I struggled with sleep for a long time after Gabriel was born. In the hospital, I was encouraged to rest as much as I could, but every time I closed my eyes and opened them again I would get a rush of adrenaline. (For the previous post to this story, click here.)
Where am I? What has happened?
Waking up the morning after his death is a relief; an end to the pain-filled night. My mom comes up to the hospital first thing in the morning and Johanna makes the 7-hour trip back home to her family.
Multiple visitors come and go throughout the day.
I am exhausted. The magnesium drip is stopped after its 24-hour timer is up. I know I'll be able to get up and move around soon, but I am still in an incredible amount of pain. A headache starts. My shoulders tense. I can't relax.
Everything hurts.
Pain medication isn't touching it.
The doctor comes in to check on me. "Where are you at on the pain scale?"
NINE. A nine. Please. Someone, make it stop.
I'm given a dose of fentanyl along with another longer-acting medication and the physical relief is nearly immediate. My muscles relax. It doesn't hurt anymore to breathe.
I'm encouraged to sleep, and I try my hardest. At one point, I believe I can hear myself snoring, but my mind is still very much awake.
I hear voices. The sounds of my mother and husband looking at infant urns together.
I think she will like this one. What do you think of this? Ohhh that is really beautiful. Okay, I think we have a few good choices here for her when she wakes up.
They talk in low whispers but I can hear the entire conversation.
Picking out urns. For me to choose from.
For my son laying next to me in his little ice bed.
The emotional and physical pain just roll right together...one always intensifying the other.
I wish I could skip over all of this and get right to the healing. Where I'm "okay" again. But I will never be "okay" again.
When I open my eyes, I realize that my brain seems to have reset. My vision is clearer and the pain is no longer at a nine. I'm able to get up, eventually walk around, and sit in the chair they have next to my bed. We turn on the television and I ask Jamey to bring Gabriel to me.
He's wet. Freezing cold. The guilt is intense. I should have known that he was cold.
Most babies cry when they're cold. My baby cannot. He's not even cold; he's gone. He doesn't feel any of this.
I feel it for both of us.
I sob as our sweet nurse rushes in and helps to get him into dry clothes. Helps to remake his little bed. My platelet count is low and blood mixes with the tears flowing as I wipe my nose.
Full body grief. Blood and tears.
We head into our second evening with Gabriel.
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