See that last blog post down there? ↓ The one right below this one all about the amazing nursery I was designing and working on for my baby boy? It’s been well over a month since I posted that, and today I will finally try to get back into things.

My nursery is unfinished.

The dresser is sitting in the garage, half-painted a lovely dark, almost-navy blue.

The nursery wall that my husband and I painted the day after that ↓ blog post (in a rich but still light aqua blue) has been painted over in the palest of greys.

The mobile was abandoned, the fabric returned, and all the tiny clothes are packed away for another day.

The same day that Ryan and painted the nursery for our precious baby boy, Patrick Ryan, we discovered that he had passed away.

That day, Saturday September 17, he wasn’t moving as much as he should have been–in fact, he wasn’t moving at all. I was concerned, but I told myself I was just being overly worried and silly. Surely he’d kick and have the hiccups again soon, as he had for so many days previously. By around 8:00 that evening, I was more than concerned, I was worried and nervous, so I put in a call to my doctor. I reached a voice mail message stating “If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911.  Otherwise, stay on the line to speak with the operator.” I hung up. Our son must be fine. He was just resting in between all the contractions I’d been having for the past several weeks.

Finally around 9:30, I couldn’t convince myself that everything was ok for any longer. Ryan encouraged me to call and speak with the operator, who paged my doctor. He called me back within 10 minutes, chatted for a bit, and asked me to come in to labor and delivery just to make sure everything was ok. (we were all sure it would be.) Ryan’s parents came over to stay home with our girls, and Ryan and I drove downtown to the hospital.

The staff nurse at the check-in desk for L&D recognized Ryan as his father’s son right away–his folks have been long-time Visalia residents and his dad works with the hospital on occasion. We waited a few minutes, then we were called back to a small triage room where I changed to a hospital gown and waited some more. Another nurse came in to hook me up to the fetal monitor to get things started. Two little monitors for my basketball belly. She moved them back and forth across my skin, and we anxiously waited to hear that reassuring whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that would tell us our little guy was fine. After all, at my 21-week ultrasound, we had seen the baby moving constantly and yet I had not felt a thing. Though at the time he measured 12 ounces–about a week ahead, gestationally–I did not consistently feel fetal movement from Patrick until around 23 or 24 weeks. So this lack of movement was surely nothing.

Instead, no comforting heartbeat came. The nurse moved the paddles again and again, asked me where the doctor usually found the heartbeat, kept looking. I couldn’t help her–there had been a few appointments while I was pregnant with Patrick where it took my doctor a few minutes to find his heartbeat. He liked to hide, I thought. But as she kept searching and searching, I knew. I turned to Ryan, who was clutching my right hand as we waited and strained to hear. Tears were instantly in my eyes as I quietly said, “He’s gone.”

“We don’t know that yet, just wait, sweetie” were his comforting words.

Next came an ultrasound machine. Thick, sticky jelly was squirted onto my skin. The wand passed back and forth. We could both see the monitor. No whoosh-whooshing heart, no movement. We knew. Our son, the completion of our family. Gone.

Wait, they told us. This is our old ultrasound machine, we’ll order a “real” ultrasound that may be able to find something. So we waited, knowing that the real ultrasound would not change the results. It had been too long since he moved, and surely, if his tiny heart was still beating, we’d have heard a hint instead of ominous silence. The nurses avoided eye contact–no one wanted to confirm what we already knew.

I didn’t watch the second ultrasound–I couldn’t see through my tears anyway. Ryan silently watched the technician, saw him type in the word “BREECH,” saw the white of our son’s bones without a hint of reassuring movement. The blood had stopped pumping through his healthy, perfect heart. Nothing.

After that, the rest of the evening blurred together. My doctor came in; he looked so sad and weary. I could tell he was devastated for us. He told us he was so sorry for our loss and explained that in cases like ours, where a perfectly healthy baby dies before birth, it was usually due to a cord accident–the cord could be in a knot, or wrapped around his neck, arm, or leg. Our son had been breech at 30 weeks, then not at 32 or 35 weeks. Sometime since my last appointment a week and a half before, he had flipped, likely causing the accident. We could try to induce me, and I’d likely labor for a while, or we could do a caesarian section.

I immediately opted for the C-section. There was no way I could endure labor for a baby I knew I would never get to take home. The routine pre-op questions seemed invasive and accusing–no, I had not smoked, drunk alcohol, or used illegal drugs during my pregnancy. No, there was no domestic violence in my life. Thanks for your concern about my deceased son. I knew the nurses were just doing their jobs, but I was in such a state of shock that everything seemed like a personal affront.

When I was wheeled into the OR, Ryan could not come in until after I’d been given anesthesia. He’d always been with me for my epidurals and labors and I needed him then more than ever. Instead, I lay on the gurney as the nurses chatted, unfolding baby blankets and placing them in the baby warmer in an apparent (and totally unintended) mockery of me and my dead baby. They counted surgical instruments and pop music play quietly through the overhead speakers.

Once the anesthesia was administered, everything got a little fuzzy. I had an immediate reaction to the morphine and started itching everywhere. My anesthesiologist instantly gave me Benadryll to combat my reaction, but I continued to itch for the next two days. Ryan was finally allowed to come in and took my right hand. Deep breath, this was really happening.

As our sweet baby Patrick was delivered, Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On” came on over the speakers. More inadvertent mockery. Ryan got to cradle him for a few minutes and I saw his sweet face. He looked like all my babies, with a sweet tiny nose and those distinctive little lips my girls have. There was a knot, the doctor said, a triple knot in the cord that was different than anything he’d seen before. The cord was also wrapped around Patrick’s neck three times. The nurses offered to take a picture of the knot for us, let us see what killed our baby, but we declined.

After that, Patrick was taken away for a little while to be weighed (7 pounds, 11 ounces) and measured (19 inches long). The nurses took his footprints for us and took a few pictures right away–precious keepsakes for always. As soon as I was wheeled into recovered, I got to hold my son. He was so tiny, so perfect, and so utterly lifely. I just cried and cried. Ryan took a few photos with his cell phone–it was around 2 am on Sunday the 18th by this point. Finally it was time for us all to be taken up to a regular room. We were going to the mother-baby floor, but my doctor assured us that we’d be in a quiet corner and the nurses would keep anyone I didn’t want to see away.

I was wheeled upstairs with Patrick lying on my chest. The nurses made sure I covered him with my blankets–did they want to keep other expectant mothers from seeing my dead baby and being disturbed? I wondered. We were taken to a large suite and introduced to my nurse for the night. She was wonderful. Truly, my doctor’s and nurses’ care during this entire ordeal was truly amazing. I was treated with such concern and kindness, for which we are so grateful.

My nurse told me we could keep Patrick with us for as long as we wanted. Those precious hours are both clear and fuzzy in my mind–bits and pieces stick out with surprising clarity, but my exhaustion and medicated state combined to make most of my recollections a little hazy.

There is more I want to say, more I want to journal here in this blog, but I’ve cried enough for today. My girls need dinner and I need some peace. Thank you for reading this, thank you for your love and prayers.

–Jan