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Forever Goodbye

The New 'Normal'

By Rachel BPublished 6 years ago 7 min read
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I sit staring at the pale whitewashed wall, with a transparent plastic container holding pamphlets. I look down at the screen on my black iPhone 3. I see the red box with a number "5" hovering over the blue Facebook application button. I click the button and read my status from earlier: “What do you think we’re having, boy or girl? Today’s the day!” I scroll down the screen and read all the responses: “boy,” “girl,” “twins.” Everyone is excited to find out. I hear a familiar friendly voice call out “Rachel.” I get up and walk towards the slim, blonde nurse wearing blue scrubs. As I walk through the waiting room, I notice the usual: people talking, phones ringing, and the daily routines of everyone in the room. After all my vitals are checked, I’m placed in my room. It’s in the corner beside the doctor’s office, with a big gray door and the words “Exam Room 3” on a plaque right in the top middle of the door. I sit on the exam table; in my mind I’m going over all the questions I have been wanting to ask: "Should I feel this nauseous?" "Is my stomach growing enough?" "Is it weird that all I want to eat are lemons?" I can hear muffled conversation through the walls, then a gentle knock, knock on my door. My doctor walks in the room. She tells me to lie back on the table, and then I hear the plastic tube squeeze as I hold my shirt above my belly. I feel the cold slimy gel on my stomach, and then the pressure of the Doppler wand as it glides around my protruding stomach. Then I hear it, the sweetest sound, thump, thump and again thump, thump. My mind goes blank and I enjoy the sound of the little fluttering heartbeat. I forget about my questions and just feel the butterflies dancing in my stomach. My doctor then tells me it’s time. I walk down the wide hall, stepping on different colored carpet squares. Once I’m in the ultrasound room, my eyes try to adjust to the lack of light. I feel the cold chill down my spine, but none of it matters. I’m about to see my beautiful baby on the monitor. This time the slimy gel is warm and again I feel the pressure of the wand moving all around my belly. Suddenly, the technician looks at me with worried eyes and says, “There seems to be low fluid. I’ll have to talk to the doctor.” I’m placed back into my room, and I wait. My doctor rushes in and looks at me, then says, “You’re going to want your husband here.” She tells me a quick description of what is wrong, “Your baby has no kidneys. Your baby won’t be able to survive. I’ll make an appointment for you in Little Rock. They will be able to give you termination options.” All at once, I am unable to breathe. I’m paralyzed. Everything is silent, and her mouth is still moving, but I can’t hear anything she says. All I can hear is my heart beating faster. All I feel is my stomach twisted. All the butterflies were gone and replaced with an aching pain. The experience of losing my daughter and the days I survived, from finding out to saying goodbye, changed me as a wife, mother, and person.

Days, weeks, and months crept by. Every moment was a never-ending reminder that I didn’t have much time left. I try to memorize every roll, punch, and kick. 17 1/2 weeks later, I finally decide that I can no longer play the guessing game. I have been going to the doctors twice a week every week since the day I found out. Nothing changed. My child was never going to survive. I finally break down and tell my doctor that I couldn't mentally play this torture game. Every morning starts the same, "Is today the day I'm going to say goodbye?" So, on January 10, 2011, only 18 weeks after I first heard my daughter’s diagnosis, it was time for us to get in the car and start driving to the hospital. The roads were pitch black with only a few city lights in the distance. I try to distract myself and focus on the snowflakes speeding towards us as if we are in a tunnel. I glance down at the clock, and I see 4:38 AM in neon green numbers. We find a parking spot close to the door, and I grab the handle to open the door. My body moves through the motions, and I shut the door but do not hear the sound. My mind is screaming at me to get in the car and run, while my heart breaks with each step I take towards the red sign that reads admissions.

Once I’m checked in and walk into my room, the nurse begins all her questions. She stares at me with excited eyes, and then I break the news to her. “My baby will not survive; my baby will not come home.” Her eyes grew sad, and she was speechless. I stare at the black screen on the TV that’s mounted to the wall in front of my bed. My mind still can’t understand what is about to happen. I lie there silent and numb as the nurses attach the heart monitor, then there I hear the familiar and the most beautiful sound, thump, thump, over and over again. My heart shatters as I realize this will be the last day I hear her heartbeat. I spend the next few hours just staring at the monitor and trying to remember each heartbeat line. I slowly notice my family entering the room. Everyone is pacing, looking at one another and wondering the same question, “When?” My pain becomes unbearable. I feel it all over my abdomen and my back. The epidural has now worn off for the third time. I scream so loudly everyone can feel my pain, but I’m unsure if my screams are from the pain of labor or the pain of knowing I must say goodbye soon.

A nurse comes in and presses some buttons on the monitor next to me, but I’m hurting so badly that I can’t pay attention to what she is doing. Then later I realize I stopped hearing thump, thump; just the sounds of my screams filled the room. A nurse checked my dilation, she quickly calls for other nurses, and soon my room is filled with them. I hear “I can see a foot; it’s time.” I freeze. I hear “push,” but everything inside of me yells, “No, I’m not ready.” The nurse pushes against me, and then there in her arms is a beautiful baby girl, with the blackest hair and porcelain skin. I faintly hear the cries of my family as I hold my lifeless daughter. Tears roll down my face and onto her fair skin. Then my husband tells everyone to leave. He gently sits beside me and wraps his arms around me and our daughter and we cry into each other’s shoulders.

Eventually, everyone makes their way back into my room with their tear stained cheeks and eyes glistening from crying. All the family take turns holding her, kissing her, and telling her goodbye. One by one everyone leaves and then it’s time for my final goodbye. With tears rushing down my face, I kiss her forehead and try to remember every detail—the way her black hair shines under the light, her porcelain skin against the pretty light pink dress she wears, and the sweet smell that is only hers. That single moment took only a minute, but it feels as if it was an eternity, and yet as if it is never going to be long enough.

The next day, I left the hospital with nothing but a broken heart and maroon box carrying the only memories of my daughter I will ever have, a pink and white blanket, a foot print, hand prints, and a piece of her black hair. Each step feels as if it takes everything I have. I am weak and not just from labor, but because I lost a part of my heart. Once we are in the car we drive straight to the funeral home. At the age of 21, I now have to plan a funeral for my daughter. I look through countless pages of urns, coffins, programs, and everything else that is needed. I settle on a pink cube shaped urn, with an angel kneeling and then see where her name will be carved on the side. Next it is time to pick out a headstone; a solid gray stone that reads “Sleeping Angel” under the name Elizabeth Ann Marie.

Over the next week, I can’t get off the couch. My entire body feels heavy and empty at the same time. I can’t sleep and I just lie there, crying and thinking about what should have been. A week turns into weeks, then into months, and now into years. My daughter was stillborn seven years ago; my life and family have changed since then. I lost friends and gained new friends. I changed that day; not for the better and not for the worse, but I’m just different. You do not forget the loss of your child. The hole in your heart doesn’t go away. However, you learn to live with your new “normal.”

grief
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About the Creator

Rachel B

I am who I am. I can't change me. Believe me I have tried. I have had to learn to simply love who I am. Once I figured out how to do that, life changed.

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