And the Nightmare Continues

Last month I began my attempt to share the story of Finlay's loss.  Writing has always been my manner of choice for working through and expressing my feelings.  I've journaled for most of my life.  I began sharing some of that back in 2005.  A lot of times it can be very cathartic.  Anyway, I started this story in a post called The Nightmare Begins, and got as far as I could at the time.  I meant to finish the story later, but just haven't felt up to it.  I guess now's as good a time as any.

When I left off, I'd just found out that my precious baby no longer had a heartbeat, and that they would be inducing labor so that I could deliver her.  This seemed so surreal to me.  I guess I'd never considered how they would get a baby out under such circumstances, and this answer just didn't seem fair.  Delivery was one part of the whole pregnancy thing that really scared me.  And I hadn't even gotten to that chapter of the books yet.  I was about to get a crash course.

I had planned to have my mother, my sister, my aunt Shannon, and my 'other little sister' Branch in the delivery room with me, when I finally got to meet my Finlay in July.  I was quite certain that my wimpy self would absolutely want an epidural, and that I'd want Branch (an amazing professional photographer) taking pictures, but really hadn't thought much more about it than that.  I'd worried a little about all of the yucky and embarrassing things I'd heard could happen during labor, and never quite believed the women who told me that all traces of my dignity and modesty would be quickly forgotten when the big day came.  My naivete is almost laughable now.

They began my induction at 2 am Monday, March 7th, with something similar to Cervadil.  It was my understanding that this would cause me to begin dilating and having contractions.  I was half right.  It brought on contractions.  Just increasingly uncomfortable cramping at first.  They inserted more of this medicine every few hours.  And every few hours, the pain became more intense.  Time became a bit of a blur.  I know by Monday evening, the pain was still SOMEwhat manageable because I remember Christan bringing dinner for everyone, and I remember taking a walk outside with Mary and Shannon.  It was sometime late on Monday that I started REALLY getting interested in the epidural they had promised me.  But they had changed their minds.


I had a fever for some reason.  And it was high enough that the anesthesiologist didn't feel comfortable giving me an epidural.  In fact he flat out refused.  And I started to panic.  They were giving me all kinds of pain medicines, I had some button I could push every few minutes.  But I was hurting - BAD - and I hadn't even started to dilate yet.  So I could only imagine how much worse it was going to get.  But no amount of pleading on my part would change the doctors' minds.  Too much risk of infection.  They would keep me 'comfortable' with IV meds. 

Turns out, they and I have VERY different definitions of the word 'comfortable'.  By the early hours of Tuesday, I was writhing in pain.  I also had not had the benefit of any birthing classes, so I had no idea about any breathing crap to do or positions to try and get into.  I just squirmed and writhed and cursed and cried and probably screamed a little through the contractions, which it seemed were getting longer and longer and with almost no reprieve.  It was horrible.  I don't know if it would have been different had I known my baby even had a chance at survival, (babies can survive when born at 23 weeks), but I knew my sweet girl was already gone.  It just seemed extra cruel that I had to suffer through all this and not get to take her home afterward.  It was hell.  I have never been in so much agony.  I think I was starting to lose it. 

I think at some point Tuesday morning, I asked for the doctor.  I was done.  I couldn't do it anymore.  I still hadn't dilated AT ALL.  And I wanted that baby OUT of me.  I wanted the pain to stop.  It had been more than 32 hours when the doctor came in to tell me my options.  He could take me into the OR and sedate me and try to manually dilate me, then bring me back to wait some more.  Or he could do a c-section under general anesthesia, which was more risky, and clearly not the first choice of the team of people staring at me.  I couldn't sign the consent form fast enough.  I was done. 

From there, everything started happening really fast.  I was in the operating room, terrified, laying on a table while several people moved quickly around making various preparations.  I remember my IV chosing that time to fail, so 3 different guys were trying to get another line in me so that they could put me out.  No easy feat, as I have tiny, crappy veins.  Finally they got one started.  There was a mask put on my face.  I made them promise to make sure I was FOR SURE asleep before they did anything.  And the next thing I knew I was waking up in a different room.  My sister was there.  A nurse was there.  I was confused at first, and I felt pain.  But then I heard a baby cry from another room and reality hit me like a semi-truck.  It was done.  I was no longer pregnant.  And I also didn't have a baby in my arms.  It was horrific. 

They took me to a new room, in the ante-natal unit, for still pregnant women who were having problems, etc.  This was to spare me having to listen to other families in the Family Care Unit and their crying, healthy babies.  I am very grateful that they were so sensitive. 

I tried to prepare myself for what was next.  I wanted to see her.  I wanted to hold her.  I had asked the nurse in the recovery room if she looked okay, trying to get an idea of what to expect.  She told me that her skin would be very red because it was so thin.  She told me that she was very small, and very thin.  I still had no idea what to expect.  They brought her to me.  I didn't know what to do.  I didn't know what to think.  I looked at her and felt, at once, tremendous love and overwhelming sadness.  She was smaller than I expected, and even more fragile.  I was afraid to touch her at first.  That didn't last too long.  I noticed that she had my nose.  The same little button nose my niece Haylee popped out with.  I saw my sister's mouth.  I thought that she would probably have looked a lot like her beautiful cousin Haylee.  I wanted so badly for her to open her eyes and look at me.  But she didn't.  She couldn't.

I wish I remembered more clearly the time I got to spend with her.  I remember how overcome with love for this tiny, beautiful little creature I was.  And I remember the unimaginable grief I felt.  I don't know if it was the medicine, my fatigue, or just the sheer stress of it all, but much of the hours I had with her is still a blur.  I am so grateful that Branch was there to document it.  I think I have since memorized every detail of all 150 or so pictures I have of her.  They are the only ones I will ever get to see.

I remember thinking how perfect she was, and how perfect she would have been.  With her dark hair and her long legs and fingers and her tiny little toes.  I remember being amazed by her itty bitty toenails.  I remember, when the nurse took her away for the final time, feeling like she had just walked out of the room with my heart in her hands.  And she never brought it back.



Finlay




Haylee