Day One, Part II

July 23, 2011

[Note to readers: This has been the hardest post for me to write. It may be the same to read. Just thought you should know.]

Sean and I both feel very lucky to live in the time and place we do.

Here in Ontario, in 2011, if an extra ultrasound is offered or asked for, it is covered by OHIP. If I’d actually had to pay $75-$150 to have a follow-up ultrasound for echogenic bowel, especially since we were told it rarely amounts to anything, we simply wouldn’t have done it. It was a fluke that we had a test at that specific time. I would have gone to the midwife that day and my appointment would have been totally unremarkable: my abdomen was the right size, my blood pressure was good, the heartbeat sounded just as it should have, and palpation of the baby indicated he was normal size.

My next appointment would have been two weeks later (this week, actually). I shudder to think of how long it might have taken for me to realize, on my own, that there was no more movement.

Also, in Ontario in 2011, midwives are covered by OHIP and have hospital privileges. They, and the doctors and nurses at the hospital, know how to recognize and validate the grief of the parents of a stillborn child. A few decades ago, I don’t think they would have let me hold Sebastian for very long, if at all; one of the books we were kindly given (Empty Cradle, Broken Heart by Deborah L. Davis), begins with a poem written by the mother of a baby who died almost immediately after being born, in 1968. She didn’t get to touch or hold her son – she barely even got to look at him.

I am so grateful that I got to spend time with mine, in the company of my husband, and the nurse and the midwife. Continued…

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Day One: Bereaved Parents

July 20, 2011

It is strange to think back to Friday, June 8th. For one thing, I can’t believe it’s already been twelve days since then. For another, I can’t believe it’s only been twelve days since then. But above all, it was an inherently strange day.

We left the hospital with our painful news and a prescription in hand. Sean had parked far enough from the hospital that we didn’t have to pay; it was good to walk, and we were grateful that it was such a beautiful day. Still alternating between calm and tears, we also agreed we were glad we had already named Sebastian – just in time.

We went straight to the mall to get the prescription filled. It’s hard to feel connected to tragedy at the mall, what with all the superficiality and consumerism, so while we waited for the prescription, we wandered around feeling disjointed. We had smoothies, which felt like a far too normal thing to do – but I was in a weird state of being hungry without being able to imagine actually eating. We saw quite a few babies, and I still found myself wanting to ogle them, as I always do.

After we picked up my pills, we wondered aloud to each other: does this pharmacist know automatically what has happened, because she knows what pills she’s given us? Like the ultrasound technician being the first person ever to know of the death of our baby, does this other stranger now know before we have a chance to tell our own families? Continued…

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Expecting the unexpected

July 17, 2011

Sebastian was a surprise pregnancy. Ovum and spermatazoon meeting clandestinely when their parents least suspected.

Upon losing him, it was inevitable that I would go back and remember the little things that suddenly seem big. I feel awful for that moment, however brief, when I knew for sure I was pregnant and panicked a little bit – I’m pretty sure I even said a bad word. I felt sorry at the time, too, remembering how purely excited I’d been for my first two positive pregnancy tests. We rapidly readjusted our family plan and began to anticipate with joy… almost immediately.

Then there was the moment when we found out he was a boy, and I can’t deny I had a ripple of disappointment. Neither Sean nor I was sure we wanted more than two children, and suddenly the possibility of never having a daughter seemed very real. I tried hard to prefer the idea of a boy, but didn’t truly succeed until a few weeks ago, watching E play with some other kids and realizing how much fun it would be for him to have a brother. Now, I yearn for that boy – that specific boy – and wonder, how could I not have realized how much I wanted him? Continued…

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A different kind of blog

July 14, 2011

It looks like my blog will have a different tone for a while, and serve a different purpose.

One week ago was the last evening that my baby Sebastian, still in my womb, was alive. On Friday morning, sometime between 9 and 10, his heart stopped beating.

I knew from that moment that I would need to write my way through this, and this blog has mostly replaced my own journal as my outlet. I know I’m going to have to go back to the beginning of this surreal, painful week, and start from there. I’m guessing it probably won’t be very much fun to read for a while. You don’t have to. Though as always, I’m honoured if you do.

For tonight, I’m going to let Hawksley speak for me. I never fully understood what he meant by “the darkness defines where the light is” – until now.

Oh you delicate heart
Sometimes it feels hard to live
The rain keeps on falling so hard
I forgot that I had some to give

Oh you delicate heart
Remind all the guards on your hill
That a love that comes by might be true
As true as the mountains are still

And I’m sure
The darkness defines where the light is
And takes all our prayers
Oh but
You will still be true

Oh you delicate heart
There’s deep enough wells for our tears
When we break ourselves carelessly
Through
A tumbling down of our fears

***

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A Two-Year-Old’s Bedtime Stories

July 5, 2011

I’m pretty grumpy.

A) I’ve just spent the last hour-and-a-half trying everything I can think of to get my toddler to sleep (I guess I should be glad he usually goes to bed without incident, but we didn’t get to that stage without a fair bit of work);

B) I was trying to write a post about the two national holidays we’ve just celebrated and realized that I’m not having a good writing day (or week for that matter) – nothing I write sounds original or witty, it sounds like a Grade 9 paragraph or something even cheesier;

C) my beloved MacBook Pro had an incident since my last post, resulting in the logic board leaking gray-green gook on itself… which was UPSETTING and is part of the reason I haven’t posted for so long;

D) I’ve been (typically) tired and strangely short of breath with iffy circulation all day (my limbs keep feeling like they’re about to fall asleep), which is unnerving;

E) maybe it’s because that silly Baby #2 is still transverse despite the fact that we’d both be more comfortable with his head where it’s supposed to be; and

F) is for the effing car alarm that’s been going on and off every few minutes for the last hour. Seriously?? Haven’t we solved this yet???

So anyway, I know full well I have little to complain about in life (but HA, I did it all the same). I acknowledge that I could easily come up with a list of things that are GREAT that would take up all the letters of the alphabet including the most expensive ones (Q and Z). Here is the thing that would currently top the list:

Two-year-old E is rolling around in his bed, good-naturedly refusing to sleep. Mommy is attempting the technique of lying on the big bed beside him, reminding him to lie down every time he starts to get up. It is not working. E is babbling about trucks and car alarms and slides at the park.

E (suddenly, in a sing-song voice): Once upon a time! A girl named Everett. Sleeping in the bed. Head down.

Mommy: Semi-hysterical giggling, muffled in the pillows.

E (in the same storyteller voice): Sometimes… there’s a [long unintelligible word] named Everett. Playing in the sand. With a digger.

Mommy (unable to suppress her curiosity): A what named Everett?

E: A front-end-loader.

It must be noted that Auntie Em started the tradition (which I’ve continued whenever we need a distraction) of telling short impromptu stories about a little boy named Everett, whose life resembles my son’s to a remarkable degree. He loves them. They also work with the power of suggestion – yesterday when he was unreasonably grumpy after his nap, I told him a story of a little boy who got up from a nap and his mom asked him if he would like a snack and he said, “Yes, please, I would like some raisins with a drink of water,” and right then, the story came true!

So yeah… my grumpiness is silly. I still have the coolest kid ever.

***


 


 

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