love is blonde

I hope it can still be called a birth story.

On Saturday, August 20th, we flew from DC to Orange County to start our California vacation — our “babymoon.” We had meticulously planned 15 nights driving up the coast from San Diego to Sonoma county. Our cousins picked us up and we headed down to our hotel in San Diego. Everything seemed fine with Baby B, even though the long flight had made my feet and ankles swell.

We ate a delicious dinner in San Diego and walked around the Gaslamp District and went to bed early because Andrew had a cold. The next day, we went to the San Diego Zoo and then headed north to Huntington Beach. I can’t remember the last time I felt the baby kick, but I think it was sometime that afternoon or evening. We made it back to Huntington Beach in time for sunset (and a photo).

We didn’t know it would be our last photo as a happy family of three.

The next day, I was a bit worried about the lack of kicking, but figured the baby was sleeping or maybe even flipped around to a position where I couldn’t feel his (usually light) kicks. Eventually I got too worried, and my sister and my OB back in DC convinced me to go to the Emergency Room.

This is where the nightmare began, and so fast. We were seen immediately in the ER by the triage nurse and taken up to Fetal Diagnostics and in for an ultrasound. At first the tech identified a heartbeat – but it turns out she was wrong. She brought in another tech whose behavior made us even more nervous. Essentially, they aren’t allowed to say anything definitive, but it was pretty clear to us that they were having a hard time finding the heartbeat, so they rushed to get the doctor on call.

This is the point where we knew something was very wrong.

The doctor came in, looked for the heartbeat for about 20 seconds, but it wasn’t there. He told us kindly but frankly that the baby has passed away. Two words you never want to hear. “Fetal demise.”

How can I possibly describe this moment? The words heartbreak and shock aren’t enough. Our world crashed in on us in a cold, dark ultrasound room three thousand miles from home.

We had just seen the baby via ultrasound the previous Thursday (four days earlier) and also the week before that (a MRI, a high-res ultrasound, and an echocardiogram) and the week before that. He had looked just fine, growing perfectly, heart beating right on target. How could this be happening?

We immediately faced a few decisions. How to deliver the baby? WHERE to deliver the baby? The California doctors conferred with my DC doctors and decided I would not be allowed to travel home, that I would be having a C-section, and that I would be admitted as an inpatient to the hospital right away.

We were brought up to the Labor & Delivery ward, and thankfully they gave us a private room at the end of the hall away from moms and babies. It was in this room that we named our son. He needed a name because he was about to be born and it didn’t seem right for him not to be named.

We were visited by nurses and doctors who walked us through the next steps. The nurses – who are like angels on this earth – were trained to deal with special cases like ours and they helped us think through what decisions we’d be facing. All of the nurses recommended that we take time to hold the baby and spend time with him after he was born. Within a few hours, around 9:30 pm, I was in surgery.

I don’t know exactly when the baby was born, because there was no telltale first cry.

Miller Everett B______ was born just before 10pm on August 22, 2011. He was not born alive. We don’t know the last moment he was alive, perhaps earlier in the morning or the night before. We both heard one of the surgeons say something quietly about the cord being around the neck, but we didn’t dare ask anything at the time. He weighed 2 pounds, 2.6 ounces, and was 15 inches long. This was right on target for his age of 26 weeks and 5 days old.

After surgery and an hour of recovery were over, we got to meet our son. Sweet baby Miller was brought in the room in a wheeled bassinet, and our first reaction was how tiny he was. The bassinet seemed huge for such a little, motionless baby. This was such a hard moment. One of many. We were holding our sweet, beloved baby. He was bundled up in a white cotton blanket with blue and pink stripes and wearing a white knit hat with a blue poof on top. His eyes were closed, his nose was perfect, and he had full, pinkish-red lips. His skin was perfectly soft baby skin.

We didn’t get to see his body or his hands and feet, but we got to hold him, talk to him, and cry and grieve. We told Miller what we had hoped for his life. He was so tiny and perfect. He looked like such a proper little baby, just small. It felt so unfair to hold him and know it was not supposed to be that way, that we were supposed to hold him in a joyous moment with an entire life to look ahead.

We took pictures of Miller alone and with each of us. Then the nurse took Miller away to take his handprints and footprints and let us try to get some sleep.

Our hearts were broken for the millionth time in the day.

The next morning, my parents flew to California. Our cousins and my parents got a chance to meet and hold Miller, too. Seeing him again the next morning was so, so hard. This time we got to hold his hands and feet, fingers and toes. He was so precious. But our beloved baby was still not alive, and it hurt so much. We felt so much love for our baby and yet so robbed. My mom held him for awhile and then we felt like it was time to really say goodbye.

I wish I could still be holding my baby right now, in my arms or in my body.

We don’t have answers about why this happened, though we are trying to get some. It could have been a cord accident. It could have been something else, and we may never know.

The first week the grief was crushing. I felt like I had rocks in my stomach, an elephant sitting on my chest, and a plastic bag over my head. I still feel like that some moments and some days. I know it is still very early, and very raw. We are trying to heal, but we will never forget our son.