December 18-the day after

Now having overcome the huge hurdle of posting for the 17th, we have been preparing posts for the days following Mara’s death. I remember even less of the details from these days as we numbly made decisions and my body started to heal.

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I got very little sleep last night as I was being moved to a different room on the surgical ward and being wakened every two hours for monitoring. I had these compression leg huggers on to keep my blood moving that squeezed my legs every couple of minutes. The pain medicine I was given worked very well but every time it wore off I was in a lot of pain and needed more. During one of the times I was awake in that endless dark night, I sent a short text to family and close local friends that Mara had been stillborn. It was not an hour for people to be awake, so it was a while before I received replies, and I hated to think of people waking up and seeing that text, but I felt a need to speak it, and let people know that she was gone and that I was physically okay.That night was very lonely.

I was awake early in the morning and saw this sunrise through my hospital window. I remember being so grateful that it wasn’t dark anymore, and wanting that brightness streaming in my window and thinking of how beautiful it was, orange and purple, and from that time forward I have associated purple and beauty from nature with Mara. I also would come to learn that the dark of night would be an awful time to be awake and alone with my thoughts. Sleep was the only relief from the sadness that I was still too numb to feel.

Chris was at home with Aaron and Ashley and was planning to tell Aaron about Mara when he woke up. I felt very sad that he had to do that alone. There were a lot of hard things he had to do alone these couple of days. But the only alternative was driving back to the hospital with Aaron in the car thinking he was on his way to meet Mara for the first time, so that was the way it had to be.

Chris called me after they had gotten up and talked and told me about how the conversation went with Aaron. Aaron had been very sad and asked why Mara died. Chris told him that her heart stopped beating and that we didn’t know why. Then, in the way that children find to explain things, Aaron told Chris that her whole body was lifted up into the sky to heaven. That was something he imagined in his own mind and we thought it sounded just lovely to us.

I wanted the boys to get to the hospital as soon as possible. I felt a strong need to see Aaron and hold his warm little body and squeeze him and remember that some things were still as they had been before. I also did not want to spend time apart from Chris, the person who most closely shared this loss and these feelings. I waited and waited and watched the clock and texted until they got there, and was so relieved when they arrived. One of the things I texted while I was waiting was this picture of the breathing device I had to use, just like what Aaron loved using in the hospital after his surgery.

At the time that I sent it, it made me smile, something that connected Aaron and I, but in later days it struck me as such an odd thing to focus on… and I know now it is proof of the stumbling numbness of shock.

When the boys arrived they worked on Aaron’s new Prince of Persia Legos together, normal as could be. I remember feeling grateful to Christina and Nathan for choosing such perfect gifts for him, and was relieved he had something new to occupy him at the hospital. Aaron hugged me and rubbed my hair and Chris gently put him on the bed so I could hug him.

Sometime during this day I got out of bed and walked to the bathroom with a nurse to have a rinse off. It hurt really badly to get up, but I felt okay for most of the rinse. Part of the way through, the pain intensified and I became dizzy and nauseous. From that time on, everything got easier every time I tried it. That has been true of every part of this process, both the grieving and the physical healing. The first time I try something, like standing that day in the hospital, or being in public, or speaking to someone we know about Mara, the pain is sharp and intense and real. The only comfort in it is knowing that the “first time” is over and that the second and third time you have to do something, it can’t possibly be as hard as the first.

Sometime (I’m fuzzy on a lot of details, as you can see) in the afternoon Greg and Neecers and Eric came to the hospital to see us. It was the first time I had seen anyone, and now looking back, I still had cried remarkably little (except for lots of slow silent tears in that first dark night, and one short sobbing spell that was interrupted by a blood pressure check) and I wonder if I seemed “okay” on the outside, since that’s how I felt I seemed. On the inside…who really knows. Nothing was sinking in, nothing was touching me deeply, everything seemed dull and far away and unreal. I was grateful that Greg and Neecers brought Eric so that Aaron could have a bit of “normal” fun. I could only imagine the stress and tension and sadness that would become part of his daily life in the next few weeks. They also offered to take Aaron home with them to play for a few hours so I could have a chance to take a good long nap before Ashley arrived with my parents from the airport. I didn’t want to be away from him, but I knew Legos in a hospital room could only keep him happy for so long, and I did get a good long rest out of the deal.

I ate, I slept, nurses came and went, and Chris stayed with me. I learned that if I was up and about and not needing to be hooked up to anything, I could leave the next morning. I really did want to get unhooked from all the lines, and so I started taking my pain medication orally rather than getting it through the IV. I think that sometime during this day various people from the hospital came and talked to us about what arrangements we wanted to make for Mara’s body but for the first several rounds we told people that asked that we had no idea what we wanted to do yet.

Our doctor came in to repeat the things she had learned about the placenta and the cord. The information about placental weakness and malformation was very interesting to us and helped us understand how Mara died. I was hungry for information…things that were definite and factual. I wanted to know exactly what I was grieving.

 

Now, writing this, I can’t believe how much of this day that I don’t remember. I remember so many awful details of the night Mara died…and I started keeping a journal on January 7th, but the shock that comes with trauma and loss has wiped away many of my memories of the days in between. I can’t remember when Chris and I first talked about what we wanted to do with Mara’s body, and I can’t remember who came in to talk to us when. I do remember some things with deep emotion, like how much I clung to Chris while I was in the hospital and needed the reassurance of his presence more than I had ever needed to be near another person. I was terrified of being alone without him. I remember the people who cared for me in the hospital and their compassion and sensitivity. The loss of a child is hard for all people to deal with on every level. There were very few awkward moments with our caregivers…they were all so compassionate and informative and helpful. They were not afraid to express their sadness and their desire to be helpful, they spoke Mara’s name and helped us feel comfortable with verbalizing our grief and confusion. Our incredible doctor and nurses honestly became the standard by which I judged other people’s ability to communicate with us about Mara. That’s unfair, because they are professionals who deal with these kinds of situations, and they are not members of our family or friends who were emotionally connected to us and the baby girl we had all been waiting for, but nevertheless I found myself wishing that people could act more like them instead of not speaking Mara’s name, or not being able to look us in the eyes.

Ashley stopped by on her way to the airport and looked at some of the things the hospital had given us. It was hard. I kept trying to hold back my tears while we were in the hospital. I wanted to cry with Chris, or alone, in my own bedroom, not in a place where someone could come in at any moment and check my blood pressure or knead my stomach painfully. 

Ash went to the airport to bring my parents and they came to the room for a short visit. It was hard to see them upset and crying. I wanted so badly to just cry in private and let it out, but seeing my parents cry made it hard to hold back.

I know I seemed numb…like nothing was really sinking in. I could feel it. I am grateful that I understand myself well enough to realize what I was going through, but the numbness is frightening. You don’t recognize yourself, you don’t recognize your life. You wonder if you are still in there anywhere. The first time I wondered that I cried and cried, and I was really scared. In the coming days I focused on concrete things that made sense, since losing Mara didn’t: Aaron’s daily activities, deep gratitude that I was physically safe and healthy despite potential dangers of a placental abruption, the beauty of the flowers we received, looking at jewelry in Mara’s birthstone, sunrises like the one I watched through my hospital window the first morning after Mara, eating meals that I could barely taste, let alone enjoy, and the ever important measurement of time that marked when I was allowed to take more Motrin. After I got home, every time I felt better I tried to do a bit too much and would find myself hurting again. After a stern warning from my dear friend who pushed herself too hard after a c-section and ended up needing additional surgery, I slowed down and let myself rest.

Ashley and Aaron and my parents went home together and Chris stayed the night with me. I was so so grateful that he was staying and that my parents were at our house to support Ash and Aaron. Sometime that day Chris and I decided on our plans for Mara’s body and the plans felt good, and put us a bit at ease. I got unhooked from everything and got a much better night’s sleep.