Those 5 words

The day was pretty dreary for a July day in Colorado.  It was July 7th.  That day my life would completely take a 180 and change forever.  That afternoon I had a doctor’s appointment.  I was 22 weeks pregnant with my baby girl Sydney.  I finished up eating my Doritos at work (don’t judge) and was off to my appointment to get my blood pressure followed up on with my OB/GYN.  It was pouring rain.  As I was sitting in the waiting room, there were soon-to-be first time grandparents sitting behind.  Their daughters name was Allison.  How coincidental is that?  There is another Allison, in the same small doctor’s office, about 20 weeks pregnant with their first child.  A girl.

My name gets called.  I step on the scale.  SHOCKED.  I gained 15 pounds in the 2 weeks since I was there at my 20 week appointment. Panic starts to set in.  Blood pressure checked. The nurse just looked at me, I could see a little panic in her eyes as she said “let’s take that again.”  Not good.  She goes to get my doctor and I completely break down.  I know this cannot be good.  And so it begins, my fear that something would happen to this baby.  This baby I wished and hoped for for so long.  My daughter that we had big plans for.  The child we went to great lengths to conceive.

I called my Mom.  Texted my husband.  And headed to the hospital by myself.  I was put in a room by myself.  “Page us when you’re changed.”  I feel forgotten in this huge room, alone.  Apparently storms really do bring babies.  I am told they are short handed because the storm brought in so many moms.  So I sit, patiently, alone, trying to calm myself, because I am so afraid of what’s next.  What feels like an eternity later, I am starting to get hooked up to all kinds of machines, drips, lines, pee in this cup, pee again, catheter time.  Then I get an ultrasound.  I am excited, because I get to see Sydney again.  But I don’t.  Then I am told I have severe pre-eclampsia.  Seizure & stroke risk is high.  So they start me on magnesium.  They told me it would make me feel hungover and hot.  I welcomed the hot flash that came as it made my constant shaking stop.  I am not sure if I was shaking because I was cold, sick or more because I was scared.  Within a couple hours of being at the hospital, my husband and I were told I would be being sent to Denver.  I was too sick for them to handle me and if Sydney was born, their NICU could not handle her, so Denver would be the best place for the both of us.

I was finally picked up by the ambulance at 11:30pm and taken to Denver.  My parents met me there and Marc was not far behind.  Within 15 minutes of arriving, and 3 rounds of magnesium, I was being told the words that would change my world forever.  “She’s too little to survive.”

What?  She was my “perfect” embryo.  My “Petri” (as in dish) baby that would make it.  That would make me a mother.  She was my “tic-tac with a heartbeat.”  The baby that would do aerobics every time we had an ultrasound so that we could never get an accurate reading on her size.  That would make me laugh so hard that counting her heart beats was a challenge, between her bouncing all over and me hysterical in laughter.  My stinky butt that made me so sick and green the first 4 months of my pregnancy, the little girl that gave me the worst heartburn OF. MY. LIFE.  The girl my husband and I had made so many plans for.  The one we were going to buy a pink race car bed for.  We both had started to plan the memories we would make for ourselves with our little girl.  The baby that would finally complete our family.

To be told there is nothing you can do to save your child is something I never want to hear again.  To be told you have to let her go to save yourself, just seems so unnatural.  The moment I found out IVF had worked and I was finally pregnant, I loved that “Petri”, perfect embryo beyond words.  I would do ANYTHING.  The love I had for her was so strong and she was just a speck on a screen.  I couldn’t protect my baby.  I couldn’t save my baby.  I felt like a failure as a mother. I was told my “choice”.  There was no choice.  I either delivered her, she dies, I live.  Or we both die.

Sydney Morgan Ham – July 8, 2017.

We brought our baby girl home in an urn.  I should have been bringing her home next month, wrapped in a blanket, in my arms.  That’s what was supposed to happen.  I don’t find comfort in “God.”  I don’t find comfort in “things happen for a reason.”  Or “there are bigger plans for me.”  Why would “God” take my baby?  The one I wanted desperately.  That I went to great lengths to have?  What “reason” would this happen to someone?  And what could possible be “bigger” than being a Mother?

The guilt eats me alive daily, even though I know there is nothing I did wrong or could’ve done differently. It’s a club I never asked to join.  A club I wish didn’t exist.  A club I would never want my worst enemy to be a part of.  Moving “on” seems wrong, but I know I have to.

So much changed for me that day and I know someday I will get to hold my baby girl again.

I’ll love you forever, and forever more baby girl – Mom

If you would like to make your voice heard in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month I am still accepting guest posts of any kind to my blog for the month of October.
E-mail: cari@twentysixandfour.com