One year ago today I had my very last prenatal checkup. I saw both my maternal-fetal medicine specialist and my ob/gyn. My blood pressure was great. Gabriel was still there and moving. There was no indication that within 24 hours my liver would start to fail.
I didn't know that April 13th, 2018 would be the last time I ever saw my baby on an ultrasound.
It would be the last time I heard his heartbeat.
I didn't know that the next morning a pain would begin. The next day I would meet my sweet little 2-month-old nephew. I wouldn't be able to eat because I just wasn't feeling well. I would stay up late with the pain, sipping water and waiting for it to pass. The next night would be spent in the ER, not knowing we would be meeting Gabriel face to face just 10 hours later.
One year ago was the beginning of goodbye to this teeny boy.
And I had no idea.
Wednesday morning. It's time to get ready to leave.
Except it's 3:00am. I keep waking up, worried that I've lost precious time with Gabriel. I toss and turn, knowing that we only have 6 hours left. I feel guilty for sleeping. I feel guilty for everything.
By 5:30am I no longer try. Jamey begins packing a cart with our things to load up the car. The doctor rounds on me early so everything is ready when it's time to be discharged. He and the entire staff know that I do not want to be at the hospital without Gabriel.
My labs are not yet back to normal, but they're showing enough signs of improvement that he's willing to discharge me. My IV is pulled and I take my last shower in the hospital. Jamey helps me to dress and combs my hair.
Then we ask to hold him. I'm not ready for this to be over.
I kiss his face over and over. Each nurse comes in to say her goodbyes. One nurse is 2 hours past her shift to be with us, and she comes in with my two other nurses to fawn over him one last time. We take a picture together, the four of us smiling. He's still in my arms, so I'm able to smile.
I ask for a few minutes alone with him and everyone leaves the room. I sit on the little couch that I'd fallen asleep on just 2 nights before when we were separated for the first time. I rock him. I wonder if there's anything special I should do. I tell him I love him so much.
I tell him I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry.
I hold him up to me to kiss him and tears roll down my face. One falls on him, right in the corner of his eye. I feel sad that I've cried tears onto his perfect little face and a thought comes to me. My tear fell right on his eye. It looks like he's sad to be leaving his mommy too.
That thought hurts.
The door to my room is open and I hear my cousin's voice in the hallway. I don't want to see her. I don't want to hear her. My heart starts to pound as I look at the clock. It's 8:55.
Five minutes left with our son.
Five. Minutes.
My cousin comes into the room. She sits next to me and hugs me. As a funeral director, she is used to this process- accustomed to sitting with grieving families. But this little boy is her cousin too. This tiny one...he's family. She is trying not to cry.
I want to bolt. Jump off of this couch and run away with him. He's mine and I should get to keep him. I hold his body close. This hurts too much.
You know the stories you read where a child or baby is 'declared dead' but then their mother holds them and they 'come back'? I've seen stories like this numerous times. They usually have a title along the lines of "Mother's Love Revives Infant".
I know that for 3 days I've held my dead son, hoping my love is big enough to bring him back.
I've been holding him, still hoping for my miracle.
I realize that once he's out of my arms, he's never coming back.
They settle me into a wheelchair and start to push me down the hallway; Jamey and my cousin by my sides. I lower my head and hold Gabriel close. Families here are celebrating new life and here we are, smack dab in the middle of death.
The warm calm air of the night before is gone and has been replaced with a bitter, blustery wind. We start to rush to get into the cars before we freeze. I give my son one last kiss and put him into my cousin's arms. I will be with him through all of this, Kaila. I promise I will not leave him. I will call you later today.
For a moment, I think, I could pretend this is all normal. That he's just going to my cousin's house for a visit. She'll take him and be with him and we'll come to pick him up after a while. Look, she's driving a minivan. Yes, my baby; he's going with family for the day.
I close my eyes, knowing that I can no longer pretend.
My son is in a minivan with my cousin.
And they're headed to his autopsy.
I didn't know that April 13th, 2018 would be the last time I ever saw my baby on an ultrasound.
It would be the last time I heard his heartbeat.
I didn't know that the next morning a pain would begin. The next day I would meet my sweet little 2-month-old nephew. I wouldn't be able to eat because I just wasn't feeling well. I would stay up late with the pain, sipping water and waiting for it to pass. The next night would be spent in the ER, not knowing we would be meeting Gabriel face to face just 10 hours later.
One year ago was the beginning of goodbye to this teeny boy.
And I had no idea.
Wednesday morning. It's time to get ready to leave.
Except it's 3:00am. I keep waking up, worried that I've lost precious time with Gabriel. I toss and turn, knowing that we only have 6 hours left. I feel guilty for sleeping. I feel guilty for everything.
By 5:30am I no longer try. Jamey begins packing a cart with our things to load up the car. The doctor rounds on me early so everything is ready when it's time to be discharged. He and the entire staff know that I do not want to be at the hospital without Gabriel.
My labs are not yet back to normal, but they're showing enough signs of improvement that he's willing to discharge me. My IV is pulled and I take my last shower in the hospital. Jamey helps me to dress and combs my hair.
Then we ask to hold him. I'm not ready for this to be over.
I kiss his face over and over. Each nurse comes in to say her goodbyes. One nurse is 2 hours past her shift to be with us, and she comes in with my two other nurses to fawn over him one last time. We take a picture together, the four of us smiling. He's still in my arms, so I'm able to smile.
I ask for a few minutes alone with him and everyone leaves the room. I sit on the little couch that I'd fallen asleep on just 2 nights before when we were separated for the first time. I rock him. I wonder if there's anything special I should do. I tell him I love him so much.
I tell him I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry.
I hold him up to me to kiss him and tears roll down my face. One falls on him, right in the corner of his eye. I feel sad that I've cried tears onto his perfect little face and a thought comes to me. My tear fell right on his eye. It looks like he's sad to be leaving his mommy too.
That thought hurts.
The door to my room is open and I hear my cousin's voice in the hallway. I don't want to see her. I don't want to hear her. My heart starts to pound as I look at the clock. It's 8:55.
Five minutes left with our son.
Five. Minutes.
My cousin comes into the room. She sits next to me and hugs me. As a funeral director, she is used to this process- accustomed to sitting with grieving families. But this little boy is her cousin too. This tiny one...he's family. She is trying not to cry.
I want to bolt. Jump off of this couch and run away with him. He's mine and I should get to keep him. I hold his body close. This hurts too much.
You know the stories you read where a child or baby is 'declared dead' but then their mother holds them and they 'come back'? I've seen stories like this numerous times. They usually have a title along the lines of "Mother's Love Revives Infant".
I know that for 3 days I've held my dead son, hoping my love is big enough to bring him back.
I've been holding him, still hoping for my miracle.
I realize that once he's out of my arms, he's never coming back.
They settle me into a wheelchair and start to push me down the hallway; Jamey and my cousin by my sides. I lower my head and hold Gabriel close. Families here are celebrating new life and here we are, smack dab in the middle of death.
The warm calm air of the night before is gone and has been replaced with a bitter, blustery wind. We start to rush to get into the cars before we freeze. I give my son one last kiss and put him into my cousin's arms. I will be with him through all of this, Kaila. I promise I will not leave him. I will call you later today.
For a moment, I think, I could pretend this is all normal. That he's just going to my cousin's house for a visit. She'll take him and be with him and we'll come to pick him up after a while. Look, she's driving a minivan. Yes, my baby; he's going with family for the day.
I close my eyes, knowing that I can no longer pretend.
My son is in a minivan with my cousin.
And they're headed to his autopsy.
I just read your post on Facebook that Still Standing magazine shared. It mirrored my journey with my son Leo so much. He lived for almost 2 hours. Born April 15th 2021 found out at 20 weeks he would be born with no kidneys.(Bilateral Renal Agenesis) Tried to carry to term but my body started failing. I got preeclampsia. I only went in for a check up. Had 4 miscarriages before him.
ReplyDeleteI just want to say THANK YOU. Thank you, for sharing your journey. .. and I'm so sorry for the loss of your babies. ❤️
What a gift you've given me to comment on words that I feel like were written forever ago (and when I really think about it, not much time has truly passed.) I am so very sorry for your journey and how much loss you've endured through it all. It just doesn't seem fair. Thank you for sharing the story of your sweet Leo. My heart is with you <3
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