Day 3
It’s been three months since your day 3.
Day three started early early in the morning, before I even went to sleep. Your meds had taken all the life out of you. I hadn’t realized the good tone you were born with until it was gone. Your first night, you had slept on us, clinging to us as you rose and fell on our chests. As I went to bed past midnight on your second night, you were so limp I was scared that if I jerked in my sleep, your neck might jerk too much too.
Around 1:30am on your third day, I took you down the creaky stairs. The couch sprung to life as your grandparents grabbed for their glasses and Aunt Carrie smoothed her bedhead. They looked surprised, silently pleading that I wasn’t coming down to tell them you had finally stopped breathing.
I instead told them I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t stay awake any longer. It was now Monday morning and I hadn’t slept more than a few hours since the previous Wednesday night. I handed you to Grandma Bubbles and I was afraid. Afraid you would die down here without me. You were in me, on me or next to me for the past 262 days but I could no longer physically cope. Sharing you was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do, but oh the reward.
That night, your Grandma Bubbles, Grandpa Tractor and Aunt Carrie switched off holding you while me and daddy got some “rest” upstairs. Looking back, I realized that this was one of the only times they got to hold you, even though they were so present with us, I was usually doing the holding. How precious those hours must have been.
When I woke to sunshine a few hours later, I tiptoed past your sisters asleep on our floor and creaked back down the stairs to find you alive. They even said you had been making noises – “talking” to them. I smiled, but knew the grunts you were making were grunts that meant you were struggling to breathe. Dr. Julia had warned to listen for these sounds and give you morphine to make you comfortable. So we fed you through your little tube and gave you more morphine and you slipped back into your cycles of yellow and purple breathing.
That day was Aunt Lauren’s birthday.
She was one of the first to come and visit you, bringing your boy cousins who bravely held you and wondered at your tiny everything.
Around 1:30am on your third day, I took you down the creaky stairs. The couch sprung to life as your grandparents grabbed for their glasses and Aunt Carrie smoothed her bedhead. They looked surprised, silently pleading that I wasn’t coming down to tell them you had finally stopped breathing.
I instead told them I couldn’t do it – I couldn’t stay awake any longer. It was now Monday morning and I hadn’t slept more than a few hours since the previous Wednesday night. I handed you to Grandma Bubbles and I was afraid. Afraid you would die down here without me. You were in me, on me or next to me for the past 262 days but I could no longer physically cope. Sharing you was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do, but oh the reward.
That night, your Grandma Bubbles, Grandpa Tractor and Aunt Carrie switched off holding you while me and daddy got some “rest” upstairs. Looking back, I realized that this was one of the only times they got to hold you, even though they were so present with us, I was usually doing the holding. How precious those hours must have been.
When I woke to sunshine a few hours later, I tiptoed past your sisters asleep on our floor and creaked back down the stairs to find you alive. They even said you had been making noises – “talking” to them. I smiled, but knew the grunts you were making were grunts that meant you were struggling to breathe. Dr. Julia had warned to listen for these sounds and give you morphine to make you comfortable. So we fed you through your little tube and gave you more morphine and you slipped back into your cycles of yellow and purple breathing.
That day was Aunt Lauren’s birthday.
She was one of the first to come and visit you, bringing your boy cousins who bravely held you and wondered at your tiny everything.
You started to turn purple when Aunt Lauren was holding you and she looked up at me in fear. She didn’t want to be the one. I learned to recognize this look. It meant “please take her so she doesn’t die in MY arms.”
So I would take you and hold you in the crook of my arm or under my chin and wait for your color to change. Daddy would count and raise the orange stethoscope and the room would quiet as everyone held their breath, listening for yours. More aunts and uncles and cousins came to meet you.
I am blown away by your siblings.
They have rallied, just like you did so many times, and they talk freely and cheerfully of you and your soft hair. Judah sings "Hallelujah Even Here" with great gusto every time he's in the bathroom. They are happy, but when I watch them with other people's little babies, I know they would have loved to love you when you started to smile, when you took your first steps, when you said their names for the first time. They watch out for the babies, follow them around, pull them in the wagon. There is a hole here, in our family, a hole that will not be filled. We miss you, baby girl.
So I would take you and hold you in the crook of my arm or under my chin and wait for your color to change. Daddy would count and raise the orange stethoscope and the room would quiet as everyone held their breath, listening for yours. More aunts and uncles and cousins came to meet you.
Whenever someone new walked in the door, we would sigh in relief that they had made it in time. But if you were purple breathing when they walked in, I didn’t hand you over. They had to wait and see if you would recover. And you did. Every single time, I thought, “Oh, no, what if she dies and they were standing right here, and never got to hold her?” But that didn’t happen. When I heard my grandma was coming, I prayed for you to live long enough because she needed to meet you.
My Grandma’s first baby died on day 3.
In December 2012, I wrote about my Aunt Donna.
Read Donna's story here
When my Grandma was only 20 years old, she watched her firstborn die in an incubator, never holding her. She needed to hold you.
As my grandma was driving to Corvallis, you stopped breathing again. Please, please, I begged.
The door opened and your sudden faltering gasp broke me. Your great-grandma sat down on our couch and I handed you to her and the tears didn’t stop for a while. My mom, grandma and I put our three heads together over you and cried as my grandma immediately started talking to you.
“Would you tell Donna that I am sorry? I’m sorry I never held her.”
My grandma took off her N95, uncovering her face I had not seen in a year, thanks to Covid. She stayed for hours, with people coming in and out, holding you as long as possible. You did so good when she was here, you were so strong. Grandma sat in my glider and rocked you and wondered at your dark hair. My mom later reminded me that Donna’s hair had been similar to yours. I felt transported back 65 years, back to when Grandma’s hair was blonde, face unwrinkled, newly a mother…a mother so helpless to help her baby. If Donna were born today, her gastroschisis would have been easily spotted on an ultrasound, and Donna probably would have been delivered by C-section and whisked off to a special surgeon and NICU. The survival rate NOW for this birth defect is 90%.
I wonder how different life will look for babies like Hallelujah in 2086 when I will be giving wrinkly kisses to my great-grandbabies.
The hospice counselor came, bringing molds for the kids to make impressions of your hands and feet. Alicia held you as they also made a plaster casting of your little foot, toes splayed out.
We watched Mighty Ducks on Disney+ after dinner. Your sisters never strayed far from you. Especially Cayden was always stroking your cheeks and wrapping your fingers around hers. We watched the video of "Hallelujah Even Here" over and over again. I am still blown away by how well our church family loved us through this time.
Your daddy taught Grandma and Grandpa Chicky how to feed you through your feeding tube in preparation for the night. Grandma and Grandpa Bubbles and Carrie went out to sleep in the motorhome and I handed you off to my mom for the night. I finally slept well that night.
Three months ago, we were already grieving. And we still are. This month, your sisters finally went back to school, we celebrated Mother's Day, we played a lot of T-ball/baseball/softball and I finished planting your garden.
In December 2012, I wrote about my Aunt Donna.
Read Donna's story here
When my Grandma was only 20 years old, she watched her firstborn die in an incubator, never holding her. She needed to hold you.
As my grandma was driving to Corvallis, you stopped breathing again. Please, please, I begged.
The door opened and your sudden faltering gasp broke me. Your great-grandma sat down on our couch and I handed you to her and the tears didn’t stop for a while. My mom, grandma and I put our three heads together over you and cried as my grandma immediately started talking to you.
“Would you tell Donna that I am sorry? I’m sorry I never held her.”
My grandma took off her N95, uncovering her face I had not seen in a year, thanks to Covid. She stayed for hours, with people coming in and out, holding you as long as possible. You did so good when she was here, you were so strong. Grandma sat in my glider and rocked you and wondered at your dark hair. My mom later reminded me that Donna’s hair had been similar to yours. I felt transported back 65 years, back to when Grandma’s hair was blonde, face unwrinkled, newly a mother…a mother so helpless to help her baby. If Donna were born today, her gastroschisis would have been easily spotted on an ultrasound, and Donna probably would have been delivered by C-section and whisked off to a special surgeon and NICU. The survival rate NOW for this birth defect is 90%.
I wonder how different life will look for babies like Hallelujah in 2086 when I will be giving wrinkly kisses to my great-grandbabies.
The hospice counselor came, bringing molds for the kids to make impressions of your hands and feet. Alicia held you as they also made a plaster casting of your little foot, toes splayed out.
We watched Mighty Ducks on Disney+ after dinner. Your sisters never strayed far from you. Especially Cayden was always stroking your cheeks and wrapping your fingers around hers. We watched the video of "Hallelujah Even Here" over and over again. I am still blown away by how well our church family loved us through this time.
Your daddy taught Grandma and Grandpa Chicky how to feed you through your feeding tube in preparation for the night. Grandma and Grandpa Bubbles and Carrie went out to sleep in the motorhome and I handed you off to my mom for the night. I finally slept well that night.
Three months ago, we were already grieving. And we still are. This month, your sisters finally went back to school, we celebrated Mother's Day, we played a lot of T-ball/baseball/softball and I finished planting your garden.
Every day I go out to water and watch the plants. Some of them are thriving and some are not. I've watered them all evenly, taken care to plant them in places they SHOULD thrive, but ultimately, I can't control their fate. I know they are just plants, but I try not to take it personally when one dies. This is life, I suppose. Death is a part of life, that's what we've learned from you.
I am blown away by your siblings.
They have rallied, just like you did so many times, and they talk freely and cheerfully of you and your soft hair. Judah sings "Hallelujah Even Here" with great gusto every time he's in the bathroom. They are happy, but when I watch them with other people's little babies, I know they would have loved to love you when you started to smile, when you took your first steps, when you said their names for the first time. They watch out for the babies, follow them around, pull them in the wagon. There is a hole here, in our family, a hole that will not be filled. We miss you, baby girl.
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