After rereading my last post; and rereading and rereading and rereading it; I felt uneasy. It’s all an accurate account of what transpired since 2016, but maybe it seems like I coasted through my grief? As if I experienced some charmed Hallmark journey after my son died and I’d like to; even if only to quell my own discontent; convey unequivocally, that I did not.
Grief absolutely looks and feels different for everyone. It’s a unique experience for the individual. Some factors are universal but mostly it’s some combination of gut wrenching pain, missing your baby like hell, walking around like a zombie while attempting to go about your regularly scheduled life, constantly feeling guilty wondering what you did wrong, and wishing you could change everything.
I’m definitely more reinvented now than when I started, but it took A LOT of work to get here! At first I was so lost. My entire world stopped turning on March 25, 2016 and I’ll never forget it. There was a routine check up. My older son Sam, who was 5 at the time, was with me. He went to all my appointments and he especially loved the ultrasound ones, as did I of course. We’re listening for Ben’s heartbeat and the doctor can’t find it at first, which is quite normal at this point because babies like to snuggle in the womb and they’re not always in the ideal position to catch that little lub-lub sound. After a few minutes of trying, and joking that he’s being a stinker, doc pulls out the belly ultrasound machine to get some clarity. At this point I have my phone out recording because I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to capture my boy moving about, but after a few minutes it became frighteningly clear to the doctor that Ben wasn’t moving and no longer had a heartbeat. She remained calm because I hadn’t yet realized the gravity of the situation and I imagine also didn’t want to upset Sam. All she had to say next was that she couldn’t detect any movement and that I needed to head to maternal fetal medicine. Doc was trying to be hopeful, explaining that their machines were better and things could still turn out fine, but right then I began to full on panic and yet not show it outwardly because I had to be brave for Sammy AND still drive to the other office.
I shook the whole way. And I prayed. I prayed with every fiber of my being that this was just a scare and Ben was alright, still growing, still alive. Somehow I thought to call my husband so he could meet us at maternal fetal. The wait to get into an ultrasound room was endless and dread filled. I prayed some more. I held my belly. We were called into a room that was already dimmed and felt like it was designated for bad news. I have no idea how many doctors and nurses were with us but every one of them was somber from the start and I imagine it was because they knew already. They’d probably been here before with other parents, delivering terrible news instead of delivering a healthy baby. The ultrasound ensued and what those doctors and nurses had to tell me was no different. I started crying finally. I had held out because I was busy holding out hope instead, but there was no more of that left in me.
Nothing made sense and I never wished I could turn back time and do something; anything; differently more than I did that afternoon. Almost everything from that point on became a cloud. Decisions had to be made but I felt so damn lost. I remember someone telling me that they were checking if there was a room in the hospital to admit me right away. Otherwise I’d have to go home and wait to deliver Ben. No… no no no no, I told them, begged them, to admit me immediately. No way could I go home and sit around with my dead child inside me, not growing or moving. No, this train had to keep moving immediately because I think waiting would’ve landed me in an asylum. There ended up being room so off to labor and delivery I went.
Just like the grief process, this story has many phases and elements and sometimes is downright difficult to recount. Part 2 is in the works, so until next time…
The Reinvented Mom 