Good Night My Heart

           I’m sorry but we could not revive your daughter. We tried everything within our power but she has died. We are so sorry. Words that no parent ever wants to hear. Aren’t births supposed to be happy and joyous times? A time to celebrate a new life, an extension of you and more importantly, a part of your heart opened as never before.

           But what of a life not fully given? A birth and death juxtaposed into one event at once makes you a new parent but at the same time not in the physical sense. You hold your baby and count the fingers and toes which are all there along with a full head of hair and chubby cheeks. Eyes that don’t open to look up at your face and ears that will never hear your voice. Looking at your beautiful child with pride but your heart breaking and tears rolling down your cheeks. Forever a parent without a child.

           Knowing your child starts at the first sign of pregnancy. You read everything you can about the different stages and talk to anyone who has delivered before you. You think about names, imagine who they will most look like and gleefully meet each milestone with a smugness belying anything you ever felt before. You feel as if no one else has ever been pregnant and feeling the way you do. You see other pregnant women and smile as if saying “me too.” Many nights are spent worrying about well, everything. Suddenly the world is a very scary place and you spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out how to keep your little one safe.

           I found myself in this exact situation in the late 80’s living in the United Kingdom. I was pregnant for the fourth time and finally felt as if I would be successful in bringing a baby home from the hospital. My life consisted of bed rest and eating very healthy foods. I was determined to do everything my physician and midwife advised. After experiencing three previous losses I was sure this time would be perfect and we would be parents, not only in our hearts but physically for all the world to see.

Extra care was taken not only by myself but the physicians and staff members who were helping me towards my goal. Each person gave me every opportunity to ask questions and reassured me that all was well. Each visit was an emotional roller coaster ride with each one more daring and exciting than the one before. An uneventful 40 weeks went by and the labor pains started on my exact due date, 7 October 1990. My heart swelled with love for the little one about to join our family. My son or daughter was soon to be held by me and I could not wait to meet my baby. We arrived at the hospital in Leeds and I was progressing as expected for a first-time mother.

Through the pain I had a sense of something being not quite right. The feeling that something was wrong was so intense I actually told one of the midwives the baby was in danger. She assured me nothing was farther from the truth and it was normal for women in labor to have feelings of fear and loss of control. I tried to keep my mind on meeting my child soon and put away any negatively intrusive thoughts I had. It seemed like only minutes between starting labor and being rushed in to the OR for an emergency caesarean. My last thought was of my baby in an abstract sort of way. The unsettled feeling I had was still present in my thoughts and all I could do to calm myself was to pray that my feelings were wrong.

There she is! My daughter looking so much like me, my arms were finally full. A yellow light surrounded us warm and safe. My heart was bursting with love and I could finally say hello to my baby. But wait! Wait! Where am I going? Where is my little Alexandra? The light is gone and all I can feel is cold and the murmuring of voices. Where is my baby? I’m sorry we could not revive your daughter. Twice I am told this but it makes no sense, surely, I am dreaming this. I needed to see my daughters eyes looking back at me.

But it is not a dream. My daughter did not survive the delivery and neither did I. For five minutes my heart stopped and while the physicians fought for my life I was with my child. For some reason I was brought back into this world but had to leave my daughter behind. I had to leave my daughter behind. What kind of mother did that make me? I didn’t want to be alive if she wasn’t. I needed to be with her always.

So, I said goodbye to my daughter before being able to say hello. I carried her for nine months and memorized her movements and hiccups. I talked to her, sang to her and told her stories. I was going to leave the hospital again without being able to carry my child. Never before has goodbye meant something as final and irrevocable as this. Goodbye should just be a way to end a conversation or a visit happy in the knowledge that you will see the person again. Goodbye shouldn’t be so permanent. It shouldn’t be an abrupt ending to a life not given a chance to grow. Saying goodbye to a child forever is not supposed to happen to parents.

I will forever have a hole in my heart that now belongs to my daughter. A hole that will never be filled in a way to make me the person I was before her. My heart cannot survive another goodbye. I will not say goodbye to you Alexandra but good night my dear child. I have seen the warm light with you in my arms and will yearn for the day we can be together again.