When I held my still baby in my arms I heard a loud crack as my world shattered, followed by silence. I could not hear or see anything going on around me, it was as if I was trapped inside my head, drowning in my own thoughts for months. When Ava died the world did not stop, people continued to live their lives just as they had the day before, but in my heart time stood still. The world kept moving around me and I often felt like I was watching everyone on a carousel going round-and-round but I just couldn’t catch up, I couldn’t muster the strength to jump on. Time stood still for me and every day was 26+4. The minutes, hours, days, weeks, and months that followed were filled with so much emotion it is too overwhelming to try to summarize it in a single blog post. Instead, I’ve decided to write about my experiences one topic at a time in an effort to sort through my grief and to help you understand where I’ve been for almost four months. Today I’d like to start from the beginning.

Twenty-Six and Four: In My Head

Gentle rays of light from the rising sun flowed through the windows behind my bed and into my room. I opened my eyes slowly and looked straight ahead. Where am I? I wondered. I looked down and saw the crisp, white hospital sheets laying on top of me, then looked up to see the clock. I remembered that clock. I stared at it every morning as I went through this exact same routine every time I woke up. I’m in the hospital, I said to myself, but I don’t feel sick. I shifted my eyes to the left and saw Travis sound asleep, then I looked to the right, over to the whiteboard, just as I had every other morning. There, the writing was literally on the wall. Jellybean’s gestational age was still written out: 26+4, the goal of the day remained, “stay pregnant.” For a fleeting moment I thought that maybe I was still pregnant, maybe I just had the world’s most horrific nightmare, but then I tried to move and the pain came crashing in to assure me that no, this had really happened. The events of the previous day flooded into my brain. I saw the c-section, and I saw her, she wasn’t Jellybean anymore, she was Ava Scarlet and then she died and then I was bleeding and then….the punches kept coming as I wrapped my head around the fact that all of it was real. I told myself to keep breathing as I lay still and silent, weeping in my bed.

Eventually, Travis woke up and my new nurse came in to introduce herself and the day got rolling. Ava was still in the room with us and I kept her by my side for most of the day. If one of us wasn’t holding her then she was laying in my bed next to me, snuggled beneath her blankets. The doctors came in to remove my surgical dressing and inspect the site. They pulled the sticky bandage off and I got my first glimpse of the 10-inch long line of staples resting just below my hips. I hadn’t even thought about the incision and I was so relieved when I saw that it was low and small, though very bruised. No wonder my hip bones were sore. I was given permission to start trying to move.

The first step was getting me to the bathroom. The toilet was probably about 15 feet from my bed but it might as well have been 15 miles for how much of a process this simple task was. My urinary catheter was removed and I was able to raise the head of the bed until I was in a sitting position. Travis and my nurse helped me slowly lower my feet to the ground and I sat on the side of the bed for a few minutes before I stood up. We paused for a moment before I told them I was ready and we walked to the bathroom together, each of them holding an arm as if we were in some strange horizontal conga line. They took off the mesh granny panties for me and sat me on the toilet. At this point, I had lost all illusions of modesty or privacy and we all sat together in the bathroom patiently waiting for me to pee. I had no idea it would be so difficult. It was like I had to learn how to control my muscles all over again which was hard enough, but the added pressure of having two people hovering over me waiting for me to go was nerve wracking. I imagine this is what it’s like for kids when they’re potty training, “no wonder most kids have to be bribed to sit on to the potty,” I thought. Simply put, it sucked! Multiple times I would announce that it was going to happen just before my muscles would spasm and I’d have to start all over. My nurse turned on the faucet to try to help then suggested I get back in bed and try again later. I refused. I kept telling her I could do it. I imagined that she had somewhere else to be or was getting annoyed by my failure which infuriated me. I almost screamed at her to just let me go to the fucking bathroom but instead I smiled for fear I would be labeled a bitchy patient, and instead I tried to focus on the task at hand. I channeled my rage and finally peed. I finally had a victory. I let my nurse replace my glorious hospital issued granny panties and adult diaper before they escorted me back to bed.

I was tired and sore but I didn’t want to lie down. My chest felt tight after laying on my back for over 24 hours and I couldn’t take a deep breath. It was even worse when I was on my back so I stayed upright. I tried to cough to help expand my lungs but it was excruciatingly painful and even if I could ignore the pain I didn’t have the abdominal strength to even muster up a cough. I felt like a princess propped up with pillows letting out tiny little coughs every few minutes. Eventually, I would just grab a pillow to brace myself and try to cough through the pain. I figured breathing was more important than comfort and other than the coughing my pain was very manageable. I refused all narcotics and insisted my nurse just bring me ibuprofen on a schedule. I didn’t want to be drugged out of my mind again and I didn’t want to vomit anymore.

I was feeling strong and brave. I was determined to show these nurses, and myself, that I could survive this. I wasn’t going to loathe in self-pity. I was going to put on my big-girl panties (or my granny panties) and move on. I ate a big breakfast and even took a shower and got dressed in my own clothes. I was brave. I was strong. I was powerful. Then I saw her laying in my bed, and I was heartbroken. But almost immediately the visitors and doctors and nurses and chaplains and psychologists starting coming, and just like that life was supposed to keep moving forward. My son would arrive and I couldn’t just stop being his mom because I was sad so I put on a brave face. I smiled at people, and nodded when they spoke, and pretended to understand and care about what they were saying but for months I couldn’t actually hear any of it over the chaos in my head. Inside my head, it was 26+4 and Ava had just died all over again and I was sobbing.