The first—and last—day...
Ironically, the same giddy euphoria persisted, as if I’d
given birth to a living baby, making me eager to announce the news that I’d
delivered a beautiful girl. Phoning my friend Tammy, I said a quick hello then
blurted out, “I had a baby girl, but she didn’t survive.” So blunt; so
matter-of-fact, almost as though someone else besides me spoke.
Silence
greeted my harsh announcement as she tried to disseminate the
information and search for something to say, some appropriate response.
Finally, she simply, gently asked how I was doing. “Fine,” I offered. “I’m
doing very well.” (How could she believe that?)
Tammy
offered quick condolences, and I sensed her discomfort. She didn’t know what to
say. The remainder of the conversation was polite, friendly and short; we both went
through the phone-etiquette motions. I felt
talkative, in need of company; Tammy remained reserved. Her almost palpable discomfort
leaked through the phone line. I’d abruptly invaded her secure family sphere
and invited a watershed of undesirable emotions.
After
hanging up, I decided against calling anyone else. Who’s going to be willing, or even able to appreciate my pain and desperate
need to share this bittersweet joy? My pastor did call and listen patiently
to my endless, rattling diatribe, and offered kind words, emotional support and
sincere gratification that I’d survived the ordeal. He promised to visit before
my release. My mother also phoned to inquire about my condition, both
physically and emotionally. Similarly, I sensed her discomfort and doubts
concerning how to respond to me or my loss.
True, I
lacked the opportunity to live with Victoria and know her as a unique person,
to enjoy that mother-daughter relationship. Nevertheless, her life was real.
Her sudden death was real. Her brief life gave me joyful, life-alerting baby
kicks, uterine contortions, and in-utero hiccups; Chris and I had dared to
conjure up hopes and dreams for her.
Her death
wrenched all that from us. It was more than a terrible loss. It was a gross
shattering of dreams that abruptly left me with an empty womb and both of us
with empty arms. I desperately needed to share that with someone; and none of my friends either sensed my need or seemed
willing to listen.
At least I
had a compassionate nurse who was experienced in the area of neonatal loss and
grief counseling—such as it was in 1993—and she requested to spend the entire
day with me. Yet sometime after she brought Victoria to me, I was jolted when
she asked if I had a preference in mortuaries in town: would I prefer she call
them, or would I make the contact?
My eyes
widened as I struggled to comprehend her question. “No. I…I…I didn’t know
that…that was my responsibility,” I stammered, trying to control my shock and
maintain composure. I suddenly felt sick. “I just…assumed…the hospital would take care of that sort of thing,” I
mumbled. Victoria was so premature, so
little. Do they really expect me to make the arrangements with an undertaker?
Doesn’t the hospital morgue take care of that?
“Twenty weeks is considered to
be the gestational age of viability. Victoria was twenty-one-and-a-half weeks;
she just made the cutoff,” she explained, observing me apologetically. “The
hospital prefers that it be taken care of as soon as possible. Should I make
the call for you?”
My brain
wouldn’t engage. Dumb and mute, I couldn’t speak. I only sat and blankly stared
at her.
“I’ll go
ahead and call the mortician in town,” she offered. They are very good at
handling these things. He’ll call you sometime today then come in and discuss
the arrangements with you—cremation or burial, or other desires you might
have.”
“Okay,” I
murmured. “Thank you. I would appreciate it if you did make the call.”
With the
unpleasant tasks taken care of, she set about providing me with emotional
support and infant death booklets to read, and patiently abided with me as I
talked, questioned—groped—for comfort
and answers. She tenderly washed my exhausted, wasted body and nursed my soul.
When her shift ended that evening, I felt as much loss of her emotional
presence as her physical closeness.
Before she
left I savored one last opportunity to plant more kisses on Victoria’s forehead,
and to utter a final goodbye to my precious little girl. It was time. Without
her own breath of life, her brand new, delicate appearance was beginning to
wane outside the nourishing confines of my womb. In death, her tiny body was already
beginning to wither.
Victoria’s dead. She’s not going to miraculously awaken in my arms, no matter how firmly
or hopefully I hold her. The hourglass had emptied and the time had finally
arrived to give up her physical body; her spiritual body had already ascended
to loving arms in heaven. He held and
caressed her now; I’d have to wait to embrace her again. Someday I would go to
her, but she would not return to me.
Ring the bell for the nurse and get it over
with!
“Are you ready?” she asked upon
entering my room.
I wanted to
scream: Ready!? How can I ever be ready!?
Instead, I gave the nurse a slow, affirmative nod. Then almost as quickly
as she had come, she was gone. With my baby. Forever.
Empty, limp
arms flopped onto my lap. My heart felt as vacant as the baby blanket folded
neatly on my bedside table. That blanket, two blurry Polaroid pictures of me
holding her, tiny footprints pressed onto a pink card, and the ultrasound pictures
taken two months before were all that was left to remind me of her—to prove she existed.
“Oh, most
merciful God…where do I go from here?”
___________________________________________
Although later in this story I will
get to a detailed discussion and reminiscing of appropriate,
not-so-appropriate, and downright thoughtless, careless words that were spoken
to me about my loss, I want to ask you: How would you respond to someone who has suffered the loss of a baby, either
to miscarriage, neonatal death, prenatal death, or in infancy?
If someone has never suffered this
kind of loss, they have absolutely no idea what you’re going, have gone through,
or may continue to go through in the future. And that includes the well-meaning
medical staff trying to help you through it, or, as you will learn later in my
story, trying to rush you through it. They may show compassion, they might know
all the right words to say, but they will not
be able to feel the depth of your anguish – the loneliness, the disorientation,
the despair.
Think carefully about the question.
What would you want someone to say to you?
Well-meaning
Christians are often guilty of trying to attach problem-solving, pain-vanquishing
Scripture to every problem. Be careful. These words can sound pious and
disingenuous, and have a negative effect on the receiver. Remember, weep with
someone who weeps, be s-l-o-w to speak. And be a most excellent listener!
On a side note—happy, I might
add—today, February 25, I’m celebrating my birthday! In two days, my youngest—and
he and his birth are the miraculous, happy
ending second part to this story—will celebrate his 18th
birthday. At 18, I think he’s far more jubilant than I to be celebrating a
birthday!
But April 13 of this year will be
the 20th anniversary of Victoria’s birth and death. And I am finally
doing something I should have done many years ago but probably couldn’t, for a
variety of reasons: I’m taking all of the sympathy cards, the Polaroids, the card
bearing her footprints, the ultrasound pictures and the baby blanket, and
securing them in a photo album dedicated to her. And that album will be going
on my shelf next to the other albums celebrating important events in my and my
family’s life. She’s as much a part of that as are my other two children.
 |
| Victoria Lee Owan; February 18, 1993 20 years and 1 week ago today |
And one more note: If any of you are
experiencing the pain of loss, or have personal questions, or prayer requests
you do not feel comfortable posting for all the world to read, please feel free
to email me at andreaarthurowan@gmail.com. I’d be happy to communicate with you that
way. And if you’re struggling in a high-risk pregnancy—and are bed-ridden,
scared, or feel like you’re at the end-of-your-rope mentally, I’ve walked that
path too. When I lived in California, I was involved with a group offering
support to pregnant women confined to bed. Having spent 3 months of my last
pregnancy in this position, I’m all too aware of how difficult it can
be—physically AND emotionally.
_______________________________________
NEXT WEEK: Chris
returns, realization of a prayer miraculously answered, and missing a chance to
say goodbye, together…
_______________________________________
Thanks for joining me.
Until next week!
Blessings,
Andrea
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