Part Four
Catch up on Part Three here.
April 24th, 2015 was exactly ten years from mine and Matt’s first date. April 25th, our first kiss. I posted something on Facebook the night of the 24th, then went to bed.
The next day, April 25th, I wasn’t feeling well. I don’t remember most of that day, just that I was uncomfortable and restless. Matt went to work late that afternoon. The weather was gorgeous but I didn’t have the energy to get outside. It was unseasonably warm and sunny for late April. I went to bed around 9 and fell asleep pretty quickly. The next thing I knew, I felt a “pop” and then a gush. It was so sudden it simultaneously woke me and propelled me out of bed, still not fully awake. I waddled to the bathroom and sat down but the water stopped. I was groggy and thought I peed myself. It wouldn’t have been the first time. The last few weeks with the extra fluid pushing down resulted in several accidents. I stood up, then the gush came again and I realized what was happening — my water broke! I stripped off my wet clothes and called Matt. This was around 11pm. Don’t ask me how but he was home ten minutes later, even though his work was at best fifteen minutes away. He flew in the door expecting me to be ready to go, but found me standing in the nude, brushing my teeth. He said, “What are you doing?!” And I said, “I don’t know!” And we laughed. For a moment I felt peace. And then, I felt really happy. I could tell Matt was stressed, so I stopped him as we were locking up. I said, “Today is Lincoln’s birthday. No matter what, we get to meet him today. We’ve been looking forward to this. This is good.” We squeezed each other, kissed, then he helped me into the car. Our last moments as a family of two. We called the hospital to let them know I was coming in and that my water broke. It was a Saturday night, and the on-call doctor was not my OB. But everyone in the practice was briefed on my situation and they got ready for us. Once I was admitted, she came in and asked what the plan was, and I told her a c-section. I was in some pain, these contractions were a lot stronger than the ones induced by the extra fluid, and they hurt! But the pain was a great distraction from my fear. Still, when they asked about my pain level on the 1–10 scale I was kind of hysterical (and loud!) as I cried, “A nine! I’m a nine!!” I later learned the nurses all the way down the hall could hear me. It’s my teacher voice. I have a hard time turning off the projection.
The team of doctors was assembled and I was wheeled into the OR. The nurse helping me up on the table was an absolute angel. I remember her. Not her name but her eyes. Those green eyes locked with mine during each contraction until my spinal block was administered. She told me to just hold on to her, tight. To dig my nails in if I had to. And I did. Between contractions she talked about my situation. I’m glad she didn’t pretend not to know. She confided that she and her husband were also having trouble conceiving. That they were going through fertility procedures. I prayed about her for a long time after that day. I still hope and pray she was able to grow her family and have healthy children one way or another.
Once the spinal block was administered I calmed down a bit. They strapped my arms to the table — I didn’t know that was going to happen. I refused to watch videos of c-sections prior to the birth. I knew I would just freak out and I had enough to worry about. The OR was packed. Matt was led in and sat behind me. He would be watching the procedure over the top, and he let the team of NICU doctors know they were to tell him about Lincoln’s lung tissue as soon as possible so we could quickly decide a course of action. We knew that either way, time would be of the essence. If Lincoln was going to have a chance at a prolonged life, he would likely need medical intervention right away. The on-call OB and her counterparts got to work. I don’t know what I expected but c-sections are not gentle. If you’re squeamish, skip to the next paragraph. I was numb from the chest down — no pain whatsoever. But I could feel pressure and movement. It felt like something was pushing down on my stomach, and my body was rocked side to side after the incision was made. I remember yelling out, “What’s happening?” And they said they were pulling Lincoln out. I guess because of his head size it was more difficult to pull him out through a regular-sized incision, but they were trying to not expand it for the sake of my body and subsequent healing. Hence, the rocking side-to-side to get him out. It was kind of violent, to be honest.
And then he was here.
It’s truly indescribable, but I’m going to try. First, we heard him cry. This was momentous. We were told there may not be a cry either if he wasn’t born breathing or because if he was born alive he may not have the capacity to cry. Again, as our first baby we had no frame of reference but that sweet cry was heavenly music to our ears. I will never in my life forget his sweet face as we got our first look at one another. I close my eyes and think of that moment often because I don’t ever want to lose that memory. His eyes and mouth were open. He was squinting, and bluish, and so very cute! I had been warned that there might be major deformities but man, my boy was a handsome little guy! He had lots of black hair. And despite being born one day shy of 35 weeks, he wasn’t as small as I’d imagined he would be. In fact, he turned out to be the biggest of all my babies. How’s that for irony? The doctor held him so Matt and I could get a good look, then passed him to the team of doctors to inspect his lungs. Those next moments were an eternity, waiting for the prognosis. Lungs can’t be seen on ultrasound so everything hinged on this moment. And I learned his fate with a shake of Matt’s head. Right then and there I had the most indescribable feeling of peace and joy. Sadness was there, too, but it didn’t take over. Not yet. There is no reason for me to have felt such joy except for the presence of God. Thank you Jesus, for your peace and presence.
Lincoln was wiped down, wrapped up, and passed to his father’s arms. Next, he was placed on my chest. I whispered to my sweet boy, “I know you!” and we were wheeled down the hall to my room. As we were entering, my sister Annie was there waiting for us. She was teary-eyed and looked absolutely sorrowful. Before she could say a word I introduced her to her nephew, and invited her to come in with us. I told her, “Today is his birthday, it’s a happy day. We’re celebrating his life.” And so it was.
In our room, we did what I imagine a lot of first-time parents might — we memorized every inch of him. Kissed him, waited for him to open his eyes. I sang him “Happy Birthday” as much as I could, to make up for all the years we would miss. He broke me wide open. I had this new love that poured forth and it was intoxicating, like nothing I’d ever known before. It was instinct and it was always there.
His breathing was quick and shallow, but his color was good. For a while, I thought we might have him for days, maybe weeks. But I was brought back down to reality when I asked the nurse if I could try feeding him. She explained (oh so kindly) that he probably wouldn’t be strong enough, and that it may only serve to prolong the inevitable. She left that thought hanging. I realized prolonging his life even a little, might cause him unnecessary pain. It was a sobering thought. So I asked her if he was in any pain, and she said he didn’t appear to be, but if he started to show signs of distress they would give him some sugar water on a pacifier to release endorphins and dull any pain.
While Lincoln was doing some skin-on-skin time with his daddy I was on a mission to eat something. I had a craving so hard that I couldn’t focus on anything but my next meal, and it had to be two egg and cheese biscuits from McDonald’s, hold the bacon. Never mind the fact that I craved (and ate) all the cheeseburgers during my pregnancy, there was to be no bacon on this biscuit for reasons I cannot explain. This was important, and my best friend was tasked with granting this wish as she drove from an hour away in the very early morning. She made it, I ate, and she and Linc got to meet. My heart and belly were full.
We introduced Lincoln to his aunts and uncles, grandparents, friends, and cousins. As many as could make it there in time to meet him. His aunt Stephanie shared a birthday with him, and she and my niece left a trip they were on to come home and meet him. My brother Matthew happened to be on a job in town and was also able to meet his nephew. There was something divine about so many of us coming together in that short time.
My main nurse took a ton of pictures so we could focus our time and attention on him. They are treasures. His breathing had a chirping sound, like a little bird. I’ll never forget it. I guess it was because of the condition of his lungs. We read books and talked to him, held him close. It was incredible to feel his warmth, his movement against me. Matt changed his diaper and Linc peed on him, such a normal parenting experience, but a one-off for us.
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And then he started to fade. His color got darker, starting with his head, and he didn’t open his eyes or squirm any more. His little chirp grew dim, and the nurse came in more often to check his heartbeat and breathing, until there wasn’t any. Until he was just still in my arms, and the only warmth was provided by his blanket and my body.
At this point we hadn’t slept in more than 24 hours. We were exhausted, sad, and quite literally didn’t know what to do. Most of our family and friends went home. Matt left to let the dogs out. I don’t remember what I did. I couldn’t get up yet. I still had a catheter in from my c-section. They wanted me to be able to focus my time with Lincoln and not have to worry about the healing process just yet. So I was stuck in my bed. A photographer came in from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep and provided his photography services and photos to us as a gift. Such an incredible gift. Lincoln had already passed but we dressed him in an outfit we loved, wrapped him in his Mickey blanked from his grandma, and I held him while Matt read Little Blue Truck to our boy.
The following days while I healed in the hospital were unbearable. Some parents hold on to their dead babies for days, there is no handbook or right answer for this, but in our case, I just couldn’t. The signs of death became more apparent as time passed. His lips darkened. Sometimes a sigh would escape. I thought, “He’s alive!” but I was told that happens sometimes, just air escaping the body when he was moved. It was torture to have hope for the briefest moment before it was dashed.
Matt’s sister Shellie came to cast his hands and feet in plaster for us. I watched as she and Matt carefully turned his sweet body so we could have those memories. It was a holy act performed with such tenderness. I found out this is something that a lot of hospitals do for parents whose babies die. Another sweet and selfless gift. I wonder what it costs them, the nurses and others who prepare such casts on a regular basis. They are angels.
After the casting, Matt and I wrapped him up tight again and just spent a little more time together, then around 10pm on his birthday, we decided to let him go. The hospital would keep him until the day after I left, until the funeral home came to take him away. Another dear nurse who had also lost a child promised to watch over him for me all night and day. She assured me he would be loved and looked after, and she could bring him back to me any time I wanted. Oh how I wanted that. To just hold him and never let go. But I could feel myself breaking, and I knew I would break in half if I held on any longer. Some crazy part of me still had hope of further growing our family. Hope of growing old with my husband. I didn’t want to break all the way. I couldn’t possibly have one foot in the afterlife and the other here on Earth. And yet…that is exactly how I existed for months.
Leaving the maternity ward, the hospital, without our baby was one of the worst moments of my life. It’s not supposed to be that way. And it’s as hellish as you might imagine. Because of my c-section I was wheeled out to the front where Matt came to pick me up. He remembered to remove the car seat so I wouldn’t see it. But I saw its absence, just as I see the shadow of Lincoln in every family photo, when my kids are playing together, as they’re walking into school. My body was doing what post-pregnant bodies do. I was ravenously hungry so we stopped for pizza on the way home because the idea of getting groceries and making a meal was beyond our capabilities at the time. I remember going through that line, robotic, not sure how to answer when the cashier asked how I was today. It’s the mundane that gets you. Those constant reminders that all is not well. That you are not okay.
Going home to an empty house, our very quiet house that should have had a crying newborn keeping us up at all hours was excruciating. The silence was deafening. I stayed in bed most of the time. I had to walk around a little to start healing, but I didn’t want to. My giant bloodhound Zoë snuggled right up next to me. She was perched by my side through those last months of the pregnancy and for a long time after. I was laying there one evening when Matt’s sister and her husband were there keeping us company and helping out around the house. I heard the most horrible scream from Matt, coming from the back yard. I could barely get out of bed, just a few days post-surgery, and was waddling to the back of the house when I saw through the open door. He was on the ground, next to a hatchet, blood pouring from an open wound on his ankle. I screamed for Matt’s sister and someone called 911. Turns out, Matt was taking his anger out on an old tree stump and the dull hatchet slipped. But it was still sharp enough and wielding enough force to cut him to the bone. A few hours later he was stitched and we were sitting in the ER waiting for follow up. Lincoln’s memorial service was the next morning and it was late. Matt’s sister took me home so I could get a little sleep and her husband brought Matt home after he was released. It wasn’t funny, it still isn’t, but when we were in that ER together we had this weird moment of laughter at how ridiculous it was. Me waddling around, him cutting his ankle, and the night before we said goodbye to our boy with family and loved ones. Grief is weird.
The morning of Linc’s service was so beautiful. It was early May, and the most gorgeous weather you can imagine. But that’s hard to appreciate when you’re in the position we were. I remember going to the salon to get a blow out because washing and styling my hair was a task far too overwhelming. My stylist did it free of charge, fit me in on a busy Saturday. So many kindnesses were bestowed upon us. I still couldn’t drive so my mom was with me. After, I put on my friend’s dress she loaned me, managed some makeup, and we made our way to the church. Lincoln’s ashes were not ready, so we set up a table with his pictures, some of his things, a bulletin for the service.
It was a beautiful service. Friends old and new, colleagues, family, and even some church members we didn’t know at all gathered to envelop us in love and share in our grief. My brave husband went to the front on crutches and read the story he wrote about our parenting journey thus far. He was so strong and I’d never been more proud. I felt buoyed by the love surrounding us. I’ve always needed people and all the hugs, tears, and kind words lifted me.
Back at our house our family crammed into our bungalow and I never wanted them to leave. Because then I would have more space to feel everything I didn’t want to feel. As they trickled out we faced another long stretch of time. There was so much time to fill. To wonder if we would always feel like this. But there were bright spots to break up the time. Someone at our church sent us to their cabin for a few nights. It gave us something to do, somewhere to go, and we enjoyed the time for healing and grieving as much as one can. There was a peacefulness and I am still so grateful for that reprieve. Because as much as I need people, I also need to recharge without them.
Back at home, life started to return to our new normal. Matt went back to work after a few days. He needed the distraction and I don’t blame him. I’m a teacher so I was out on maternity leave until the next school year. I can’t remember what I did to fill the time, other than watch a lot of tv. We had precious friends who checked in all the time and did a meal train for us until we could start to resume shopping and cooking. I had to get better so I could drive, so I went on a lot of walks with friends. They were salve for my soul. We still met weekly with our house church. It was the only few hours of the week I didn’t constantly think about Lincoln and our loss. We even laughed a little, and eventually a lot. Those weekly dinners with friends continued for several years and they were some of the best times of my life.
At one point I remember going to Target for the first time postpartum. It was hard to go out in public. There are babies and kids everywhere, and I was hyper aware of them. I needed medication from the pharmacy and as I drew near, I heard the distinct cry of a newborn. I rushed from the store and found a bench outside where the tears fell freely and I tried to breathe. I decided to get what I needed tomorrow. Today was too much. As I walked to the car, my milk came in and I started leaking through my shirt. Talk about adding insult to injury. I was feeling good and sorry for myself, which felt wrong, but now I look back on that time and tell myself it was okay; it was okay to feel sorry for myself, I was going through a sorrowful thing. I added cool cabbage leaves to my bra as my breasts burned then turned hard over several days, then started to deflate.
I had this new body that had all the signs of motherhood, but no baby. I couldn’t reconcile the fact that I was a mother who didn’t have a baby. It didn’t add up, and it became a crisis of identity for me. I couldn’t talk with the other mothers about breastfeeding, sleeping through the night. We didn’t fit into a social group that made any sense, something was always missing.
One week after Lincoln’s birthday was Mother’s Day. Talk about a shot to the heart. And now I knew more than ever how important it was. My husband does not get to celebrate with his mom anymore, and I would never get a Mother’s Day with Lincoln. But I still had my mom, and wanted to show her how much she means to me. So we gathered with family. I showed pictures and talked about Lincoln, and we honored our mother and grandmother. I received the sweetest cards. It was not an easy day. Not at all. It was hard and it was good. So many Mothers’ Days in previous years brought floods of tears for the mother I wanted to be, but this one garnered the tears of a mother who is, and yet is not.
I now had all this time and energy, and had to put it somewhere. People started to get back to their lives, as well they should, and I needed to find a way to move forward. I went home to visit my parents for a few days while Matt was working back-to-back shifts. He’d also started back to school. He was finishing his Bachelor’s while all of this was going on. If I haven’t said it before, my husband is incredible. Back home, my dad approached me with an interesting situation. There was a colleague of his whose grandson was in their temporary custody, but they needed him to go to a good family so that they could raise their older kids and just be grandparents. This man confided this in my dad as my dad confided the recent loss of his grandson and all the challenges we’d faced in becoming parents. This baby boy was sixteen months old, and we just so happened to have an empty nursery ready. I called Matt and let him know this sweet boy needed a home. He said “yes” before I finished speaking, and the wheels were in motion.
Continue to Part Five.
