Induction Day

Dear Nora,

We left our new home, a little in shambles after trying to get as much put together before your arrival as possible, and headed to Seattle. We were going to settle in at an Air BnB the day before your induction so that everything was ready to go. We ate dinner together as a family, I opted for a meal that would be easiest to throw up the next day, just in case. Then we got your sisters to bed and tried to relax. When it came time for us to go to bed I tried really hard to sleep. It took hours before I even caught a wink and before I knew it, I could hear little feet in the hall and tiny voices trying to keep quiet. I called the hospital first thing in the morning to see what time we should come in for induction and was met with more waiting as I was told they wouldn’t be sure of a good time until closer to lunch.

Lunch came and, once again, I opted for the least offensive meal I could think of and had some soup. After we got the call to come in at 1900, the countdown was officially on. We got your sisters a good nap and got ready for the day. I pack and repacked and repacked again. Organizing the bags into three categories: 1. What we needed overnight and if you were too sick to leave the hospital 2. What we needed if you were too sick to leave the city and 3. What we didn’t need until we were back home no matter what that meant. We stopped on the way to get a few things to stock the mini fridge with for your Daddy then we parked the car and waddled in. In that moment I had no idea we had less than 24 hours left together.

I was nervous and honestly quite scared of your birthday. I didn’t know how I could ever be ready to let you go, even though I knew we were making the best choice for you. I was also full of excitement because no matter what, it was your birth and we had been imagining who you were in there for over 38 weeks.

Everyone was very kind and doing their best to make sure you had the best entrance into the world possible and the greatest chance of meeting your sisters (we were even set to be discharged from the hospital within an hour of your birth). Still, because we were aiming to have you make your appearance during the day, interventions were used to move things along at an appropriate pace to make that happen. Something about it felt more clinical than my previous births. I didn’t like that, but I understood the reasoning behind it and was okay with doing whatever I needed to do for you. As the night wore on and contractions became more uncomfortable, I grew more and more nervous for the heartache I expected to come. There was no way to expect or prepare for the heartbreak that actually occurred.

In the early morning hours, they wanted to break my water. I had a terrible feeling about this, but thought it was anxiety surrounding the idea of you leaving the safety of my womb so I let them proceed. We needed you to come during the day after all, when hospice would be easy to coordinate and we could get your morphine prescription in a timely manner. All the right doctors would be there during the day. Everything would be easier and quicker. This is what we’d been planning and preparing for over the last few months.

After hours of labor, I developed a window in my epidural where I could feel everything. The doctor in house came in to check our progress. There was none. The check was extremely uncomfortable and you did not like it one bit. The doctor did some sort of maneuver and you reacted wildly. It took my prompting for her to tell me that you’d been trying to high five us and come out arm first. Part of me thinks you were trying to protect us all. Give us just a little more time together.

Your head was well applied then and with your arm out of the way things got very intense very quickly. I started having one contraction on top of the other with no break. The window was nearly unbearable and somehow simultaneously fine. I felt strength against the physical pain knowing you’d be in my arms soon. My nurse opened my fluids to slow my contractions and I already knew it was time to push. She gave me the option to have the OB in house come in for delivery or to wait for my doctor. I chose to wait. We’d built such rapport with her and our situation was unique. I didn’t want a stranger to deliver you. So I asked your dad to play a few songs that had been quite important and helpful to me during our pregnancy, I thought they’d give me something else to focus in on other than the pain and the urge to push. He put the first one on and I focused on his hand squeezing mine as I sang along with the lyrics through tears while the cavalry poured in.

“You are the answer to the prayers I prayed
And the hope in childhood games I played
Pushing baby dolls in strollers
And dreaming of who you would be

You are the news I celebrated
That little blue line exclamation
Got me dancing in my bare feet
And I couldn’t help but sing

You will always be my baby
You will always have my love
I will always, always be your mother
Always

You are the reason I was holding on
Somehow I knew you were already gone
So many questions without answers
‘Cause only God knows why…”

The NICU team was present and performing all the proper checks on the Panda bed (checks I could do in my sleep) making sure it was prepped and ready for you. Anesthesia came in to talk to me and let me know that he would be there if I needed anything. He smiled that sympathetic smile I had become all too familiar with and told me I was doing a good job. The OB resident stood at the end of the bed and the doctor in charge of palliative care tucked herself in at the edge of my vision. The photographer we’d planned for came into the room too and started documenting your big day. She was meant to follow us wherever you were strong enough to get to to meet your sisters. Your dad looked at me and I said, “I’m not ready.” He assured me that I was ready, I was strong, and we were going to do this together. He reminded me that we were going to meet you so soon. We were finally going to see you, hold you, know you. He was right, I was ready for that part, but my gut told me there was something I was very much not prepared for. My gut was right.

We’d planned, discussed, and met with everyone from doctors to funeral home directors in the months leading to your birth. We had three separate plans for how things would go. One plan even included a donated ambulance ride to our home over an hour away. None of the plans came to fruition and my entire heart felt like it was imploding when I saw my doctor shake her head while she checked me during my first push. I’d seen doctors check the fontanelle for a baby’s pulse before when we couldn’t get a good heart rate reading and I assumed this was what she was doing. Next I heard her quietly say to the other OB, “No, not really. When was the last dop?” My head spun and I looked at your dad, begging the universe not to let her say anything so he could stay naive. Time for another push. I watched her check again, heard, “no, not much of one at all.” Then everything I could ever fear came following the words, “there’s something I have to tell you.” But she didn’t have to tell me. I knew that they couldn’t feel a pulse and that they’d try their best once you were out. I already knew and it broke me.

Your cord was coming before your head and we weren’t going to get to meet you after all. Third contraction pushing now and I focused as hard as I could and got you out as quickly as I could, but there was cord wrapped around you too and I could tell I was too late. They moved you to my chest and tried to get out a cry. The nurse assessed with a stethoscope for a long time as I cried and held you. My biggest regret is not asking her if I could listen. I wonder all the time if she heard even just one beat. Just one beat of the most perfect half of a heart there ever was. One beat from the heart we knew would take you from us. One beat of the sound I clung to at each ultrasound. One beat of the sound I most wanted to hear aside from your cry.

Most of the rest is a blur from there. We held you, bathed you, read you stories and sang to you. We counted your perfect fingers and toes and kissed you more than anyone could count. We loved you with all we had for every second we could. We cried over you and marveled at your beauty and perfection. We remarked how much you looked like both of your sisters and still how uniquely “you” you were. We wondered what color eyes you had. We wished you were holding our hands back when we held yours. We were grateful that you didn’t suffer and that we got time with you at all, but leaving the hospital without you a few hours later was the most painful and difficult thing we’ve ever had to do.

I don’t know how to be without you and I miss you so incredibly much. Your sister asked why I didn’t bring you home to her… why I didn’t fix your heart boo boo… she cried for you when I put her to bed. She thanked you for her gift and she said she loves you. I know I have to move forward, even if I don’t know how. I don’t even know how to sleep when all I can think about is how you’re cold and alone without me and how I’m empty without you. We knew we were never going to get to keep you, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. We weren’t even guaranteed hours, but I feel robbed. Now, all I have to prove it was real is the swollen womb you once occupied, the pain and bleeding from delivery, and the ache in my breasts as I try to suppress the milk that was meant for you. That song from before continues,

“Now I think I’ve cried a million tears
For all the laughter we will never hear
We lost you in the silence
Before you had a chance to cry

You will always be my baby
You will always have my love
I will always, always be your mother
Always

And I would give anything
To hold you in my arms
But while you’re away from me
I’ll hold you in my heart
You’re forever in my heart…”

Never when I listened while pregnant with you did it feel more perfect than it does now. You will always be my baby, you will always have my love, and I will always be your mother. Always.

Love, Mommy

Originally written to Nora on March 9, 2021, the day she was born and the day she left us.

*The song quoted is Always by JJ Heller.