When I was pregnant with Nate, we took a birthing class. The cheerful instructor talked about how painful labor would be, but how at the end of it, you get a baby. Except I knew that sometimes, you don't.
Five years ago today, my daughter Sylvie was born. Having tried nearly a year to get pregnant, we were overjoyed to be expecting our first child. Testing showed that she was a healthy baby girl. Then I started spotting. The doctors did more tests and could find nothing wrong. Then, at 20 weeks, my water broke. We went to the hospital and they told me it might reseal, but that if I developed an infection they could not save the baby. I can still remember the tears in the eyes of our kind nurse when she told me that I had a fever. The fever meant infection. I remember the moment when the doctors stopped talking about helping the baby and switched to talking about helping me. I still somehow thought we could just wait, but the doctors gave me two choices - induction or surgery - and neither one ended with my baby living.
We decided to induce, so that we could see and hold our baby. Whether from the cervidil used in induction or my emotional state, this labor was by far the most painful I experienced. They gave me a morphine drip, but towards the end I felt that it made no difference whatsoever. Six hours later, our baby girl was born - 20 weeks early. No crying, no breathing, and no heartbeat. Just silence. She looked perfect, just very tiny. We held her for several hours, not wanting to give her up. The hospital was considerate. They didn't rush us out of the room, but let us have the time we needed with out baby.
Dealing with this loss was the most difficult thing I have ever experienced. It was made even more so by the well-meaning platitudes of others. I heard "You can have another one" (obviously true in my case, but certainly not a guarantee at the time or a replacement for the one I already lost), "Sometimes it doesn't take the first time" (great, thanks), "At least you won't have to worry about a baby waking you up at night" (yeah, because that would be worse than my baby dying...), or my least favorite "Everything happens for a reason". You're telling me that there's a reason that my first baby was stillborn? That the world would somehow have been worse had she survived? Sorry, but I do not find that philosophy comforting, nor do I believe in a God who kills innocent babies. I find it more comforting to acknowledge that the world is random and unfair tragedies just happen.
But it was even worse when people pretended that nothing had happened. As if I had not been 5 months pregnant with a sizable belly and as if Sylvie had never existed. I know that such people probably just felt like they didn't know what to say (which is itself a perfectly acceptable thing to tell someone who's grieving) or that they just thought it might be too painful to bring it up (as if someone dealing with the loss of a child would somehow forget about it unless it was mentioned). I know that it can be uncomfortable to discuss such a tragic event, but here's the thing: grief is a lot harder to bear than the discomfort of discussing it.
However, other friends helped us immensely. We had to move almost immediately after getting home from the hospital, a task I found incredibly daunting under the circumstances. So one friend basically packed up my entire wardrobe and brought it over to our new place. Another friend had a huge fresh direct order with ready-made meals delivered to our new apartment, a life saver since I was completely unable to cook at the time. One friend from out of town made the considerable trip to our place and baked delicious food for us on several occasions. Another friend brought us homemade cupcakes and a beautiful handmade quilt that I have used since with both of my children. Countless others, some friends I had not spoken to in years, sent us flowers and cards with thoughtful messages. These acts of kindness carried us through this dark time.
I try to be open about my loss because I think it is important to acknowledge that such tragedies occur. No one should feel ashamed to discuss pregnancy loss. I think that keeping it secret would do a disservice to Sylvie, while being open about it might help end the taboo of discussing this topic.
We never figured out what caused my water to break. An infection or some kind of abrasion in the placenta was what the doctors told us. I still wonder if some action I took, walking too far in the hot sun or going swimming, caused Sylvie's death. We do know that nothing was wrong with her. So if my pregnancy had continued normally, I would now have a four-year-old girl. I still wonder what she would have looked like, if she would be brown-eyed and tan like her siblings or fair like her father. But if she did exist, Nate would almost certainly not have been born. I can hardly imagine such a big part of my life missing. Willa might technically still exist, but I wonder about something else. We had planned to try for a second right away, due to our history. So chances are, I would have had another child who would be maybe 2-years-old now. And if that child had been born, I would have trouble imagining my world without them. And not only would my life be completely different but so would the lives of anyone touched by Nate or Willa or Sylvie or my potential other second child. Their future children will or will not now be born. And who knows how they will change or would have changed the world?
I know that such musings have little use. I've always played the if/then game a bit more than is healthy. I feel so grateful to be blessed with two wonderful children who fill my life and the lives of those around them with joy. But I will always miss my first little girl. We love you, Sylvie.
Taken June 19, 2010