Recovery

Our daughter was brought into the world with so much love, so much support.  Not a single person left our hospital room with a dry eye (except the anesthesiologist who did my epidural, whom I’m actually glad didn’t have compromised vision).  I clung to nurses I’d never met before in absolute emotional anguish, as they held me and cried along with me.

We decided against an autopsy.  Medical answers wouldn’t ease our heartache.  Knowing precisely what had taken Coraline from us wouldn’t make the grief any easier to bear, only give us something to focus our blame, and eventually hatred, on.   Putting a definition would only give us words, medical jargon – it wouldn’t change the past or bring her back to us.  

After Coraline was wheeled away, they loaded me up with Ambien so I could pass out.  I felt so weak and helpless, I just laid there and cried while Matt held my hand, until I fell asleep.  They woke me a few hours later, to get me up and force me to use the bathroom.  Then back on the Ambien, cry, hold Matt's hand, pass out again.

The next morning the reality of it hit me in the face.  I wasn't at home - I was in the hospital.  It wasn't just the most terrible nightmare - it was real, and my belly - my baby - was gone.  

Delivery

Silence.  The absolute quiet that gripped the room when Coraline finally made her way into the world was strange and revered and awful and oddly comforting.  Aside from myself and my husband, the doctor and three nurses were in attendance, and not one of them spoke after I made that final push. 

               
Matt and I had agreed that we would wait to see our daughter until after she had been cleaned up and clothed.  The shock of dealing with her passing and now her delivery over the past 10 hours was almost too much to bear, and I didn’t want our first and lasting memory of our daughter to be her lifeless body being brought forth from mine.  The epidural had numbed a large part of the contraction pain, but I could still feel everything – I could tell you at any given time how close she was, when she was coming.  But there was no pain with her actual birth – I turned my head to Matt, who buried his head in my shoulder; I bore down, pushed, and felt her leave me.  And the silence – we sobbed silently, the doctor and nurses removed her silently, and the entire room seemed to mourn her, silently.  I heard the night nurse crying, as Matt & I held each other and just said “I love you” over and over and over.

                
Birth is a weird thing.  It’s an agonizing rush of pain, followed by an intense relief when that pressure finally passes.  Physically, it was a relief.  Emotionally, it was the last thing I ever wanted to do.  As long as she was in my body, I could pretend everything was okay.  I could pretend this wasn’t happening and she was still alive.  A stupid tiny part of my brain was hoping for a surprised shout of “she’s alive, it’s a miracle.”  But I knew that wasn’t going to happen.

They stitched me up, and took her away.  I sat there in stunned silence, unable to speak or barely move.  Not from the epidural or pain meds - I could still physically feel what was going on - but my heart and mind were broken in that moment.  A part of my soul was just ripped away and carted, lifeless, to another room to be weighed, measured, dressed, and brought back to me in a blanket and clothes that were not her own.

I lost it when they wheeled in her bassinet, the typical clear plastic ones used in L&D.  I caught a glimpse of the top of her head at first, in a pink crocheted beanie-hat, and I lost it.  She was wrapped in a pink and white crocheted blanket, with small white ribbons.  The nurse lifted her and placed her in my arms.  The first thing I ever said to my daughter was "I'm sorry".  Over and over and over, between sobs.  She was still warm.  Her little face was pink, her eyes were closed.  I never know what color eyes she had, I will never know.

I held her, Matt held her, my mom held her.  Those minutes are etched in my memory.  We studied her long delicate fingers, her dark full hair, her chubby little cheeks.  The room grieved - everyone cried, doctors, nurses, everyone.  The first and last time I met my little girl.  The only time I would ever hold her.

Labor

We sat in the car in stunned silence once we arrived.  We’d been at the hospital twice before – once for the tour, and the following day when I thought I was having contractions (I wasn’t, and we were both fine).  It was gray and raining, and it stayed gray and raining for a majority of the next two weeks.  I couldn’t move.  I felt like I couldn’t breathe.  After all of my planning, all of my “advice” to my husband about “what was going to happen” since I had been through it with Parker and thought I knew, I suddenly knew nothing.  I had no idea what was going to happen, other than I would be giving birth at some point to a daughter who would not be coming home with us. 

                
 We made the mistake of going in through the main entrance, and when we told them we needed labor and delivery, got a “congratulations” from the elderly woman at the front desk.  I remember clutching my green sweater (also thrown out) in front of me and staring daggers into the back of her head through her eyes.  Matt just looked down somberly and we walked to the check-in desk.

               
Either it was a slow day in L&D, or they took every precaution so I could avoid as many people as possible.  Since my doctor had called over, they knew we were coming and what our situation was.  They did us the courtesy of placing us far away from most of the other rooms and patients, and the nursery, but the long walk down that sterile corridor was a literal march of doom.  Matt on one side, a nurse on the other - I kept clutching my sweater trying not to lose it.

I learned later that they placed a sign on our door, a leaf with a single teardrop in it, to alert anyone passing or entering to our situation.  The nurse, Christa, sat us down and started telling us what was going to happen.  Almost immediately, all of us were in tears.  This woman who I'd never met was feeling so much for us in such a short time - I can't say enough how comforting that was.  Somehow Matt and I choked out our questions, she answered them.  "There is no reason for you to be in any pain - we are going to do everything to make you as comfortable as possible."

It was only around 5 pm.  In the past 4 hours, I had gone from tired but happy to exhausted and devastated.  I went from planning my natural, unmedicated birth to a full on induction and multiple pain meds.  From being excited and planning a future to sobbing if I caught a glimpse of her diaper bag in the trunk.  The highest high to the lowest low, in a millisecond.

They settled me in, and began the induction.  Cytotec, the one dangerous drug I wanted to avoid, was administered.  I was told there was no risk to me since I did not have a prior c-section (no uterine scarring, no risk of hemorrhage) and, frankly, since there was no risk to my baby, since she was already gone.  For the first few hours, I didn't really labor.  I just sat there, trying to process everything, trying to hold it together while falling apart.  

Mom stayed, Matt stayed.  I got the epidural around 9 pm, which made me shiver and chatter until Matt found me a new blanket.  And my socks from my overnight bag - that's how ready I was, my bag was packed and in the trunk of my car.  Mom got Matt some food (I wasn't allowed to eat, but thankfully was given ice chips) and we watched the Patton Oswalt episode of Burn Notice.  I wish I could have enjoyed it.  Some time around 10 pm they fell asleep.  I tried to, but it wasn't happening.  The meds were kicking in and my labor was progressing.  At 10:47, I woke them up and had the doctor come in.

It began to get painful.  The contractions were extremely intense on my right side, and I started screaming through them.  Well, more like grunting and moaning than actual screaming - I didn't have enough breath to do that.  Matt held my hand, and I kicked my mother out of the room, at one point yelling at her for trying to come in.  A nurse came in and gave me phentanol via my IV, which mercifully stopped the pain from the contractions - it was the worst pain I've ever felt, more so than the actual birth, and a pain that haunts me to this day.

The nurse checked me, said I was about a 6, removed her hand, and I yelled "I NEED TO PUSH AND I NEED TO PUSH NOW."  I wasn't kidding.  It's just a feeling - you know when it's time.  Her eyes got huge and she checked me again.  "Okay, okay..." she said.  "Just hold on, don't push."  They started calling for the doctor - in those 3 seconds I had gone from about 2 station and 6cm to fully engaged and 10cm. 

Realization

I remember being scared to say anything – I think I was actually holding my breath.  The three of us (me, doctor, nurse) were – I was scared to move.  His face kept searching the screen, the doctor who 10 years earlier had brought my son screaming into this world, had encouraged me to reach down and pull him out, and placed him on my chest.  His eyes kept scanning the image, and I started to get that horrendous feeling in the pit of my stomach.  When I finally spoke, it just squeaked out – “please just tell me she’s okay.”  And there was no answer.  I hoped, I prayed, I pleaded, that he was still searching, that he just hadn’t found her yet – and I kept repeating that phrase, getting louder and more frantic with each word.  I looked to the nurse, who I know now was doing everything she could to keep it together while holding my hand.  After about the 10^th time, he said the words that would forever change our lives, our futures, and our family – “Joy-Beth, I wish I knew what to say…” 

               
The next 30 minutes were a blur, but pieces come back to me at odd times.  I screamed, I cried, I called out to a God I hadn’t prayed to in years.  I somehow choked out my husband’s phone number to the nurse who called and told him to come now.  (Apparently he sprinted out of the building and nearly tackled someone in the process).  Another nurse was either called or heard me and came in to cry with us.  At some point I think they were worried that I was going into shock, because I ended up with a cold, wet towel wrapped around my neck and forehead.  I will never forget seeing my foot, in the green crocheted shoes I have now thrown away, shaking back and forth rapidly, so I must have been.  My mother was called, and was able to get there quickly.  I had to tell her she was hurting me from squeezing so tightly.  She left the room, and two nurses sat with my, crying with me and holding my hands.  Then Matt arrived.

               
They left us alone in the darkened ultrasound room so I could tell him.  He took my hand and stood at my side.  I don’t know how I found a voice, but it came out in a whisper.  “Matt… they couldn’t find her heartbeat on the sonogram… so they did an ultrasound.  They don’t know what happened but… she’s gone.”  And my husband hit the floor, his head in my lap.  I had never seen him cry until that moment, another first robbed from me – he was supposed to cry with joy when our first child was born, not in anguish over the fact that he would never meet her now.

                
 The first thing he said was that he loved me.  We just held each other and cried.  At some point we went down the hall to the doctor’s office and discussed what would happen next.  Once the initial shock had subsided somewhat I became almost numb – it was like I was floating through the world, just letting things happen instead of being an active participant.  It was probably the only thing that allowed me to make rational decisions.  The doctor called the hospital and informed them we would be coming (straight from the office, I couldn’t bear the thought of going home with my deceased baby inside of me).  Our car was already packed with her diaper bag and my overnight bag, so Matt drove us right to the hospital.  The car ride was spent in silence, except for my call to Parker’s dad to let him know I wouldn’t be able to pick him up the next day.

Pregnancy

I felt her move every day.

From the second I woke up with that annoying urge to pee (usually well before my alarm went off to get up), she started jumping around like a candy-fueled kid on a trampoline.  I nicknamed her little miss kickypants, and once my husband Matt made me laugh so hard I had to change my pants, which just made us laugh harder, etc. Every time Matt put his ear to my belly to listen to her heartbeat, she kicked him in the side of the head.

Matt and I had been talking about having a kid of our own for a few months, but only actively tried for about two months when the faint double pink line showed up.  I couldn't even announce it on facebook that day, since it was April 1st and I knew everyone would think I was joking.  We announced early, another in a long list of things I was "confident" in doing.  My pregnancy with Parker 10 years earlier was so textbook, so uncomplicated, that I was sure we could do it again with no problems.  I was sort of right.

Coraline's pregnancy was uneventful.  At our first ultrasound, the doctors only saw the egg sac, and had me come back the following week to see if she had attached.  I knew I was pregnant, even at five weeks.  And the next week, there she was, a little bump in the circle.  We shared our news with everyone, letting them know we were due around Christmas.

Although this pregnancy was planned, and Parker's wasn't, I became more and more miserable as the months wore on.  I stopped taking my welbutrin, even though my doctor said it would be okay, because I didn't want to risk any possible side-effects.  This led to several mood-swings and blowouts, one of which actually resulted in me leaving the house and wandering through Riverside until Matt tracked me down hours later.  I was ignored at work, and if I wasn't being ignored, I had some of the most ignorant things said to my face (such as that my child would have Tourettes because I was brutally honest).

I knew my moods were part of the hormone surge.  I tried to take care of myself and Coraline as much as possible.  I added chicken and red meat back into my diet when I started craving them, after a year of being pescatarian.  I don't smoke, I wouldn't even touch my allowed glass of wine.  The strongest drug I took was Tylenol.

Pictures

The bear given to us at the hospital.  I still sleep with it at night.

Matt holding my hands while we wait for Coraline to be brought in that morning. We held her the night before, after she was born, but pictures had to wait until the next day.

Such big feet - I'm really glad we have this keepsake.  It is in her cabinet with her blanket and hat.

Sweet baby girl - she was so perfect and peaceful.

Daddy and Coraline.

Mommy loves you, so very much.

I don't like pictures of myself regardless, and this one is hard to look at - but I think it expresses maybe 1/1000th of the internal pain I was/am feeling.

I didn't want to let her go.

This is the picture on my desk at work - it simultaneously comforts and pains me, because it looks like she is just sleeping - like I can just go home and pick her up and hold her again.

Long feets, again.  Another feature she definitely got from her Daddy.

Long fingers with delicate nails - shaped like Daddy's.

Full head of very dark hair, chubby cheeks, and ears like Daddy's, too.