The Nightmare Begins

Friday, March 4th started out just fine. I woke up early, too excited about my scheduled ultrasound to sleep any longer. I got dressed and headed to the doctor’s office. Dr. Hume was the specialist I was seeing because of Finlay’s slightly elevated risk for a heart defect. They were planning to look at her heart that day, and I was expecting good news and hoping to catch a glimpse of her little face that day, since she hadn’t felt like showing it at the last exam. I was on the table in no time, and a technician started without the doctor. Almost immediately, I could tell something wasn’t quite right. She kept asking how far along I was, which was 22 weeks. I saw her taking measurements and noticed that when she calculated the baby’s size, it was coming up to only around 19 weeks. She had always been right on track growth-wise, so I was a little concerned. Then the technician asked if I’d had low amniotic fluid at my last ultrasound, and if they’d said anything about the size of the placenta. No, they hadn’t. And my anxiety only increased. Dr. Hume joined us and didn’t like what he saw when he looked at her heart. It was structurally sound, he said, but was tilted in a way that it shouldn’t be. Tears were streaming down my face at this point, and I was so scared that much of the rest of what he said was a blur. I remember him talking about how this could indicate some problem that they would be better able to diagnose at Shands. He said he would be referring me there, and that I should get a call in a couple of days to schedule the appointment. I left the office confused and terrified. I fell completely apart about halfway home.
I talked to my parents, and realized just how little I really understood about what was going on. We decided that I should call my regular OB’s office, and try to get some more information before the weekend. I spoke with a nurse who was very empathetic and offered me an appointment with one of the other practice physicians for that afternoon, as my doctor was in surgery and not expected back in the office. I declined, saying I’d really rather talk to Dr. Friall. I was hoping that someone could talk to Dr. Hume and find out what exactly he thought was happening, and perhaps alleviate some of my tremendous fear. The nurse told me she’d already gotten a call from his office and that they were sending a report for my doctor to review. The nurse, whose name I failed to get, offered to personally walk over to Dr. Hume’s office and retrieve the report, and said she would make sure Dr. Friall got it that day, and that someone would call me back with some answers. She told me to go to bed and try to relax until I heard back from someone. In just a couple of hours, I got a call from my amazing doctor, Dr. Andrea Friall. She tried to calm me, explained what they knew, and really did help me to calm down some. The best thing we could do was to get more information, and the best way to do that was to go to Shands, where a pediatric cardiologist could make a diagnosis. It meant waiting, and the uncertainty was unbearable, but for the moment it was all I could do.
The weekend was pretty low-key. I rested and tried not to worry. I also didn’t feel very well. This was pretty much par for the course, since I’d had ‘morning sickness’ for the entire pregnancy. On Sunday, however, I felt a little worse. And I had this terrible feeling that something wasn’t right. I couldn’t shake it, so I went to triage at the Women’s Pavilion at TMH. I had been there before, with the ongoing risk of dehydration due to the constant vomiting. I was taken back pretty quickly, and after asking some questions, the nurse got the Doppler to look for the baby’s heartbeat. They did this every time. And every time, hearing that little heartbeat racing along was such a comforting sound. This time it didn’t happen. She tried for a while, and told me that it could just be that the baby was still small and she could be in an awkward position. She called the doctor on call, and he said he’d be right over to do an ultrasound. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Somehow I just knew something was wrong. I called my family and asked someone to come up and be with me. I began texting everyone I could think of who might have some pull with the man upstairs and begged for prayers. And then I began praying, too. I begged God to please let her be okay. I promised that I would sleep more and eat better and do anything in the world if only she could just be okay. My sister arrived, and then my parents. The doctor came in with the bedside ultrasound, and he couldn’t see her heartbeat either. She was eerily still. My heart began to break,
 and I prayed harder for a miracle. He said the machine was old, and that the low fluid levels made it difficult to see, so he was sending me downstairs for a full ultrasound. Melissa went with me, my nurse took me and stayed with us also. It was very quiet in the dark room as the technician clicked away on the screen. I was afraid to ask, but I managed to ask if she was moving now. He said no. After what seemed like an eternity, with nobody saying a word, I asked if her heart was beating. He said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think so.” My world came crashing down around me. In an instant, everything changed. I could barely breathe. I felt myself passing out. I begged God to let me wake up from this nightmare, but it wasn’t to be.
My sister took my hand. The nurse hugged me. I felt like I was in a trance, stuck in a horrific dream on a visit to the very pits of Hell. Why wouldn’t someone just wake me up? I would have given everything I owned, my life even, just to wake up and know that my precious little girl was really okay. When they took me back upstairs, they took me directly to a labor and delivery suite. My parents joined us, and as reality set in, I fell apart. I cried, or rather wailed, like I hadn’t cried since losing my beloved Grandma to cancer a few years ago.
After a radiologist confirmed the technician’s findings, they told me that Finlay was dead. I asked what that meant, exactly, what was going to happen next. I was told that her heart had stopped beating and that they weren’t sure why. And, as if to add insult to considerable injury, I found out that I would still have to deliver her, and that they would be inducing labor. The doctor said it could take a couple of days, since my body was not yet at all ready to give birth. I was told that I would be given an epidural. That they would try to make me as comfortable as possible as I labored and delivered my daughter, four months too soon. They used the word ‘stillborn’. A word that had never been a significant part of my vocabulary, and one of the few things I hadn’t worried about during my pregnancy. Once she was born, I would have 24 hours to spend with her, if I so desired, and they would clean her up and take some pictures, regardless of my desire or lack thereof to see her, in case I should change my mind down the road. It was surreal. It was awful. And it was only going to get worse.