Onward Through the Fog

It’s the question I hear the most and have the hardest time answering.  “How are you?”  My baby died.  He was about to be born, and he died.  And we don’t know why.  At times I can think, “Okay, this is part of us now, part of our story.  It is who we are.  It is something Wes & I share that no one else can understand.”  But other times, the grief sneaks up on me when I’m least expecting it.  When I’m putting the kids in the car, when I can’t find clothes that fit, when I wake up thinking about him and just can’t stop, when I see people looking at me and wonder what they’re thinking.  At some of those times there’s a lump in my throat.  At others it hits like a train.  It’s like something is digging into my chest.  It has surprised me how circular grief is.  One minute I might feel like things are getting better, but then when it comes it’s like starting all over again.  How can emotional pain be so physically palpable?  My arms ache to hold him.  I think about all the times I complained about getting up with babies in the middle of the night.  I would wake up every night for the rest of my life if it meant Cullen was alive. 

It’s hard not to ask “what if?”  What if I had changed my appointment to that Monday as I had considered doing?  What if I had said yes when the doctor asked if I wanted to be induced?  What if Tuesday hadn’t been such a busy day?  Maybe he would be alive.  Or maybe he wouldn’t. 

Austin talks about him, and I love that.  He talks about missing him and wishing he were here, but he also sometimes talks about him as if he weren’t gone: “Cullen doesn’t know how to play with little Legos” or “I think Cullen would like this.”  The matter-of-fact-ness of an almost 5 year old is refreshing.  He doesn’t worry about what to say or if he’s saying the right thing.  He has a question, and he asks it.  When is Cullen’s birthday?  Where’s heaven?  Are there Legos in heaven?  He tells people we meet, “our baby died.”  I wish I could do that sometimes, but that’s kind of conversation-stopper.   And I don’t really want to be known as that weird lady that lost her baby. 

Our kids are a huge help in keeping us going.  We don’t have the option of shutting down or staying in bed all day.  They bring joy and laughter.  Their hugs and snuggles are better than any medicine or comfort.  And I appreciate them more.  The smiles, the “I love you’s.” Even the annoying noises and bickering are somehow not as bad when you realize the alternative is not having any of it. 

We know we will be okay.  We know a day will come that we can see more clearly and breathe without the weight of our loss feeling quite so heavy. And so we will move onward through the fog.

That Dreadful Wednesday

On that Wednesday morning I was awakened at 3:30am by a crying 2-year-old. After helping her get settled, I lay back in bed & realized I wasn't feeling Cullen move & didn't remember him having an active time the evening before, which he usually did. I thought he was probably sleeping, but prayed for even the tiniest movement to calm my fears. I never felt him move, but I was having contractions every 10 min for about an hour & 1/2.  We had a very busy day Tuesday, so I thought I probably just hadn't noticed him between work, kid's dr appt, practice, meetings, etc. Plus, I was thinking I would probably be going into labor soon, so I figured I was just more focused on my contractions than his movements. I finally fell back to sleep for a bit, but the next morning I still wasn't feeling any movement. I had my 38 week appt scheduled for 11:00 that day. I called the office & asked if I should wait until then or if I needed to come in earlier. They told me to come as soon as I could, so we called Wes's mom to come stay with the kids. I told Wes I thought I'd take my bag I had packed just in case (more bc of the contractions I'd been having than anything).  I was nervous, but still just had not even considered the possibility that he was gone. When we got to the doctor's office, they took us right back & started my ultrasound. She put the transducer on my belly & a very clear picture of his still heart appeared on the monitor. She moved it & came back to the same image. I said "there's no heartbeat, is there?" The tech stood up & said, "I'll get the doctor."  And so began the worst day of our lives. The doctor offered to let us go home & come back the next day, but we both just wanted to get this nightmare over with. So he walked us upstairs where they induced my labor. Cullen was born at 4:07 pm and weighed 5 lb 15 oz.  He looked like a combination of Austin and Kate.  He had Wes’s big toe and the Ruttmann little toe that curls under the one next to it.  Wes’s parents said he had the Peek nose.  He had long skinny fingers and a scratch on the side of his nose.  He looked perfect, as did his cord & placenta. The dr's best guess is that it happened quickly that night, given that there was no degradation of his skin or other changes.  There are many tests being done looking for answers which we may never get. Most of our families were able to be there & meet & hold Cullen after he was born. My doctor and nurse were both fantastic. We were able to hold Cullen as long as we wanted & see him anytime throughout the night. We were discharged the next morning & drove home empty-handed to deliver the news to our children. We've spent the last 3 weeks learning how to live our lives as we previously knew it, but now with a hole that will always be there.