Our Story (7)- After the Rush

The days and weeks following our son's death were full of busy work, necessary  phone calls, doctor's appointments, picking out a tombstone, and finding ways to get back to the real world. Was that even a reasonable goal?

Before releasing me from the hospital, my doctor requested that I call in a few days and schedule a follow up appointment with her for the next week. A 1-week post-partum checkup? I thought that odd, and then it dawned on me...she wasn't concerned about my physical well-being; she was worried about my mental health. Makes sense. Afterall, its not everyday you have to deliver a lifeless full-term baby.

The Monday after the funeral, as Waylon and I were driving into town I picked up my phone and mustered up enough courage to call my doctor's office to schedule that appointment. Easy task, right? Wrong. There was no longer such a thing as an easy task. A lady answered the phone. I simply stated that I needed to make an appointment with Dr. C and that I was told it needed to be that week. She said, "What kind of appointment?" I don't know, a "my baby died inside of me and I had to deliver him and bury him all in the same week" appointment? I managed to say, "A post-delivery check-up." She continued with the questions, "When was the baby born?" I began to cringe as the tears burned my eyes. I replied, "April 25." She asked, "What's wrong, ma'am? Why are you crying?" I'm crying because my baby was born- but I didn't get to keep him! I handed the phone to Waylon. I heard him clear his throat and continue on with the conversation, "I'm her husband, and I will finish giving you any information that you need for this appointment." The nurse continued to question him about my reaction to her simple question of the baby's birthday and the need for him to take the call. After trying to not let her in on our current horrors Waylon finally just stated in a very blunt and matter of fact manner, "We just lost our son, can we please just make the appointment?" The lady was silent. The appointment finally was scheduled. Phew, onto the next "small" task...picking out a headstone for our son's final resting place.

Waylon had been forced to make many of our latest decisions regarding our son without my help due to my lack of strength and some denial. However, I was determined to help him with the choices to be made concerning the headstone. I remember the feeling of my stomach dropping when we arrived at the business that would be creating the stone to memoralize our little man. There were stones of all different shapes, sizes, and colors lining the drive. I was certain that one should have had my name engraved on it...I felt dead, useless, and numb.

There we were- two 26 year olds designing and purchasing a tombstone for our baby boy. Totally unacceptable.

We had drawn a rough sketch of our hopes for the stone ahead of time, and handed it to the kind gentleman after announcing to him that we needed a headstone for our son. His eyes appeared to be glassy and it was obvious that although his line of work hardly ever involves happy occasions, our request was a pinch on his heart. He worked with us and our requests, assured us that we would be kept informed of the progress, shook our hands, and bid us farewell. I looked back at the man as we made our way to our car. He had placed both elbows on his desk and was resting his head in his hands..even strangers could feel the heaviness and unfairness of our situation.

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Wyatt's stone was set a few weeks ago next to the other three angel babies from Waylon's family. A set of 4 tiny headstones bearing the names and dates of babies taken all too soon from this world sit side by side now, though arriving years apart.

Front

Back

The only way that I will ever have a picture of our two children together...beautiful babies.

Our Story(6): A Funeral for an Infant

A two hour drive leaves a lot of time to think...a lot of time to cry...and a lot of time to feel pain.

Waylon, Lyla, my sister, and I arrived at my grandparent's house that Thursday night after Wyatt was born. Supper was waiting for us, as usual, and so were many members of my family. When we pulled into the driveway I noticed that everyone was sitting on the front porch, one of our many favorite past times. I stepped out of the car, and immediately couldn't breathe. I felt embarrassed and scared. Almost everyone that was sitting on that porch had been at the hospital; they had seen my sweet baby boy. They had held my hand and kissed my head in my time of need. They were at my most favorite place in the whole world; the one place that I always felt safe and surrounded by an abundance of love. My emotions quickly changed. I gathered composure and went into the house to let them all shower us with more love and surround us with the support that we needed.

Most of the funeral arrangements had already been taken care of before our arrival, thanks to Waylon's mom and my aunts. However, Waylon went to the funeral home the Friday before the service to choose a casket- an eternal crib for our son's body. We decided to place a few items in the casket with our baby: two family pictures, an airplane from his nursery, a soft little blankie, and Lyla chose to add her glow worm for him to "play with." Our little girl has a heart of gold. We also placed a penny in the casket; on the way to rock our sweet boy in the hospital my Grandma had stepped on a penny and requested that it be placed with him as well. (I later found a poem about pennies and angels which I will attach to the bottom of this post.)

A few copies of the day's paper were bought. They contained our son's obituary. I had always envisioned my baby boy's name on his birthday cakes, report cards, and even his driver's license, but never as the main name in an obituary. How unsettling.

We met with the priest who would conduct the service later that day at Waylon's grandparent's house. It was hard. I tried to pick a spot on the table and just stare at it to keep from crying. I hadn't ever thought that I would have to make decisions regarding my own child's funeral- shouldn't it be the other way around?


The funeral and visitation were held on the same day at the church were we had been married almost 8 years prior- that church will no longer be a place of happy beginnings for me, quite the contrary.

I vaguely remember getting dressed that morning. My sister did my make up and made sure I didn't look like a total zombie and Waylon forced me to eat a muffin.

I was dreading entering the church- I had never felt that way before. I had always found strength and love behind those doors, but not that day, not with my baby boy laying in a casket at the alter. I made Waylon enter first. I could barely look up. I guess I thought that if I never saw the casket and flowers then it wasn't happening. When I finally lifted my head, I saw a small, white casket that was no bigger than a cookie sheet, adorned with gold accents and a beautiful array of white flowers.

I couldn't see. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't walk. The tiny casket was so minuscule compared to the high ceilings and long aisles of the church, but it stood out. It was shining and magnificent- just like our son. We finally made our way down the aisle to our boy. I placed my trembling hand on the hard casket, closed my eyes, and imagined I was touching Wyatt's soft skin, and I smiled through the tears.

We had a canvas made of a picture of our little guy's feet and placed it on an easel beside the casket along with a short description of our boy and some scriptures. Waylon and I took our places, sitting diligently beside the teeny white casket that held the body of our precious child.

The visitation was a blur of friends, family,tears, hugs, and a few awkward gestures. I was hugged more times than I can count, and with each hug came more pain- no literally- my milk had come in THAT day and each gentle hug sent a surge of pain. I held onto the little blue blanket that was used at the hospital in all of Wyatt's pictures. It still had his smell. I rubbed it and pretended that it was his head. We heard a record number of "I'm sorry,"s and "Praying for you,"s and even a few "I'm not sure what to say"s. It was truly amazing to see how many people came to show love and respect to our angel baby when he never even had the chance to meet any of them in this life.

We continued the day with a full mass and funeral service for our sweet Wyatt. My family played guitars and lead the songs for the service. I sang my heart out- only hoping that my little boy could hear me and praying that he was being held tight in Heaven. The homily was perfect and in a nutshell it proclaimed that while we mourn the loss of our child, we should relish in the fact that all he ever knew was love. Oh, how much I love him.

At the closing song, I watched as my husband, best friend, and the most amazing daddy walked to the front of the alter and gently picked up the tiny casket that contained the earthly body of his baby boy. He started down the long aisle of the church, and I joined his side. No man or woman should ever have to bury their child, especially one so small that he can be easily carried to his final resting place by the strong, yet trembling arms of his father.

The walk to the cemetery was hot, long, and full of an overwhelming feeling of sadness and defeat. I felt my knees growing weaker with each step toward the tent, and I can only imagine the thoughts of anguish that were running through Waylon's head.

After a short speech from my uncle and prayer lead by the priest at the grave site it was once again time to say "see ya later" to our son. I didn't want to get out of the chair. I didn't want to let that tiny white casket out of my sight. I wanted so badly for someone to open it up and give me my baby! I remember Waylon placing his hand around my arm and coaxing me to stand up. We walked toward the casket and I placed both of my hands on top as I bent down to "kiss" my baby for the last time on this earth. I spoke softly to the casket and my son as I told him that I loved him and would see him again.

And we walked off.

Hand in hand, stumbling over our own numb legs.

Each time we would drop our heads to begin to weep a gust of wind would force us to lift them. It was our Wyatt. We both felt the peace as we left our son to be buried that agonizing April day. Once I walked away, I could not look back.

We were forced to bury our little boy before he even had the chance to live.

I found a penny today
Just laying on the ground.
But it's not just a penny
This little coin I've found.

Found pennies come from heaven
that's what my Grandpa told me.
He said Angels tossed them down
Oh, how I loved that story!

He said when an Angel misses you
They toss a penny down,
sometimes just to cheer you up
To make a smile out of your frown.

So don't pass by that penny
When you're feeling blue.
It may be a penny from heaven
That an Angel's tossed to you.

Our Story(5)- Going Home Empty Handed

Our baby had come and gone in the blink of an eye.

We requested to stay in that hospital room for the remainder of my stay. I couldn't bare to leave the room just yet. I wasn't ready to face the world. My doctor requested that I stay the night and could be released the next morning.

I nibbled on a plate of food and took a shower. Family members slowly started to leave and Waylon went home to shower and check on Lyla. I made my way to a chair and began to thumb through the materials that had been left in the room. I quickly pushed them aside- too soon.

Nurse Sherry walked in with the release form for the funeral home. We had already said our farewells to our baby, but signing that paper was unreal. No, I DON'T want them to take him. I want him. He's suppose to come home with ME...to the airplane nursery all prepared for him, and to his big sister who has been impatiently awaiting his arrival for 9 months! I signed the form with shaky hands and sobbed- again.

I was given something to help me sleep that night, but still woke up before sunrise longing for my precious baby. We were ready to leave;even if  it meant going home to his nursery, and baby swing, and the closet full of little blue clothes. Having to leave the hospital without our baby had never crossed my mind, but it was about to happen. Waylon signed some papers that dealt with the death certificate and grief counseling, I was given a shot, and we were ready to depart around 10:00 am.

My first two nurses were long gone and my new nurse was not as well versed or prepared for dealing with our circumstances...or maybe she was just new. Lyla was brought to the hospital. I climbed into the over sized wheelchair and sat my only child beside me. The nurse pushed us out into the hall and stopped. She went to get the apple juice that I had asked for earlier that morning. There I was facing the long hall of rooms full of overjoyed families with their new babies- and I heard the cries. I covered my ears as the tears escaped from my eyes. The nurse returned shortly after with an apple juice for Lyla as well. She was enjoying the attention; her smiles were the only things keeping me from melting down into a pool of helpless grief.  The nurse took us the "back way" out of the hospital and into the open air. Waylon walked by our side.

 I had my wonderful husband, my beautiful daughter, the bright sun, and warm air- Only one thing was missing...our Wyatt.

Lyla rode back to the house with my cousins, sister, and dad. Waylon opened my door and I slowly climbed into the car. The infant carrier was in the back. I thanked the nurse and shut the car door.

And we left.....without our son.

We went to get my prescriptions filled before going home. I kept trying to forget that we should have a newborn with us, but the world wouldn't let me forget. As a result of my heightened sense of awareness, I noticed the hundreds of babies, children, and pregnant women at the store that day. Not to mention, my body even reminded me that I should be carrying a child in my arms at the moment. My chest began to feel tight and my vision began to blur. The tears fell as soon as we made our way back to the car. I needed to roll the windows down and feel the fresh air and warm sun.

I feared walking into our house. I had been pregnant the entire time we had lived there; every memory involved our sweet boy. I wasn't ready to see the fully stocked nursery, the cabinet full of freshly sterilized bottles and pacis, the list on the counter that contained the last minute "to pack" items for the hospital, or the overall feeling that a baby should be entering those doors with us.

The fact that some family members were still at our house made the blow of entering a little less painful. Shortly after arriving home, Waylon and I tucked Lyla in for a nap. Before leaving her room, I snatched the "Big Sister" frame and shirt off her dresser and left the room, holding back the waters.

Waylon and I found ourselves standing in the middle of Wyatt's room. Another slap in the face. Our little boy would never sleep in that crib, be rocked in that rocking chair, have his diaper changed on that changing table, or wear any of those recently washed clothes. We held onto each other for a short while and discussed what never will be.

We packed our bags for our trip to KY, to bury our baby. The packing was quick, yet painful. I refused to wear maternity clothes, but obviously couldn't wear my own a day after delivering a baby. While staring into my closet, I reached my hand down to my belly. It felt squishy and loose. Just a day before it had felt hard and tight. I began to sob and jerked my hand away.

We threw our luggage in the car and headed home, Ky home, to lay our baby boy's body to rest.

Our Story (4)- Hello and Goodbye

Silence. There was complete silence at the moment of our little man's arrival into this world. No crying baby. No "oo"s and "ah"s from the nurses. No hurry to check the health of our baby. Our nurse for that day, Sherry, quickly and flawlessly took our boy to another room and closed the door. Another nurse offered to take the baby, but I heard nurse Sherry claim responsibility with a hint of pride in her voice. That made me feel good. Someone else actually cared for our baby, even though he was already gone.

Waylon asked the other nurse if they could tell what had been the cause of our son's death. She shook her head and pointed to the doctor with her eyes. He was quiet- stitching me up and not saying anything about the baby. He left in a hurry with a small promise to come back in a few minutes. We didn't know when we would get answers- if ever.

The doctor returned shortly after and explained that the cord was visibly tight around our little man's neck upon arrival. He went on to discuss having an autopsy performed. We declined. We were satisfied with the evidence that the cord had in fact been the culprit. It made me cringe. I felt as though my body had not only betrayed me, but my baby boy as well. Who knew this even happened anymore? Not me.

Before leaving the room the doctor made note that the baby had not been gone long- his color was good and his body was in great condition. No...great condition would be breathing and functioning.


45 Minutes passed. Nurse Sherry was busy bathing and clothing our precious boy (in the outfit that was packed in his diaper bag that already happened to be in the car) behind that closed door. We later found out that the nurses took great care in taking a number of wonderful pictures for us to keep during that time as well.

Waylon was sitting on the hospital bed beside me, as we nervously awaited the first time we would lay eyes on our sweet boy. Nurse Sherry opened the door and peeked her head around to ask if we were ready. Could we ever be ready to see the body of our lifeless son? NO. But we shook our heads and she gracefully entered carrying a swaddled bundle so gently and carefully in her arms. She reached the end of the bed and laid him down.

Perfection. That's what I saw. A perfectly healthy, full- term, baby boy. His lips were bright red and his fragile skin had started to peel. He had a head full of light brown (with a hint of red) hair that had a bit of a wave.

With tender hands, she unwrapped our precious boy and with tears in her eyes began to show us each inch of his body. I can still see her face, looking at my baby boy. It meant a lot to me that she felt real emotion for our son. They had put a diaper on him, and a tiny hospital bracelet.

I was afraid to touch him. He was MY baby. One that I carried for over 9 months, I should have been grabbing him up and snuggling him close to my heart. What was taking me so long? fear. confusion. numbness. Waylon  looked like he felt so much more. He looked like he felt love.

 I reached my hand out to touch him little by little, and soon enough it was like everything was normal; I had him close to me and was kissing him, patting him, rocking him, singing to him, and smiling at just how truly perfect he was.  My heart opened up. I felt peaceful. I felt the overwhelming love that mothers feel for their babies. I was proud. But, was it right to be proud of a baby that was dead? It was a lot to process. It is still an issue that I face; being proud of my stillborn baby. Something most people will never understand. I had a newborn baby. I wanted the world to marvel over the perfection that was my baby. But not everyone sees that.

Waylon and I studied him and coveted him for a while. We tried to store everything about him in our memories. He had long, light brown eyelashes, and long toenails and fingernails. He weighed 7 pounds and 6 ounces (one ounce less than his big sister) and was 21&3/4 inches long! His legs seemed so long and his little cheeks and chin were chubby. His nose was so tiny and resembled his big sister's. His lips were identical to his daddy's. I remember how warm he felt when I first kissed his forehead and rubbed his cheek. I had a glimmer of hope. And shut down once again- he had been placed under the warmer before he was given to us. I remember the sound his lips made when I pulled down on his chin; the same sound that any one's makes when you pull apart two wet lips. His color was good; a little red in places, but not bruised. He simply looked like a sleeping newborn. He was heavy in my arms, and I loved it.

I wanted to show him off. Eventually we sent Nurse Sherry to invite a few members of our family in at a time. Each person that entered had a look of confusion and agony on his face at first. I'm sure the thought of "What am I suppose to do and feel?" passed through every one's minds. Everyone who entered held our sweet boy's body against theirs. He is truly so loved. There was a lot of crying, some smiling, some talking, and lots of silence during the precious four hours that we were able to spend with our boy. A priest was called from a local church to bless us and our Wyatt. He prayed with us, told us how sorry he was, and left, with wet eyes.  Everyone treated our baby just as if he were any other newborn, maybe with even more care.

I found myself smiling with pride as our son was passed from person to person. I know I was numb with shock, but I was proud of that beautiful baby, and I always will be. He was perfect; our perfect son.

I kept praying and hoping that I would see his chest rise with life or feel his tiny fingers grip mine in return. Of course, I knew that was impossible, but I felt as though I had been beat down as far as I could possibly go and the only direction to look was up. One can always hope, right?



Eventually the room cleared out and Waylon and I were left alone with our precious son once again. Waylon placed Wyatt on his chest- it had been his favorite way of holding Lyla.  Waylon's mom snapped a few photos of just the three of us.

Wyatt was placed in my arms once again and I leaned down to kiss his forehead. It was cold. His peeling skin was getting worse, and his color was starting to change- pale. The time was coming to say our farewells. He was starting to change and we wanted to remember him like he was- a perfect baby.

Waylon and I sat on the bed with our baby boy in our arms and talked to him. We told him how much we wanted him and how much we loved him. We told him of his big sister.  We unwrapped him and I swaddled his limp, but perfect body in a blue blanket with stars on it that I had packed in his diaper bag. I placed his little hat back on his tender head. We continued to tell him we loved him. We told him that we would see him later. We slowly handed him to Nurse Sherry. She placed him in the rolly cart and headed for the door. She said in the sweetest and most sincere voice before exiting the room, "See ya later, Mom and Dad, I love you."

And that was it.

A part of my heart and soul was wheeled out of the room that day. I'll never get it back--until we meet in Heaven.

Nurse Sherry had called the funeral home for us that would pick up the body of our baby at the hospital. She cared for baby Wyatt and talked to him like he was any other baby in her care. It made me feel good that a stranger could validate my little boy's life, even if it had ended before his first breath. The other arrangements were in the process of being made. We decided that during the time that we let him go and the funeral home arrived that my grandmother would sit and rock him in a separate room so that he was never left alone. I am told that other family members also stayed with him during that waiting period.

I have never felt so helpless or alone in my entire life. Waylon and I cried and held tightly onto each other.

We had lost our son-lost him before we even had him.

A Letter to Wyatt

My Dearest Wyatt-

It has been seven weeks since you entered and left our arms, but not a day has gone by that has not been filled with beautiful thoughts of you. I have been wondering lately what you might look like now. Would you still have a head full of hair? Blue eyes like me, or brown like Daddy and Lyla? How would you like to be held and talked to? What would make you smile? Would you like your back rubbed like Sissy? Smirk like Daddy? Keep Mommy's signature cheeks? I think about how Lyla would love on you and want to help take care of you. I think about how your Daddy would come home from work and lay you on his chest. In everything that I do, you are present in my thoughts. You even visit me in my dreams, son.

I am often overcome with sadness at all that I never got the chance to say to you or do with you. Some things so trivial as changing your diapers, bathing you, or calming your cries. I will never get to hear you giggle, fight with your sister, or talk with your Daddy about "guy" stuff. I had no time to read to you or teach you the ABCs. I will never get to watch you grow into a young man who adores his mother. I wanted so badly for you to want to "marry" me like your big sister does your daddy.

We have shared your pictures with family and friends and they all think that you are handsome and perfect in every way. Many of them were fortunate enough to feel and see you move inside my belly and to hold your earthly body. Your kicking, rolling, and punching always made me smile and feel special. I am so proud to be your mommy. No matter what happens in this life, I will not stop telling the world about you, my precious son.

Wyatt, your Daddy and I love you so much and miss you beyond words. We were excited to bring you home and show you your airplane room; we were certain that you were going to love it. We wanted to watch you love and play with your big sister. She misses you too, buddy. She often asks when can she see you or when are you coming back. We tell her that we will all be reunited one day in the place that you are now, Heaven. You see, even though my faith has been severely shaken since you were taken from us, I still believe. I have to. I believe that one day we will all be together again, and it will be nothing short of glorious.

When you arrived we were sad; sad because we wanted so badly for you to take a breath and to cry. But we were also glad; glad that we were chosen to be the parents of an angel. Wyatt, we want you to know that we had an amazing life planned for you, but nothing compared to what you are experiencing in Heaven. I have found myself asking "Why me God, why my baby?" but its not about me. Wyatt, your story has already touched so many, some you might have never been able to meet had you been able to stay with us on Earth. Our unconditional love for you has taught others about compassion, faith, and love. You are a vessel of the Lord.

Because of you, Wyatt, I am on the verge of becoming a better person. The sunshine is brighter, your sister's laugh is sweeter, and your Daddy's love is stronger, all because of you. I am richer for having held you a moment, than to never have held you at all. Until we meet again in Heaven...Keep an eye on us, Little Buddy.

Love, Love, Love

Mommy

Our Story (3)-Silence in the Delivery Room

The time was approximately 5:00 pm on that dreadful Tuesday afternoon in April.

Waylon and I were alone in the room; the doctor had just stepped out to arrange our check-in with the hospital to deliver our son. We both picked up our phones and immediately began to call family. We had no clue what we wanted them to do exactly, we just knew we didn't want to do it alone. My cousin was the first to hear the news, as he was the closest and we needed him to come to the hospital to get Lyla. I'm sure he thought it was "go time" since I had joked with him before the appointment about being ready to come and get Lyla. I squealed with numbing thoughts as searched for my sister's name and pushed "call". She answered. My stomach dropped realizing that it would be the first time that the words actually had to make there way out of my mouth and into the open air. I cried, "He's gone." She was on her way. I made one more call to my aunt as Waylon was calling his mom. We asked that they spread the horrifying news to others for us. Most of our family lived about 2 hours from us and the hospital.

My cousin arrived to pick up Lyla from the front, but he first met us in the examination room. Hugs, tears, and "I'm sorrys" had begun and would continue for weeks to come. Waylon walked out with him to give some raw explanation to our sweet 4-year old princess. He told her that Mommy was okay, but that baby Wyatt had to go see Jesus. They tell me that she smiled.

We were given directions to get in our car and drive to the main entrance in order to make our way to the maternity floor. I couldn' walk. I refused to stand up and feel the weight of my very pregnant belly. Two nurses offered to wheel me there. I agreed. Waylon walked beside me like a sad, somber statue whose brain was barely able to tell his legs to move.

We stopped at the registration desk (even though I had pre-registered). There was a crying baby in the hall. Almost immediately, the lullaby music sounded over the loud speakers marking the birth of yet another baby; one that was alive, no doubt. I GET IT ALREADY! PLEASE STOP REMINDING ME THAT MY BABY IS GONE! I covered my ears and closed my eyes as Waylon finished up at registration.

The nurses continued to take us to our final destination. The nurses told the nurse on the maternity floor my name. She glanced up and down quickly, making sure not to make eye contact. My room wasn't ready. We were placed in a confined waiting room; a holding cell of sorts.

The first members of our support system, our family, arrived about 15 minutes after our placement in the waiting room. It was my grandmother and my aunt. I'm unaware of what my appearance was at that time, but from the looks on their faces it must have been disturbing. The tears and apologetic tones continued.

My room was finally ready. I walked down the hall. The thought that that might have been the last time that I would feel the weight of my son inside of me crossed through my mind. I wanted it to last forever. My room was at the end of the hallway, you know, away from all of the rooms full of happy families and living, crying babies. The walk took forever and a pain pinched my heart with each baby cry.

My door. Finally. There was a card on my door that hadn't been on any others. A picture of a leaf and a tear drop with a dark purple background. Ah-ha...a warning sign for all those who entered about the extreme sadness and misfortune that stood stagnant behind that door. I felt like a zombie. My mind felt apart from my body which felt apart from my heart.

I stood in the middle of the hospital room, with tears streaking my face, waiting for my next orders. A few nurses came and went with instruction to undress and put on a gown. My blood was drawn by the lab techs. No one was really speaking, except for formalities. I laid back on the bed. This was really happening. This was not at all how I had pictured the labor and delivery of my sweet boy.

Two nurses walked in and immediately hooked up the monitor for contractions and started an IV. There would be no need for a fetal heart monitor. I cringed at the invasivness of it all. Before it was all said and done, I had been jabbed three times and was actually starting to feel physical pain. However, the pain in my heart was so eclipsing.

 I wanted an epidural for my heart.

A second ultrasound was performed. I still couldn't look at the screen. The atmosphere in the room was morbid. There didn't appear to be any miracle happening that day, not for us.

Waylon stood by my side. Family members began to pile into the room few by few. I wish I could have been on the outside looking in, so that I could see what they saw. It must have been horrifying, because each person that entered looked at us and immediately began heaving back the waves of tears. I can't quite remember who came when or exactly what they said or did upon arriving; however, I remember the sad and distraught look on my dad's face as he had to be helped into the room.

There we were. Surrounded by family who loved us dearly and had anticipated our little man's arrival.  None of them were expected to be there, yet, they were; there to share in our adversity and our sorrow. I had never been so glad as at that very moment that our families are so amazing.

 The hospital staff had prepared a separate waiting room for our families away from the normal waiting room which, of course, was full of over joyed people excitedly awaiting the arrival of babies; live babies.

My nurse that first night was wonderful, to say the least. It was rather obvious that she had been trained for such events, and she handled it with unbidden grace and care. She explained everything she was doing and all of our options in detail in a soft and genuine voice. I think she was an angel.

Pitocin was started soon after my arrival in order to start the labor process. An epidural was administered a few hours later. Family came in and out in small groups talking, crying, sitting quietly as I layed in a hospital bed completely helpless and being forced into labor to deliver a lifeless baby.

We prayed. The Chaplin prayed with us. Literature about our circumstances was given to us. It was pushed to the side. I was starving, but I could have cared less if I ever ate again. I refused all meds that were offered with the hopes of "taking the edge off" or helping me to sleep. Why was this about my comfort? Shouldn't they be concerned about the well being of my baby...oh that's right.

Around 2 am, most of our guests had either made their way to the waiting room, a hotel room, or our home. Waylon and I selfishly tried to get a little rest. I woke up around 4:30 am in tears and with the hope that it had all been a dream. It was real. Too real.

Around 7:20 am, as Waylon was rubbing my hand, my water broke. In a normal delivery room, that would have been a welcoming advancement; however, to me it meant the time to deliver my innocent, precious baby was drawing nearer.

I convinced Waylon to go home and check on Lyla at that point. The nurse had checked my progress and I was still only dilated to about 3 cm. We were certain that it would still be awhile before my body was fully ready to do its job.

As family returned that morning, the room began to fill once more with their grim, but reassuring faces and movements. My uncle led us in the prayers of the Rosary. Throughout the entire Rosary, I felt an immense amount of pressure. After the Rosary, around 8:00 am, I asked the nurse to check me once more. I had dilated to 9 within minutes.

 In a panic I demanded that Waylon be called. He had just gotten to our house and vowed to return immediately to the hospital. I was nervous and scared that he wouldn't make it back in time. In time for what? Why did it matter? It wasn't as if some glorious birth of a living being was about to occur. I wish that I could have spared him from all the pain; the pain of watching his wife progress through a morbid labor and delivery and the pain of watching the lifeless body of his son emerge from my tomb of a womb.

The show was about to begin. But it was no ordinary show that would be expected during the birth of a baby. There wasn't an array of fancy equipment. There weren't a lineup of nurses ready to handle the beloved newborn. There wasn't a group of excited family members and friends waiting in the halls to hear the baby's first screams. It was simple, disturbing, and silent.

The baby had crowned. The doctor entered. My epidural had run out, but I was promised that the meds were still in my system. Wrong. I felt everything. I felt every pain. I felt my baby's limp body as it exited mine.


I begged Waylon not to look. I knew that we only had 1 chance to brand the memory of our son's earthly appearance in our minds, and wasn't sure what he might look like immediately following delivery since the question of  his demise was still a mystery. Would he be blue? Gray? Swollen? Baby-like? We had no clue what to expect, yet again.

Talk about a mix of emotions- I was elated to have the "hard" part over with, but I wanted him back almost instantly. Back with me. Back where he had been safe and alive for the last nine months. Wasn't going to happen.

His sweet body entered our world at 9:00 am on April 25, 2012.

I was still hoping for that miracle.

Denied.

Our Story (2)- Silence on the Doppler

It was Tuesday, April 24, 2012. I was 37 weeks and 6 days pregnant with our little boy.

Upon waking that morning as Waylon got ready for work, I realized that I had not felt any movements from Wyatt yet, and he moved CONSTANTLY. I took the usual measures to get the baby moving when in doubt: laid on my back, gently probed my belly, stood up, walked around, drank a glass of OJ, laid back down. Nothing. I did all of the above without showing any concern to Waylon; after all, this was my second pregnancy and the doctor had already informed me that the movements were likely to decrease because he was so big and low. Finally, after an hour of trying to get my baby to move, he did! He wiggled and and even got the hiccups. There was no mistaking that he was okay, at least at that moment in time. My worries dissolved and I continued on with my day as usual. I had an appointment scheduled for 4:20 that very afternoon, and was eager to learn of my body's progress in anticipation of our little boy's arrival. I was certain that he was ready to make his debut fairly soon, maybe even that day.

I keep thinking, "I should have known." The worst thought is wondering, "Did I know and simply ignore my instincts?"

On the drive to the doctor's office that day I began to feel uneasy again, after realizing that I couldn't remember the last time that I had felt him move that day. I pushed on my belly and said a quick prayer. I was nervous, but figured after I heard his heartbeat all of my crazy anxiety would disappear. After all, there were tons of explanations for the lack of movement, and I was already in the "safety zone." It was easy going from that point...so I thought. I arrived at the doctor's office, and handed Lyla off to Waylon to stay in the downstairs lobby (children were not permitted in the main office). I remember Waylon smiling at me as I began to climb the stairs and saying something about being induced- He was excited. I was scared.

I did all of the usual appointment protocol: urine sample- perfect, weight- eh, sitting in exam room awaiting the doctor- anxious. I began to read a book that I had in my purse to brush aside any fears. The office must have been busy that day, because the doctor beat the nurse into the room; my blood pressure was never even checked. The small talk started, "So, how are ya? Ready to get this over with? Any issues?" I wanted to scream YES, but I calmly replied, as my voice cracked from fear, "He hasn't been moving as much." I explained to her my morning venture of getting him to move and she smiled, grabbed the fetal doppler, and said, "Okay, let's see what this little guy is up to." I swallowed hard and lifted my dress to reveal my very pregnant belly.

She pressed the doppler against my left side. Silence. I couldn't breathe. She patted my hand and moved the doppler to my right side (my actions must have told the story of my fears). Silence. Tears welled up in my eyes, but I couldn't speak. There was the whooshing sound of the amniotic fluids, but no thunderous beating of my little man's heart.  I knew.

The doctor left the room in a rush, leaving the door completely open, mumbling something about an ultrasound on her way out. I was alone. Even my baby was gone. I laid there, shaking uncontrollably, with my hands on my head and my dress still raised. I hadn't sent them to get Waylon at that point; I was still hoping for a miracle. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe something WAS wrong, but we could fix it- we were at a hospital.

The sonogram machine was wheeled in by the doctor; a nurse joined. No one bothered to shut the door. The probe was immediately placed on my shivering belly as the tears rolled down my cheeks and pooled on the pillow. I kept my focus on the doctor's face and refused to look at the screen. I noticed tears starting to form in the eyes of my doctor. I began to scream, "Is he okay?" She silently shook her head, told me to take a deep breath, and that she was going to get another doctor to take a look.

My screams filled the room, the entire office. Much of what I was saying more than likely couldn't be deciphered through my cries. I begged them to cut me open and right then and there and save my precious baby.  I wanted my husband. I needed him. However, I didn't want our daughter subjected to the same hell that we were being forced to enter.

Waylon entered the room shortly after my asking a nurse to go get him from the lobby. Lyla was kept entertained by the nurses at the front desk. I will never forget the look in my husband's eyes as when he saw me. It was pure torture. He stood beside me, holding onto me, and couldn't say anything. He knew.

The two doctors continued with the ultrasound. I saw the sorrow and horror on everyone's faces as they watched the screen intently. All the while, my screams for him to be saved continued on, to no avail. My doctor placed her hand on mine, after what seemed like an eternity and softly said, as her voice cracked and tears ran down her cheeks, "There is no cardiac activity."

I screamed. No, it was more like a wail. I continued to beg them to cut me open. Why was no one trying to save my baby? I was in a hospital, damn it!

The doctors and nurse cleared out. I made my way from the table to a stool. I felt the weight of my unborn, lifeless baby as I walked. I felt my world crashing down, and my lunch coming up.

Our baby, our sweet precious baby, whom I'd been carrying for 3/4 of a year and had been waiting to see and hold was finally about to arrive. But he would be lifeless. I couldn't wrap my mind around it.

I then began to say words that I now regret. I stated that I couldn't and wouldn't labor and deliver a dead baby. I was distraught, to say the least. I'm very glad that I was able to give at least that, the natural way of entering this world, to my son. After all, I was still his mother, and it was my job. Although getting him here safely was the ultimate goal, I had failed that portion of the test. My doctor explained that a C-Section was out of the question and tried the reasoning of, "You don't want that scar to remind you everyday." Yes I did. Thank goodness for stretch marks, because I want every piece of evidence that I can to prove that my sweet boy was real.

We were given the option to go home and come back the next day to start the induction process or to go over immediately. Was she serious? She was giving us the choice to go home and pretend like everything was okay, and that I was still glowing and carrying our healthy baby? I was horrified at the thought. We decided to check-in and start the induction to deliver our stillborn son.

Life was no longer good.

His Eyes

In my dreams we meet;
I hold him and he coos.
We gaze into each others eyes,
Each different shades of blue.

I feel the strong beats of his heart,
And stroke his warm, plump cheek.
I sing and rock him back and forth,
And not a tear does leak.

Visitors come bearing gifts and smiles
To hold the tender baby boy.
Daddy and sissy are happy and proud;
He is our newest bundle of joy

But when my slumber is over,
 its much to my surprise,
It was all a dream, of course, a dream...
 I never got to see his eyes.