Our angel.

        

       Baby Charlie passed away on August 3rd 2018, sometime between 7:30 am and 7:30 pm. His heartbeat was there and strong that morning. I checked it with our heart rate monitor before I left for work. I checked it again when I got home expecting to find his heartbeat easily as I had the millions of times before. I checked for 20 minutes straight. The tears started rolling down my cheeks. Where is he?!? WHERE IS HE?!??? I called my husband and I remember the first words I screamed into the phone were “I can’t find him!! I CAN’T FIND HIM!!!!!!”

      I couldn’t breathe. I was hyperventilating. I was pacing the house, frantic and crying , waiting for my husband to get home from the firehouse. When he walked through the door, we checked for Charlie again. We still couldn’t find his heartbeat. Devastated, we sat there, he held me and I cried.

     Shortly after, we made the call to the doctor. She suggested we go down for an ultrasound to verify. We each packed a bag, we threw it in the car and off we went to NYC. It was the longest hour and half drive of our lives.

     At 12:00am we were admitted to the hospital and they wheeled in the ultrasound machine. I knew in my heart he wasn’t there anymore. Sure enough, my gut instinct was right. He had died while I was at work that day. Our Charlie was gone.

      We waited in a triage room for 7 hours while they waited for a labor and delivery room to be ready for us. The nurses came in and poked and prodded me, hooked me up to machines, took blood, took blood pressure, told us about what would happen next, and left us to sleep. It was 4 am before we started nodding off. It was broken sleep. Worried sleep.

     On Saturday morning our room was ready. It was much nicer than the triage jail cell we were in earlier. As we walked into the room, I stared at the little station they had set up for the baby. It pulled on my heart strings as I knew we wouldn’t have a crying baby to put on there. At 8:30am I was induced.  Here we go. We’re gonna meet you soon Charlie.

At 1:30 I was given the option of getting an epidural. I happily accepted and let them stick my back with a needle. I wasn’t feeling any pain at that moment, but they warned me that it would come on quickly.

        Time slowly ticked by. Our families came down to spend the day with us and that helped ease our minds and pass the time. The nurses and doctors came in and out like a revolving door. Every few hours they’d check me and see if I’d dilated at all.  By 11:00pm, our families were gone and I still hadn’t made any progress.  I was upset that my body wasn’t in labor yet. I was upset I wasn’t feeling contractions. I was anxious to meet Charlie and anxious for it all to be over with as soon as possible.

        Finally, at 3:00am I woke up in intense pain. The contractions had finally showed up! By 5:00am it had gotten so bad that I was throwing up. It took 5 hours of contractions and one push. At 8:23am on Sunday, August 5th, Charlie was born. It was the best and worst time of our life.

     There he was. The baby we had had been hoping for 3 years was here. It was a surreal experience because after going through labor, you expect the baby to come out crying. Charlie was lifeless and even though he had passed away already, he was still the most beautiful thing we had ever seen.

     The doctors had made him out to be some genetically deformed monster but let me tell you, they were wrong. He had a perfect little button nose, one that looked just like mine when I was a kid. As they had suspected, he did have 6 fingers on each hand, but it wasn’t a fully formed finger and it was the cutest goddamn thing ever. His hand was tiny. So tiny. I just couldn’t stop touching it. He had adorable little legs and big ass feet just like his father. His toes. Oh those toes. They were adorable. He had blond peach fuzz on his head and the cutest little red lips.  Sometimes, it looked like he was smiling. Other times, depending on the way we held him, his mouth would open like he was catching flies.

He weighed one pound, so he fit in our hands when we held him. It was amazing and devastating at the same time.

     It’s hard to try and explain that day in the hospital. We were surrounded by family, our parents and sisters made the trip down to meet Charlie and be there for emotional support. There was so much love in that room that afternoon, and as much as it hurt, it was great seeing the grandparents meet their grandchild. Their hearts were broken just like ours but we were so happy they were there to meet him.

      After the parents left, we were hauled off to another room. Charlie came with us. That choice was ours. We could’ve let him go then, but the thought of being in that hospital room without him was painful. We knew we couldn’t let him go until we were discharged. He stayed next to us in a bassinet with a special system to keep him cool. I kept looking over at him, wishing he would move or cry or grab my finger when I held his little hand.

     I was tired of laying in a hospital bed and desperately wanted to go home but it turns out they don’t let you go home when you can’t feel your legs. Go figure. I had to stay overnight to recover. I wobbled with assistance to the bathroom, to the shower, to the bed. My back was recovering from where the epidural went in. Our hearts were trying to recover too. But we knew that would be a lifelong process, not an overnight thing. We knew we needed to sleep, too. I thought I knew what tired was, until that day. When you have a baby you hit a new level of exhaustion, one that makes you loopy, one that makes you feel like you can fall asleep standing up like a horse. I tried to rest but the revolving door of nurses made it difficult.

     We were discharged the following day. We opted to have Charlie cremated so he could be home with us all the time. The funeral owner came in and we signed all the paperwork and picked out his urn. We picked the best they had for the very best son: a white porcelain urn with a Blue teddy bear on it. The guy was taking Charlie and another baby that died at the hospital to the crematory. He was leaving soon.

       It was time to say goodbye. The funeral guy stepped out to give us a few minutes with our son. The tears flowed like faucet water. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard in my life or have ever felt such agony in my heart. I can’t even begin to explain the pain we felt in that moment.

      We held him for as long as we could. We stared at him for as long as we could too, in between cascades of tears and “I love you’s”. We didn’t want to let him go.

      Before I knew it, the time had come. The nurse came in and unhooked his cooling system, said she was sorry for our loss, and wheeled him out the door. It was the last time we would ever see him. That thought made me feel weak. I was inconsolable.

      Soon afterwards they came with my discharge papers. I couldn’t sign them quick enough. We hauled ass outta there, grateful to be on the road home and hoping to never have to go back to that hospital ever again. We left empty-handed and it has left a permanent hole in my heart. In a span of 24 hours we had gone through two major life events: a birth and a death. I wouldn’t wish such an experience on anybody.

       Thankfully, we have a huge support system that has helped us get through the last two weeks. Our friends and family (and every in between) have helped us get back up after we’ve been knocked down. I’ll be honest with you. This is,by far, the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to deal with. I have days when i don’t feel like getting out of my pajamas. Other days, I feel good enough to do the things that make me happy. Sometimes, the littlest things trigger a wave of tears. A picture. A memory. A wish that he was still here.

      The day he died a piece of me died with him. A piece of my heart is permanently broken but I’ve got strength in there somewhere. The strength to keep moving and keep living and keep trying. We are going to keep praying for that family we want. Charlie’s up in heaven now and we’re hoping he will be our guardian angel for future pregnancies. We hope that one day, we can tell our son or daughter that they have a baby brother in heaven. Until that day comes, we will hold tightly onto hope.

Charlie,

We love you. We miss you.

You will always be on our minds.

Rest in peace, sweet angel. ❤️

Living nightmare.

We bought a house a few years ago with 3 bedrooms (and an extra room that could made into a 4th, if needed). We wanted the space because we were going to start a family. Those extra rooms were going to be for the kids. 

Years later and the extra rooms still stand empty, void of any tiny humans and filled with meaningless crap and furniture, desperately awaiting the arrival of their tiny young tenants. 

The first room on the right was going to be the nursery for Charlie. We tore down the wallpaper and patched up all the holes. We were waiting until August when I had two weeks off work to rip up and replace the carpet and put on a fresh coat of paint. As soon as we found out Charlie had CDH , we decided we weren’t going to do any extravagent decorating or buy anything more than a crib and the bare necessities, because we didn’t want to come home in November to a baby’s room with no baby to put in it. Given this week’s  turn of events, we aren’t sure if that room will ever be a nursery. We aren’t sure if we even want to paint. We aren’t sure about anything anymore. 

Stillborn, they said. The word sent chills down my spine. 

The high-risk specialist was very nice,  compassionate and left a very good impression on me. But that word, god that word…..stillbirth…. just ruins your soul. 

She sat there explaining how our son is now struggling. On top of everything else that he has going on, his umbilical cord is no longer supplying him with the right amount of blood or oxygen that he needs to grow. He is severely growth-restricted, weighing only half of what he should be at 24 weeks and measuring weeks behind. 

The ultrasound showed that he is in the worst catergory they can put him in.  “In most cases, this severity of growth restriction leads to stillbirth”, the doctor said.  I went numb.

The doctor browsed through my medical history, saying she was very sorry that we may have to go through this after having 4 losses already. She said Charlie could  pass away at anytime. It would happen suddenly. One minute his heart would be beating, the next it wouldn’t be. It could happen tomorrow, 2 weeks from now, or closer to full-term. She couldn’t tell us for sure. She said she has seen a rare miracle, where kids like him make it to term. But it’s rare. Extremely rare.

She told us we have two options. Option 1: They could admit me to the hospital immediately. They would monitor me closely. Once they saw the baby was about to pass, they would perform a C-section and do their best to save him. I would have to stay in the hospital from now until the baby is born. Option 2: I go home and let nature take it’s course.

“If you were my daughter, I would tell you to go with option 2.”, she said.

I don’t know about you but the thought of staying in a hospital bed from now until November was nauseating. I HATE hospitals and there’s no way in hell I was going to spend  my days and nights there. Nope. No way Jose. I wanted to be home.

So off I went. Home. 

Now we play the agonizing waiting game. We wait to see what happens to him. We bought a fetal heart rate monitor a few months ago so we could listen to his heartbeat. We had been listening every night before bed. Now, we are going to be listening all the time, desperately hoping to hear the beautiful thump of his heart beating, making sure he’s still there, still alive. 

The doctor told me to pay attention to his heartbeat and to his movements. If either cease, we have to call her immmediately. I would go down to the hospital. They’d induce labor, give me an epidural and I’d be go through all the pains of delivery. I’d be giving birth to an angel, a thought almost too tough to bear. Going through a miscarriage is hard enough, I can’t even fathom what it would be like to give birth to a human so tiny and so beautiful but whose heart is no longer beating. Dan and I have been pretty tough cookies so far, but I honestly don’t know how we would even begin to cope with that kind of loss. I really don’t. It’s something I don’t even want to think about, but have to. We have to prepare ourselves for a nightmare, but hope for a damn miracle, however minuscule that chance of a miracle may be.