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.