02-01-05 - 13:19
too beautiful for earth
After the babies were born and we held them, a priest came and baptised them. I inquired as to whether the dead should be baptised- that, I thought, was an atrocity in the eyes of the Catholic church. But the priest explained, that the ceremony was only for us, and that they were already baptised "by desire" in the bag of waters they lived in before their last moments. I didn't argue, it brought me comfort. We said prayers and the priest sang a sad little hymn, and we said goodbye.
After that. After that. It's so hard to know what really happened after that. I think we gave the babies back to the nurses to be placed in "the cooler". Then we were taken to a floor above us where moms and babies are. The postpartum unit. I was so glad to say goodbye to my nurse. She was grating. But maybe I just hated everything now because I was so sad, lonely, empty.
They put me in a room right next to the mother of new twins. But thankfully, the door was kept shut and we were very isolated. Ben stayed with me, despite our momentary thought that he could go home and be with our daughter. I slept. And cried. I took no more pain medicine because no more was offered to me. I could really have used it. I remembered thinking I wanted to be completely away from the emptiness I was feeling.
I ate well. I smiled and conversed with the nurses. But when it was just Ben and I we had to talk about plans- would we have a funeral? Would we bury them? If we did would we have to transport their bodies to Coos Bay so we could bury them in the family plot? Should we see them one last time? Oh how I wanted to see them one last time. Hold them, see their little noses and ears, and hands. But the cruel reality was that I wanted them alive, not dead, and that could never be. I needed to let go.
I slept from about 7pm until about 5am. Something I hadn't done since I got pregnant with my first child. When I woke up I was sick with grief. I cried silently next to my husband, who was sleeping with one small blanket in the icy cold hospital room. I got up and switched on the heat.
The day progressed. I had coffee, something I had been craving since I got pregnant but felt I shouldn't have. So I had it. It tasted foul. I took a shower. I cradled my deflated belly, like a balloon popped, it's joy and life was gone. I drenched myself with tears and tried to understand why any of this would happen. To anyone. Ever. And I stopped crying, because that's what has to happen. You can't cry forever. People die. Horrible things happen. Life can seem like a terrible, terrible torture when you look at it from some viewpoints. I just needed someone to shake the snowglobe again, and make it beautiful.
We were discharged home and signed a consent allowing the hospital to burn our babies. We drove home, looking forward to seeing our daughter but dreading being home. It felt awkward, it felt wrong.
The next few days were very hard. My milk came in, another sad reminder of a stupid and foolish body. Why stay pregnant with dead babies? Why produce milk when there is no one there to suckle? Cruel, cruel body. Our parents were there initially, but we both just wanted everyone to leave. Then once they left, we were lonely. We took a trip to the coast and played on the beach, and we did have fun. Our daughter was happy, and we tried to embrace her and remember that she was a wonderful reason to be happy and go on with life. It was difficult and gray and sad. And I mourned heavily.
A few days later when Ben was back at work, I went to the hospital and picked up the babies' ashes in a box. I brought my babies home in a box. In a box! It was absurd. But however absurd, this was my life.
