Here we were again. Crying in a silent ultrasound room.
The tech gave us a few minutes and then brought us to an exam room to speak with my MFM. Again, we are given a few minutes.
He comes in with the ARPN, and he expresses his condolences, and then goes over the report and the labs I had drawn last week. He said there was nothing else we could have added or increased really. We were already doing it all. He doesn’t know what happened, but suggested that if it was CHI or similar issue, we should use a surrogate next time. He says he wants us to meet with the OB now and discuss our next steps.
We are ushered down a back stairway and down a hallway to the OB exam room. Again we wait and cry.
The OB comes in and discusses delivery and that I can’t go in until 7pm because they want the heparin out of my system as much as possible. He says he will see us later in the night or early next morning.
We leave and go home, but it’s early afternoon, and we have no idea what to do with ourselves. I realize we haven’t decided on a name. We don’t even know for sure boy or girl yet. So we sit down and look at boy names.
Trying to decide on the name for your child after they’ve died is not something anyone should have to do.
I didn’t come across a name and think, oh how will that go teaching him to write it? Or is there a way bullies could use this name to make fun? I didn’t sit there and think about it being announced at school award ceremonies, or on the basketball court.
I thought about how I would write the name on a death certificate, on the papers at the mortuary, how the name would look on an urn. How it would look tattooed on my skin in his memory.
My husband suggested a few, and we decided on the two we liked paired. I picked up the list of girl names we had been working on, and I said which pairing I liked best. He agreed.
We had a name for our baby, but oh how it hurts we couldn’t have named him while he was alive.
After showering, packing, and what felt like a century of sitting and waiting, it was finally time to go to the hospital.
We checked in and were asked to wait while they got our room ready. A nurse pushed a pregnant woman in a wheelchair up to the desk to check in. The woman snapped at the receptionist a couple times, and I started to cry. How is this fair?
Once in our room, it was a lot of the same steps as last time, but having to explain that I’ve been through this before and what happened with Ava too.
They required another ultrasound to confirm before they could start the cytotec. It took several hours to get an IV line in because we had to have the procedure team do it with their sono machine to find a good vein. More waiting until we went through another ultrasound to tell us what we already knew. This time by a very pregnant tech.
It was 11pm by the time I had my first dose to get things started. I decided since the last time the cramps from cytotec were so painful and the fact that I kept vommitting from the pain, I should just go straight to the epidural. But my labs came back too high for clotting factor so they kept waiting and running it again. I finally decided I was managing with the IV meds so why bother continuing to get blood drawn and such. I told the nurse to cancel the epidural, but she came back in a while later and said my OB was insisting on the epidural in case I needed to have a D&C later. So I obliged.
My labs finally came back within range and the epidural was placed just in time. I was barely starting to go numb when the doctor checked and baby was on his way.
Ian Carter was born at 8:28am
He was so tiny. 9 grams. 9.
With covid, I knew NILMDTS would not be an option for pictures, so I did my best. The bereavement nurse stopped by later and took pictures of the 3 of us on my phone as well. It’s not much, but it’s something.
We held him, took turns crying, cried together, and just sat with him for the rest of the morning.
And just as quickly as he came into our lives, we had to say goodbye.
We loved you oh so much in the 15 weeks we had you, and we will love you forever, Ian Carter.