hand, it didn't really matter much at this point. Not like we'd be harming the baby or anything. Might as well be numb and unaware. (I will note here for come clarification, that we were taking things slow because of my choice to avoid a c-section. I did not want to be cut for this, after all, and there was still a risk of uterine rupture from a VBAC). After the anesthesia, and the wonderful fun with my blood pressure crashing, I was able to sleep off and on. At last check, my cervix had dilated somewhere around 6 cm, and the doc decided to go home for dinner. "I'll see you in the morning".
About an hour after he left, I felt like my urinary catheter was being pulled out. I told the nurse that I knew there was a balloon there, and it wasn't going anywhere, but I really felt like I was pushing on it - and I swore to her I was not. She checked, and Nick was on his way out. Just like that. She ended up delivering him before the doc got back. Again, I don't play by the rules.
Gerry held me, telling me that Nick was perfect, and so beautiful. I asked him if he was still really dead. He was.
The placenta was more stubborn. I tried pushing, but it didn't help. While the doc and I wrestled with the afterbirth, the priest came in to be with Gerry and baptize Nicholas. After seeing the knots in the cord, I asked the doc if we still had to bother with an autopsy, since we so obviously see what the problem was. Nope, didn't need one. He sat down to explain to me how difficult, if not impossible, it was to see these things on an u/s. If that portion of the cord was behind the baby, it wouldn't be detected. There had been decent circulation up until the day before, and the nuchal cord wasn't tight; we really had no way of knowing. And, I added, with the episodes of quietude that Nick often displayed, he very well could have had a brain injury from hypoxia, anyway. But, we'll never know, will we?
Even though it had only been a couple of days, little Nicholas' skin had begun peeling off from floating around in his little tomb. His lips were purplish-black, and his gums white. His eyes were closed, and I fought off the urge to open them. I think, somehow, the memory of my dead baby staring at me would be much more horrible than the one I already have. He had the same dimple in his chin that his big brother and daddy has. His hair was a bit longer than I had expected, reddish-brown, with a bit of a wave. He had big feet, and short legs, like me. I still wonder what color his eyes would have been. Would he have been a little maniac like Josh, or calm, quiet, and intent? Would he have preferred math to science? Books to sports? Why couldn't we have had the chance to find out?
We were able to spend some time holding Nick and taking pictures. He smelled so good, and the nurses did their best to clean him up gently. Josh came in to see his little brother, and my sister-in-law sat and cried with us, too. My parents would be leaving VA in the morning to come back here for the funeral.
They moved me to a room away from L&D, and I stared at the ceiling until 7am. When the day shift came on to check everything out, I insisted I be discharged. I saw no need to hang around that dreaded place one minute longer than necessary.
We drove to the funeral home, and made all the arrangements. The only baby-sized coffin they stock was a plain white rectangular number, and reminded me of a cooler. We'd have to get some nice flowers for the top. My inlaws graciously offered the space at the feet of Gerry's father, so we wouldn't have to purchase an entire plot. The church/cemetery people allowed us to put a headstone there, even though it wasn't "in line" with the other graves. Of course, it wasn't the type of stone we wanted, but we'd make do. No sense in arguing over it at this point. It would be a few weeks before we bought the marker anyway.
The day of the funeral was bitter cold and it snowed like crazy. Amazingly, most of the attendees followed us from the funeral home to the gravesite. I was a mess. I spoke to almost no one. Gerry held on to me so tight the entire time, I couldn't turn to see who all was there and thank them for coming. I sobbed and cried, and let out these low groans that would make wild animals run. I remember clinging to the casket after the funeral, and oddly don't feel all that embarrassed by it still. If they don't understand how deeply painful this is, then they can just go away.
I didn't eat for days. Maybe a couple of weeks. I lost over 70 pounds. I slept. I cried day and night. I'd tell everyone my story, over and over, to gain some validation. I wanted a pity party. I wanted to share my misery with anyone. I showed people my pictures. I didn't care how shocking they were. If I had to deal with this grief, then they might as well, too.
I'd like to say that a year's worth of time passed has eased my pain somewhat. Perhaps it has, in a small way. But it is not gone; it never will be. How could it? While it is not as fresh and raw as in those first few days/weeks/months, it still lingers on, in my mind, in my heart, day in, day out, forever and ever.
It isn't fair. I'm pissed. And that's the way it's going to be.