The story of Elizabeth

Because I still have nights that I cry myself to sleep four years later, I know I am still grieving.

Last night everything came back like it happened yesterday, and my heart had been ripped from my chest. John even said he hadn't felt this much pain since the night it happened. That worst night of our lives.

There are still people who don't know the story. I've told it so many different times in so many different ways that it almost started to feel like just a story I'd made up. But then on days like yesterday, it comes back in full force, and I remember. Breaking my heart out of me so I almost can't breathe.

I wish I could remember more about those few short hours I got with my daughter. The pain all came back to me when John said he could remember the way she felt in his arms. And then I remembered that moment. I had my baby girl lying on my chest with her little hand on my heart, and when I looked down I could see her soft little head of hair. I remember how soft it felt on my lips when I kissed it. And how warm she was when she first came out of me. My body had kept her so warm, it was hard to believe she would not just wake up any second.

So much of it is blurry to me now; I fear I have blocked some of it out. The parts that stick out in my memory are small. But I want to tell you the story here, from memory, and not from my journals.

I remember the morning of April 27, 2006 pretty clearly. I know that I cut my finger doing household chores because you can see my cut in the pictures. Some time that afternoon my contractions were starting again, but I was used to them at this point in pregnancy, and tired of wondering when it would be real. But just for fun, I sat down on my bed and started writing down how often they were coming. In between two contractions, I wrote "Baby Moving" around 3:02 pm. That was the last time I think I ever felt her move.

In the next few hours my labor progressed intensely, and John had come home from work and was scrambling around the house with me getting our bag ready for the hospital. It was an exhilirating time to know it was time to bring home our first baby. There just isn't anything like the first one. You don't ever get that same excitement again. That innocence.

I remember when we got the hospital I was having contractions right on top of each other and couldn't even answer the nurses when they were asking me questions, wheeling me in on a wheelchair. They brought me to the room and asked me to change into the hospital gown, but I was already feeling like the baby was ready to come and hardly wanted to take the time. I remember someone saying "This is her first," in a knowing voice, like I would probably have a slow labor and they needn't worry about time. And so they left John and me alone in that room and took their time coming back. I always wonder at what point Elizabeth left her body and was there in spirit, watching it all happen.

When the nurses finally returned and I was in my hospital gown, they strapped me to the bed and started looking for the baby's heartbeat. Which they couldn't find. They kept wondering if my heartbeat was her's but it was much too slow. For some stupid reason, I kept thinking they would find it- they just weren't in the right spot, or their machine wasn't working. But at this point I couldn't think of much at all because I was in transition, and I think when they finally checked me, they realized I was measuring 8 cm and they should probably stop messing around. I definitely didn't have the energy to fathom that all this pain and labor was going to avail me nothing. No baby.

I remember they tried two different methods to find the baby's heartbeat- all while I was writhing in the pain of natural child birth, and ready to push the baby out. They did an ultrasound, and then said they would go in and prick the baby's head with something to find the heartbeat that way. So while I was having the worst pain a woman can experience in life, they were all standing their awkwardly, wondering how to say to us "Your baby is dead."

I wanted to scream "I already know". It had become devastatingly clear to me during all of the checking - although I could not really fathom what that meant. All I could think about was getting this over with, and I remember at one point asking "I still have to have the baby??"

Yes, unfortunately, she won't just disappear. Even though it felt I was giving birth for absolutely nothing, I had to go through with it, and I wasn't going to get a crying baby in my arms at the end. It didn't make any sense at all. I could not believe this was happening. If my baby wasn't alive, why did I still have to push her out? Couldn't she just disappear?

But I went through with it.

And when my baby came out, in that moment I had hoped to cry tears of joy and have her placed on my chest, and look into her sparkling little eyes... in that moment they asked if I wanted to hold her and I said no. They could just wash her off first, and give her to John. I didn't see any point in seeing her, and wondering why I couldn't keep her.

And next thing I remember is John coming toward me with a little bundle in a white blanket, with his tear-stricken face, asking me "Do you want to hold your daughter?" I finally agreed.

I was laying flat on my back, and when he handed her to me I couldn't see her very well, and was craning my neck down to see her. I do remember how warm she was, and my heart kept wanting to believe she was just sleeping. Finally, someone moved my chair more upright so I could see her better, and I unwrapped her from the blanky so I could see how little she was. I remember thinking she might get cold, and wrapping her up again so she could be warm.

Everything was so hazy. Nurses kept asking us questions about if we wanted to take pictures, or invite family over, and all of this stuff I wouldn't have even dreamed of in that moment my life had shattered into pieces. I wanted to disappear into my bed and never see anyone's face again, but yet there I sat with them probing us and acting as if our baby had lived and we would want to do all the normal things. All the things I had HOPED to do after the baby was born, but everything had turned upside down now and I couldn't fathom why we would call our family when things hadn't worked how they were supposed to.

I never would have taken pictures if they hadn't suggested it- and I will forever be thankful to them for thinking of all those things I could not possibly think about in that moment. After thinking the nurses were crazy for asking if we wanted visitors, I realized they were right that we should probably tell our parents. And I will never forget the excitement in my mother's voice when I told her we had the baby. And then my voice broke and I shattered her excitement by saying "She's not alive, mom."

All these details take away from my moments with Elizabeth. I suppose I knew she wasn't in her body, and so I didn't take the time to treasure the moments I got to hold her. The nurses kindly told us we could keep her in our bed all night if we wanted. Which seems obvious for someone who just gave birth, but I was half expecting them to just take her away, because I felt she had already been taken away from me and I saw no point in trying to hold on. But I am so thankful for that time that everyone left the room and John and I could be alone with our baby all night.

We sang her some songs and had a little family prayer. When our parents were there, our fathers surrounded us as John gave her a name and a blessing. I don't remember anything about that blessing now, but luckily I wrote it down. Then my father gave me a father's blessing. I specifically remember him saying he could feel Elizabeth's sadness that she had caused us so much pain, and that she would come to be with me in my life when I was feeling alone and sad.

And I have felt her a small handful of times. Her presence is the peace and calm that comes over me after I have a long hard cry. I felt her last night after sobbing with John about these memories.

I will never "be over" the loss of my child. She is in the back of my mind nearly daily still. It's hard to believe I've kept a straight face so many times telling people about her. But her story is not emotionless and dry like the way I tell a stranger I have 2 children, and one of them died at birth.

I just want people to know the whole story without having to tell it. Her part in our family is priceless, and I can't stand telling people Isaac is an only child, but sometimes I just have to lie to keep a conversation short.

I think that's what hurts most these days, and I am still grieving.