November 2, 1995...I was released from the hospital. The Dr came in with a long list of papers to go over, my 'orders' for going home. He drilled me on the fact that I had had an emergency c-section and that even though my belly had been cut in the typical way, my uterus had not been. My uterus had been sliced right down the middle North to South and they considered this a 'criss-cross' section. I was to inform any Dr in my future of my criss-cross and they would know that meant that I was not allowed to endure contractions because it could rip. YES yes yes whatever, like I'm ever getting pregnant again I thought as he rambled on. I was going to have a nurse that would visit me several times a day to check my BP. Then it was time to leave. I got in the wheelchair with my sneeze pillow on my lap and holding a balloon that read It's A Girl! As soon as we entered the hallway I lost it. I couldn't help but thinking of how wrong this was. How I should be carrying my baby home with me. As we went through the lobby I watched as people looked at my balloon and how their faces changed from joy to sorrow after they looked into my eyes. They knew. They knew I was leaving the hospital with empty arms.
Rest In Hope is meant to be a place of peace. A place where those who have lost their baby can come and talk openly about their loss without judgement or ridicule. We are all the same here, we may be in a different place in our grief but we are all missing a part of our heart that went to Heaven with our children.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
A decision no parent should ever have to make
November 1,1995...I woke up in the hospital with an incredible peace. I couldn't explain it really. The hubby had come in to see me before going to the NICU. As he sat in the chair with his head down, I remember walking over to him and placing my hand on his shoulder and saying to him, "I think we'll have to make a decision today." What really strikes me about this was that I have hardly any memory of what happened the day before but somehow I just knew the time was coming for us to say good-bye. He went to the NICU and got a report from the Drs. It wasn't good. Bailey had been suffering through everything I had suffered through. Kidney failure, liver failure, high blood pressure, risk of stroke, risk of heart attack, and more. One other thing that to this day hurts to think about. The vent that was helping her to breathe was ripping her little lungs. The lungs were still too premature and could not handle the pressure of the machine. It was time. It was time to let the Drs take her off the machine and let her go. They gathered me up and took me to see her. We arranged for the chaplain at the hospital to baptize her and I held her hand as he did. The nurses dressed her in the cutest little handmade items. Although all of them were way too big, she still looked so precious. They took us to the 'Quiet Room'. A room where families could say good-bye to their child away from the rest of the NICU. We called my Dad to come from work and hubby's Mom came too. I asked my Mom to call a close friend of ours, a man, that could be there for my hubby. He came right over, no hesitation as to what he might see just got the call and came. I still love him dearly for that. I'm not sure how long we spent in the room, doesn't seem like it was long enough now. We took pictures as each person got to hold her and say good-bye. She would jump and take a breath when the flash went off and I remember asking the Dr why couldn't that be some kind of treatment for her. He looked at me with such a look. It was sadness and despair because he knew I was grasping for something to help my baby. A nurse came in the room and took my BP, it was well over 200 and she ordered me back to my room. I left there that moment being the last time I would see my daughter alive. My Mom held her and talked to her and rocked her until she passed.
November 2, 1995...I was released from the hospital. The Dr came in with a long list of papers to go over, my 'orders' for going home. He drilled me on the fact that I had had an emergency c-section and that even though my belly had been cut in the typical way, my uterus had not been. My uterus had been sliced right down the middle North to South and they considered this a 'criss-cross' section. I was to inform any Dr in my future of my criss-cross and they would know that meant that I was not allowed to endure contractions because it could rip. YES yes yes whatever, like I'm ever getting pregnant again I thought as he rambled on. I was going to have a nurse that would visit me several times a day to check my BP. Then it was time to leave. I got in the wheelchair with my sneeze pillow on my lap and holding a balloon that read It's A Girl! As soon as we entered the hallway I lost it. I couldn't help but thinking of how wrong this was. How I should be carrying my baby home with me. As we went through the lobby I watched as people looked at my balloon and how their faces changed from joy to sorrow after they looked into my eyes. They knew. They knew I was leaving the hospital with empty arms.
November 2, 1995...I was released from the hospital. The Dr came in with a long list of papers to go over, my 'orders' for going home. He drilled me on the fact that I had had an emergency c-section and that even though my belly had been cut in the typical way, my uterus had not been. My uterus had been sliced right down the middle North to South and they considered this a 'criss-cross' section. I was to inform any Dr in my future of my criss-cross and they would know that meant that I was not allowed to endure contractions because it could rip. YES yes yes whatever, like I'm ever getting pregnant again I thought as he rambled on. I was going to have a nurse that would visit me several times a day to check my BP. Then it was time to leave. I got in the wheelchair with my sneeze pillow on my lap and holding a balloon that read It's A Girl! As soon as we entered the hallway I lost it. I couldn't help but thinking of how wrong this was. How I should be carrying my baby home with me. As we went through the lobby I watched as people looked at my balloon and how their faces changed from joy to sorrow after they looked into my eyes. They knew. They knew I was leaving the hospital with empty arms.
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I am so sorry. Heartbreaking. I remember the exact moment when we went from treating Ellie and doing whatever we could to keep her with us, to giving her peace. It happened in an instant. A decision a parent should never have to make. I'm so sorry that you guys were forced into such a heartbreaking situation.
ReplyDeleteI'm sorry for you too Tiffany. That will probably be the least selfish thing I will ever do. I wanted her to have a miracle and start breathing on her own but at some point you just have to decide what's best for your child. For them, it's the best gift.
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