Part 2: Darkness Descends

Being in the maternity ward without my baby was surreal.  The nurses put me in a room farther down the hall so that I could not hear the new mothers who chose to keep their doors open.  Newborn cries were muffled and for the most part quiet.  Visitors were few; I believe not many people came because they didn't want to upset me.  On the first day of Hannah's life, we were not allowed to hold her.  I don't even remember holding her after she was born, although I was told by many that I did.  Hannah had to be on CPAP-a type of breathing therapy that uses mild air pressure to help keep the airways open.  I remember seeing her for the first time, thinking, "Oh my God.  My daughter looks like Bane from Batman."

A lot of memories run through my mind as I stare at this picture.  For one, not many pictures were taken of this day.  A day that was supposed to be filled with happiness and cuddles and family.  This, a picture of Hannah's first breaths and a picture of Hannah's tiny foot is all we have of this day.  It brings tears to my eyes to think of  showing her this picture one day.  I don't know why I get so emotional about it.  Maybe it's because it looks so scary.  I can remember thinking to myself, "I got steroid shots at 28 weeks.  Why didn't they work? Why?"  I blamed myself for this.  But the blame was not on me.  Hannah's breathing problems were not because she was born 3.5 weeks early.  It was not because her gestational age was wrong or because she had neurological problems like we had been informed may be the case.

Hannah has laryngomalacia.  A common airway defect that affects 60% of infants.  There is no known cause, no genetic ties.  It just happens.

But we did not know this yet. The doctors did not know this yet.  They just assumed she was born early and had some fluid in her lungs.

Two days later, we left for home.  The day we left, a nurse informed us that she had tried feeding Hannah some formula and Hannah had turned blue on her.  It is common for preemies to have eating issues, but they were very surprised that a 36 weeker was having such difficulty. We left Boston with heavy hearts.  I cried the entire way home.  Again, emotions are just flooding back and I find myself sitting here in tears as I remember the walk out of the NICU.  I couldn't even kiss her goodbye.  It felt so final, as though I was never going to see my baby again.  I was unbelievably sore (who knew a five pound baby could do so much damage down there) and incredibly swollen (if I thought I was swollen during the last week of my pregnancy, I was severely wrong).  Walking into our apartment left me feeling sick to my stomach.  My mind was playing tricks with me.  Last time I was here, I was pregnant.  Now I am home and I am not.  My baby is not with me.  She must be dead.  Something tragic must have happened.  Because irrationally, that was the only thing I could think of.  The last two days had been a dream.  Hannah was not alive.  And I was no longer pregnant.  And she was no longer with me.  Phil kept reassuring me that she was alive and just needed time to get better so that she could be home with us.  I stayed quiet and let my thoughts just run rapid as we sat on the couch.  That night was horrible.  I cried more than I thought possible.  We had no idea when we'd be able to see Hannah again due to car garage expenses and gas.  And my pretty girl was alone.  With no mommy to hold her.  No mommy.  She had nurses, but not me.  That feeling of worthlessness and heartache is something I will never wish on anyone.  Not even my worst enemy.  No mother should have to feel that. 

This cloud was hovering over me.  There was no light.  I no longer felt full with love.  I just felt empty.  So empty.  To think that only weeks earlier, I just wanted to be done.  My body had had enough. But that was so selfish.  I should have fought to keep her in, begged for hospital bedrest and constant monitoring.  After all, she was doing excellent and thriving in my womb.  I was the weakest link.

The Beginning Part 1

Although I knew it could happen, I never imagined it would.  Rough pregnancy, drugged out delivery, being separated from my baby for 31 days...I thought the moment she was able to come home, the heaviness in my chest would lift.  That those dark and suffocating thoughts would stop and I would just bounce back to what I used to be.  To be truthful, for the first two days my daughter was home, I felt great--relieved.  But by the end of the weekend, I could feel myself spiraling back down into that black hole beneath my feet. I was no longer battling this consuming darkness. I was fighting for my state of mind.  And my life.

http://www.renegademothering.com/2013/02/09/i-became-a-mother-and-died-to-live/

The link above couldn't be any more truthful. If I had read that while I was pregnant, I probably would have laughed.  Being someone's mom was something I had dreamed about since I was a small girl.  I wanted children.  I wanted to be a SAHM, to cook and clean and look after my precious babies as they grew.  When I was 19, I was told that I wouldn't be able to conceive naturally.  I had a string of hormonal issues that made it difficult for pregnancies to stick and keep.  Before my daughter, the longest I had been pregnant was for almost 6 weeks.  My HCG was always so low, that I always had to have a blood test to determine pregnancy.  POAS never worked, even when I tested after getting my pregnancies confirmed by doctors.  My numbers were always low.  I decided it was better to have this issue.  Having a child would be on my time--we'd need help via fertility drugs and maybe even IVF. 

Five years later, I came down with this flu.  It came and went for weeks.  I never once thought I could be pregnant.  My boyfriend questioned it more that I did.  Eventually, after nearly three months of constant vomiting, having a super nose and grimacing at foods I normally would have devoured, I tested.  And I nearly passed out with how dark that pink line was.  I thought, "Two lines means negative right?" What should have been a happy and wonderful moment for me, was not.  We were not prepared for a baby.  I had just lost my job, we were struggling to get by and we were in a bit of a rough patch.  I had always imagined ways of surprising Phil when he came home from work that he was to be a dad, bringing cute gifts to the in-laws and to  my parents as a way to announce our new addition.  I imagined squeals of delight, happiness, hugging, even tears.  Well, there were tears, but we mostly were just in shock.  I got the, "You're kidding.  Oh, Kerry..."  The only one who seemed ecstatic was my best friend.  But the surprise faded and excitement set in as soon as I saw that sweet heartbeat on the sonogram. This little girl would arrive sometime around December 28th.

My pregnancy was no picnic.  I was very high risk-with blood pressure issues, a two vessel cord, my daughter was small for her gestation and they discovered that I had an incompetent cervix at when I was 27 weeks pregnant.  I have protein in my urine, and I have for a while.  Because of this, my body was mimicking preeclampsia. I was put on severe bedrest--had to quit my job I had just found and I received steroid shots to help strengthen our daughter's lungs because the MFM predicted that she would be here sooner than later.  Towards the end of my pregnancy, I went to the hospital twice a week for NSTs and BPPs.  Our little girl was always feisty and always passed with flying colors.  I looked very sick--puffy and swollen, headaches that were getting harder and harder to get rid of...and despite the blood pressure medicine that my OB kept upping, my blood pressure just kept going up and up.

I was induced on December 3rd.  It wasn't planned--I went in for a routine NST and my blood pressure was 141/116.  My vision was spotting every now and then and the headache I had that morning was a yucky one.  I was immediately admitted and then sent straight to Boston.  All my birth plans went out the window from that point on.  Everyone was so concerned with my blood pressure, they had forgotten about my cervix.  When I arrived in Boston, I was checked so that they could decide the best way to induce me.  I was 6.5 centimeters dilated.  I nearly jumped out of bed when the doctor told me I was more than half way through the dilation process.  They started me on pitocin and away we went.  I didn't feel any of my contractions until my water broke at 8 cm.  I had a cath in my back for an epidural if I felt I needed it (an in case I needed an emergency c-section), but I had not touched it until my water broke.  When I felt that first wave of pain, I knew that I needed to be as relaxed as possible and try to reserve as much as energy as I could.  The epidural failed though, and by the end, I had been given the same amount of medicine as a woman about to have a cesarean and I still felt everything.  The medicine effected my mind much more than it was effecting my body.  I didn't have the strength to push her out and she was too far down the birth canal to be taken surgically, so they put the vacuum to her head and told me to push at my next contraction.  As she came out, I just flattened into my bed and stared at the ceiling.  I had always imagined having her placed on my chest so we could have skin to skin.  I had imagined looking down at her and crying, marveling her beauty and perfection.  I had imagined her staying by my side.

What I saw on the ceiling, was different.  I swear to this day, I saw the girl I used to be looking down with this look on her face.  It was not wistful or joyed.  It was indifferent.  Lacking empathy.  My old life was over now--once and for all.  I was 24 years old.  I had done nothing that I wanted to do before settling down and having children.  And because of my own ignorance, this child--something that should have given me some purpose in my life--was here.  I have no true memories of those first moments after that.  Everything I know about that first day was from word of mouth.

My life as I knew it ended at 4:39 am on December 4th 2012.