Remembering our traumatic loss tonight, as I hold my rainbow baby in my arms.
(Major TW)
Many of you already know that we lost our son Michael Nicholas at birth, a little over two years ago. We never found a real reason. He was healthy and strong, genetic tests early in the pregnancy told us only good things. All we know is that I got sick one day and went into labor. We rushed to the hospital with our then 5 year old, leaving messages in the phones of all our babysitters. They did a quick ultrasound on arrival, and Michael seemed well. He even waved at us. No one in the ER believed that I was in labor; they were talking about my appendix, a virus, etc. Because I hadn’t hit 20 weeks they wouldn’t even page an ob. But I knew. Everyone was so panicked. I remember laying on my side in our little curtained cubicle of a giant ER room, trying to calm Pip between contractions. Thank God David took Pip for a quick bathroom break when he did. While they were gone I was alone with two other medical personnel. Techs? Residents? I have no idea who they were. Only that I felt Michael come, but they were busy with writing something and looking at the computer, and I screamed at them to look at me. They turned and looked at my baby on the table, who I couldn’t reach. The morphine they had given me for pain limited my movement and clouded my brain, but didn’t do anything for the pain. The look on their faces was shock, confusion, maybe. They had a quick exchange of “should we?.. Is he?… and then “go!” And one ran out to get the attending physician, who appeared very quickly and took Michael over to the table where I couldn’t see. A nurse intercepted Pip on the way back, and David came back in just as the doctor was saying “I’m sorry…” Michael was born at nearly 18 weeks, given zero chance of survival. I don’t know if he lived outside me for even a second. If he was in pain. If he was scared. Or if another two weeks would’ve been enough for his survival. Or anything. I had to ask for them to give him to me. And then finally they moved us out of the ER to a room where we could be together, and I could be treated for whatever stupid infection it was. Michael was 8 inches long and weighed 4.8 oz. He was beautiful and perfect, just not able to live in this world. I am thankful for the time we were able to spend with him afterwards, and for the pictures we took, hand and footprints we got, and that we were able to take him his tiny hat and blanket.
I’m not sure why I’m writing this now, or if I’ve written it before. I want to remember it. The details seem to be burned into my memory but I’m still writing them down. Now, more than two years later.
Maybe it’s also because I didn’t know what to expect, giving birth at 18 weeks. You hear of stillbirths where a full term baby is born sleeping, or of miscarriages where a woman is pregnant and then somehow not. I didn’t realize he would be such a fully formed person. He looked like a baby. Our baby. I went into labor, had regular contractions, and gave birth. He was cremated and we have a tiny urn for his ashes. We have a box with his blanket, hat, and diaper. David and I have tattoos of his hands and footprints. And that’s all. Our baby boy. However trite it sounds, Michael does live on in our memories, our thoughts, and our love. I like to think that our Ladybug has a little of Michael in her too. We think of him every day.