On Losing a Baby

By Tracey

We were so excited that morning. After a miscarriage at seven weeks, we were quickly pregnant again, and the first two sonograms confirmed a steady heartbeat. I was starting to tentatively wear maternity clothes, mostly because I just wanted to, to prove to myself that I was really pregnant.

It was the 14-week mark, and we were heading to get the amnio. My mother came along, too, just so she could see a sonogram for the first time. When my older sister had her two children, sonograms didn't exist. I remember the medical building was all shiny blue glass, and reflected off a clear, blue sky, on a cold winter day. I was filled with hope and excitement and so many dreams for my first baby.

When the technician looked at the baby on the sonogram, I should have known something was wrong, but I was too caught up in my excitement to recognize the signs. She didn't point out the body parts to me, or tell me whether it was a girl or boy (I was dying to know). She just abruptly left the room and said the doctor would come in shortly.

A doctor who I had never met before walked into the room, took a look at the sono, and then broke the news.

"Your baby has very serious defects and cannot possibly survive. It will probably die within a few days. I'm so sorry."

I screamed. I'm not sure exactly what I did next, but I remember screaming, and the doctor, my mother and Fred ushering me into a small office and shutting the door. For my privacy, and probably to protect other pregnant women there from me, the embodiment of their deepest fears.

I remember feeling embarrassed that my mother was there. I wanted to show off my triumphant pregnancy, and instead I had to endure her efforts to comfort me, when I wanted no comfort.

At my obstetrician's office a day later, she told me I was too far along in the pregnancy to have a D&C and that I'd have to go through labor and delivery. In a way, I was glad. If I had to go through labor, that meant this was a real baby, and no one would be able to dismiss or minimize the death of my child.

The morning we went to the hospital, they gave me a valium to calm me before the pitocin to start the labor. It made the entire experience surreal, and I remember laughing and making jokes while Fred and I waited for the pitocin to start working.

Fred, meanwhile, was breaking down. He was suddenly seized by awful pains and spent most of the morning doubled over in agony. I knew it was a reaction to what was happening, but I remember hating him for it, and wishing he would have been able to be strong for me. But he was losing his baby, too, and the sadness had no outlet for him but physical pain.

There was a little crib in the room and I do remember Fred promising me that next time, we'd have a healthy, pink baby to wonder over in that crib, and pick up and hold through the night.

A couple hours later, my water broke and my doctor came in and delivered my baby. I felt a wrenching pain, I pushed and the baby easily slid out. It was over. I knew from books on loss that it was important that I see the baby, or I would run the risk of forever imagining that she looked like something too scary to see.

Still, the nurse didn't want to show the baby to me, but I insisted. Wrapped in a hospital blanket, she put her in front of me for just a few seconds. I remember looking at her perfect little nose and soft skin. Later I learned she was horribly deformed below the waist, but the hazy picture of her I keep in my head is of a perfect, sweet face.

I should have held her. I wish I would have held her. But they whisked her away so fast and I didn't have the strength or maybe the courage to do it. And I should have had them take a picture of her to keep. They offered to. But something held me back.

I did insist that we have her cremated, and a local Rabbi gave me some readings so that we could have a ceremony to help us grieve. The cremains came in a small, rectangular white plastic box, marked "Baby S" that Fred still keeps in his dresser drawer. Despite how small she was, there were bits of bone remaining in the ash, and we buried her in the backyard, in the hole we dug for a cherry tree to plant in her memory.

I was numb for a month, and started hating myself, wondering who the hell did I think I was that I could actually be a mother? I felt like I didn't deserve it. And I hated all the pregnant women I saw or read about. When I held a friend's newborn baby girl, I had the urge to throw her from the terrace. I couldn't stand the joy she was bringing someone else and it only magnified my misery.

I gave birth to my twin girls about 18 months later, and take a picture of them every year on their birthday in front of that cherry tree. When we bought the tree, the nursery said it would never bear fruit because you needed two trees to pollinate each other.

But each spring, the white flowers come, and then the shiny green fruit, which barely has time to ripen before the birds and squirrels pick the tree clean.

Gone too soon, like the baby I would never hold. But sweet and beautiful and miraculous, like my living children, who dance and sing and fling stuffed animals into its branches , filled with a childish joy which now fills me up and helps me bear the loss of Tessa, my firstborn.

Tracey is a "Work It" writer. Read more about her.