I have been trying to remember that night in bits and pieces, but everytime I let myself think about it too much, I start to feel physically ill. Recently I was able to sit down and let myself remember things, not detailed, but more detailed that I had been willing to remember before. There is still so much--curling up in bed next to Noah and realizing the baby wasn't moving--that I can't think about in detail, because I feel light-headed, dizzy and rather faint (that seems so ridiculously melodramatic, but I promise you it is how I feel).
This is what came out when I just let myself writing, putting down whatever memory came next:
I remember that night. Sitting on the big orange rocker, tears rolling down my face—hoping HOPING *HOPING* that all was well, when I knew it was not. She was not moving. I put the heaviest book I could find (Harry Potter) on my stomach willing, begging her to kick it off, begging her to wake up from whatever sleep she was in. But she did not move.
I remember pushing, prodding my stomach. Picking up my large belly and letting it sort of drop back down, again willing her to awaken.
I remember getting in the car, already in shock, begging God that they would find the hearbeat and I’d be back home in minutes (but knowing it wouldn’t happen). I remember driving myself to the hospital (waking someone up to stay with the kids would be acknowledging what I already knew—that something was terribly, terribly wrong), my belly rubbing against the steering wheel. Again, no response from her.
I remember wishing I didn’t have to park in the garage.
I remember no heartbeat.
I remember them not showing me the ultrasound.
I remember them looking for such a long time—and I knew without them telling me.
I remember the Dr. hugging me, saying, “I’m so sorry.”
I remember crying then.
I remember thinking I was just crying because it's what she expected.
I remember wanting to SCREAM.
I remember consciously fighting that feeling down.
I remember wishing them all away from me so I could phone Chris, my parents, his parents, everyone in the world.
I remember my need to say it out loud over and over, “my baby’s dead, my baby’s dead, my baby’s dead”.
And then I remember never wanting to have to say it again.
I remember walking to my room, hoping no one would see me.
I remember waiting for Chris, for my doctor, for anyone who knew me.
I remember the nurse crying with us.
I remember wondering why I wasn't more upset.