I remember the rest of the story as a hazy blur of grief and kindness and pain and desperation. I don’t know how to explain it, but I look back on Maggie’s birth with fondness. My heart is both heavy and full.
We arrive at the hospital and head to the maternity ward. What a cruel place to deliver a lifeless baby, among the cries of new life. I don’t know what to say when we check in. Moving from one piece of information to the next, remembering simple facts about myself, feels complex and overwhelming. Name, date of birth, doctor. Reason you’re checking in. Please, anything but the reason we’re checking in.
Brad and I head to a closet-sized waiting area until a room is available for us. A lady there is passing time as a friend delivers twins, and her nervous chatter explains in bits and pieces that the twins weren’t planned. Another person waiting asks what we’re here for; are we here to have a baby?
Yes, but also no.
At last, a room is ready. And we begin to wait some more. There’s an emergency somewhere on the floor, and the nurses dutifully tend to that patient before starting with us. Then the hospital alarms start going off. False alarms, but their incessant beeping and chirping make it feel all the more like a bad dream.
My sister brings Evie and Chauncey to visit. They’re a light to the darkness of the day. Britt takes them to get ice cream for dinner, a wise aunt to give the precious little things something to look forward to, something else to think about.
We see nurses, the doctor on call, the grief specialist. A sign is placed on our door reminding staff, nurses, assistants of the heartache in our room. The hospital has a system for this. A system for losses and grieving parents and touchy subjects and questions we don’t want to ask and uncontrollable tears. We’re not the first or the last to cry out in anguish here.
It’s not long before we realize how well taken care of we are here. These people care. Really, really care. They’re kind and attentive and sorry. It’s a best case scenario for what feels like the worst case scenario.
The drug they’ll use to induce labor is cytotec. Every four hours, I’ll let the chalky, bitter tablets dissolve in my cheek until. Until.
It usually takes two doses, they tell us. Sometimes the baby will come after one dose, and often babies are born in the bed because of how quickly the medicine can work. Brad and I try to work out a time line. Dose one at 6 pm: we could deliver this evening. Dose two at 10 pm, if we make it that far: we would probably deliver in the middle of the night. Will the girls be able to meet the baby? Will Lisa and Lindsay be able to make it to take pictures for us?
The hospital has a plan for this too. If we deliver in the night, we can keep sweet Maggie with us as long as we need too. If we need a break, they will keep her for us. She is a baby to them, a real baby, and I’ve never felt so relieved. Heartbeat or not, she is a beautiful, precious, loved baby girl, to all of us.
They tell us we’ll try to deliver en caul. At this point in pregnancy, the umbilical cord is so thin and might break if the amniotic sac ruptures, which would leave the placenta behind. If the placenta is left behind, I might need a D&C. My head spins, not fully comprehending, not sure if I want to.
Dose one. Waiting. Dose two. Lisa and Lindsay are here with us now, and we wait together.
Somewhere in here, contractions start. At one point we think I’m delivering the baby, but I’m not.
The side effects of the cytotec leave me racing to the bathroom, quickly unhooked from the monitors, wincing from the pain of the contractions, dragging the IV pole, grabbing a hand to squeeze. And then we do it again, and again.
I later realize that they didn’t mention this side effect ahead of time because it’s awful, and they are kind. There is no way around it, no easy way to do this.
Two am and dose three. More contractions. More pain.
An epidural is available if I want it. Any kind of pain killer, really. But the physical pain gives me something to focus on. It seems easier than the emotional pain; I fear the pain in my heart and soul will overtake me if I don’t have the contractions and breathing and wincing to force my mind somewhere else. There is mercy in the physical pain.
Six am and dose four. Labor and anguish and kindness and tears. The light of the morning peaks in our window; today will be her birthday.
And then all of a sudden, she is here. She’s born en caul, inside the amniotic sac. They take her, in the amniotic sac, across the room. They are tender and careful as they remove her from the sac; they are holding my baby, my heart, in their hands. “Let’s get baby over to mama,” they say. What beauty I hear in those words. And they wrap her up and place her tiny, tiny body on my chest.
We weep. Anguish and despair envelop us. We hold each other and sob.
What a precious, beautiful baby we hold. I never knew peace and sorrow could coexist like this. Sorrow like I’ve never known before, and peace in the same measure.
Because Your loving kindness is better than life, my lips will praise You. Psalm 63:3