He Was Still Born

I haven’t been back to “the scene of the crime” since Gabriel was born.  I’ve been to the hospital, of course, because I’m accident prone and unhealthy, but I have steered clear of the childbirth unit.  Not necessarily by choice but probably because something in my subconscious told me I wasn’t ready.  However, a friend of mine was hosting an event on Tuesday night and I offered to help.  I didn’t think much of it.  I have helped with plenty of infant and child loss events since our loss.  I was warned that going back to the childbirth unit was hard but, again, I didn’t really anticipate how hard it would be.  You see, I have found a way over the years to almost numb myself to certain things.  Is that the healthiest way to deal with my grief?  Probably not.  But it is self preserving and it makes my days bearable.  I built a tougher layer around my grief over the years, not curing the wound but creating a bit of a scab over the top.  I wasn’t healed but I was protected. 

Unfortunately, the minute I pulled into that parking lot, that scab was ripped open and I wasn’t prepared for the emotional bleeding that would take place over the rest of the week.  I wasn’t sure I’d be able to go inside.  I sat in my car and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.  That overwhelming grief that I felt almost five years ago that I had worked so hard to overcome was back in an instant.  Anyone who knows me knows that I love life, I love to laugh, I love to make other people laugh, and I just want everyone to be happy, including myself.  It was a sobering feeling to sit in that parking lot and feel just like I did five years ago.  Like I’d never laugh, smile, or find happiness again. And perhaps scariest of all, I didn’t care if I lived.  Don’t misunderstand that.  I didn’t want to take my own life.  I just simply didn’t care if I was here or not.  I have felt that way a grand total of twice in my entire life.  It is a devastatingly awful way to feel. 

As I sat there in my car, trying to compose myself, every single feeling that I had on October 5, 2011, came back and I felt it intensely and painfully.  The memories I had tried to suppress for years came flooding back and I knew, at that moment, that this was never going to go away.  My grief is always going to come back in some form and haunt me for the rest of my life.  Those demons that appear in my nightmares are never going to go away.  I looked at the doors to the hospital and I remembered the feeling of my sweet child moving and kicking inside of me, yet knowing that when I walked through those doors, I was going to come out childless.  And, even worse, I remembered that we were forced to make that choice.  Although, if I was grateful for anything on Tuesday, I was grateful for the fact that we at least had the ability to make that choice.  Our governor has, since then, decided what is right for women, their bodies, and their families by outlawing the ability to induce early, even in situations like ours.  With the new law, our situation would have ended the same way.  I still would have left that hospital childless.  But I would have had to watch my son suffer in an unbearable way before I did.  I pray that he and his family are never faced with that situation. I pray that he never has a child on life support and has to make a decision on whether or not to take them off.  Our decision was no different.  I felt anger for this man that I don’t even know because I knew that so many other women would experience the trauma I was feeling now but it would be so much worse.  But I’ll leave my bitter feelings on that topic for another day, another problem, another battle, another blog.    

I composed myself, threw on some makeup and an artificial smile, and walked through the glass doors into the childbirth unit.  I must have been pale because the woman at the desk asked me if I was okay. I said “yes” but internally I was screaming “no.”  I looked at all of the signs for the child “birth” unit and remembered hearing that I would not receive a “birth” certificate for my son.  They don’t give out birth certificates for stillborn babies.  I didn’t understand.  I thought to myself, “But he was still born.”  I labored for 26 hours, gave birth, held him in my arms, and took pictures with him.  Yet, somehow, they still wouldn’t acknowledge his birth simply because he didn’t take a breath.  No wonder I have felt the intense need every single day since then to defend Gabriel’s existence and trying to make sure people acknowledged his life.  Because he was very much alive.  I felt it.  I saw it.  I lived it.  But I would never receive an acknowledgment of that birth for his baby book or memory box.  Just one more thing I felt robbed of. 

I looked down the hallway when the doors opened for a nurse to exit and the memory of the funeral home coming down that hall to take my son from my arms came back and I had to stop and steady myself for a second.  I felt dizzy and sick.  Like I was back in a nightmare that I thought I had finally escaped. 

I made it through the event without really letting anyone know about the turmoil that was taking place inside.  Looking back, I’m not sure why I felt the need to hide it.  If anyone understood, it was that group of people.  I’m sure they felt the same.  I know they would have held me and comforted me.  But emotions are hard for me sometimes and I’m much better at joking my way out of uncomfortable situations than I am at facing them.  I don’t like it when people see me cry.  I felt damaged and for some reason, I didn’t want anyone to know that.

In the ultimate moment of kicking me when I was down, I was scrolling through Facebook trying to cheer myself up when one of my memories popped up.  Guess what that memory was?  Naturally, it was the one where I announced my pregnancy on Facebook many years ago.  I don’t get angry often but my blood boiled at the cruelty of it and I thought, “Fuck you, universe.”  

I got back in my car and lost composure all over again. I was broken.   The girl who can always see the light sat in darkness.  The girl who can always laugh could do nothing but cry.  The girl who loves life realized that a piece of her would never be alive again.  And the grief, for that moment in time, consumed me.  I gave in.  I gave up. I felt like I had nothing else to give in this world. 

I knew enough to know that this feeling would pass eventually but, right then, I felt like my world was crumbling.  I was grateful that I had family who listened to me and an amazing friend who sat on the phone with me until 1:30 in the morning listening to me blow my nose and sob.  That was the only light I found that day but it was enough to pull me through.  I spent Thursday, Friday, and Saturday with my husband and with friends who can always make me laugh and that helped.  But at night I still went home and felt a sense of emptiness.  I know I will find my way through this once again and my grief will become bearable but now I truly know what they mean when they describe the grieving process as “one step forward, two steps back.”  So, I suppose, I will keep walking forward and focus on all of the good in my life while accepting that setbacks are just going to happen.  I just hope I can continue to keep them to once every five years.