A day like today makes me question what I am doing in this job. This is all still so very raw, still so very close to the surface, and everything else sometimes just seems so infinitesimal and unimportant and ridiculous that it all feels like a grand charade that I want to get out of.
I guess I’ve really been struggling for several days, with just a few breaks over the past weekend. But today I had my first closed-door, multiple-Kleenex, stuffy-nosed, red-eyed, full-throttle cry in the office. Two of them actually. One in the morning and one in the afternoon (20 minutes before a meeting—lovely). The afternoon one was set off by a conversation I had with a co-worker who injured her back this weekend. She mentioned that she was going to go to the ER this evening to get something for the pain. Red lights were flashing in my head: “DANGER, WILL ROBINSON! DANGER!” But seeing no way out of the conversation, I kept talking politely. “Yes, the wait at the ER is always so long.” “Yes, it’s even worse when you are sitting there in pain” (or holding your barely conscious child). Then she told me about a time she’d broken her ankle, went to the ER and had to wait too long, so she went back home, set her alarm for 2:00AM and went to the ER then. There were only two people in front of her in line then.
I said, “Oh, that’s a good idea.” And all I could think was this: Well, why didn’t I think of that? Why, at 4AM, when the fever spiked up again only an hour after a dose of Tylenol, when Hudson was so lethargic (or just very sleepy in my mind—after all, it was 4AM and she had been fighting this fever for a whole day), when she was crying out when I touched her little legs, why didn’t it occur to me that it would probably be a good time to go to the ER? Not too crowded, we’d get in and out quickly, make sure everything was OK. Why didn’t that nice practical reason FORCE ME TO PUT HUDSON IN THE CAR AND GO TO THE EMERGENCY ROOM?
I was dazed for a few moments. I tried to wrap up the conversation. I went to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. I took breaths. I went back to my desk. I called Ed and said, “I just needed to hear your voice.” And then I lost it. Big time. Sobbed for almost ten whole minutes. I don’t know when I will let go of this, but I clearly still haven’t. There’s just not a bone in my body, not a molecule in my brain, not a space in heart, that isn’t still begging, pleading, groveling for chance to go back in time and do that morning over on the chance that it would mean that Hudson would be alive right now, running around the kitchen while I get her dinner together. Everything we know about meningitis in kids that age says that a course of IV antibiotics should have cured her, that the day after she was admitted, she should have been moved to a general ward for a few weeks of more antibiotics and recovery time. I just can’t get it out of my head that if we’d just found a way to get her diagnosed sooner, get those drugs in her sooner, then she would still be with us and none of the kind strangers who visit here would even know who we are. The ER is a magical place in my head—even though the doctors have told me they think it would have been unlikely that the ER docs would have done a spinal tap at that point (and it’s not even certain that she had meningitis at that point—we just don’t know), the fairy tale in my head that begins with a 4AM trip to the ER (instead of a 8AM trip to the pediatrician and a 1PM trip to the ER for IV fluids) ends with my beautiful, happy, 22-month-old Hudson talking up a storm and getting ready for Halloween right now.
Why didn’t that happen? Why did this happen to us? Why is Hudson not here anymore? Why can’t I have her back? Why are our lives changed in the worst way, forever?
I said last week that I had nothing new to say. Looks like that is true. This is a record that is going to keep playing in my head for who knows how long. I wish I could take it out and smash it against the wall into a thousand pieces. But even then, it would not matter, because Hudson is not here.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Monday, October 4, 2010
Why Can't I?
This morning on my way to drop the car off to get repaired, I heard a story on NPR about the flu shot, about how much more the manufacturers had been able to make this year and how widely it is being distributed. I thought about late last fall when Hudson got her H1N1 vaccine—we had to go to two different sites across the city on different dates four weeks apart. Both times, she cried, hard, but not for long. Today I thought about how vaccine days are one of those times when a parent is most a parent—having to endure watching your child in pain, maybe even holding her arm or leg still for the shot, but knowing that it is for your sweet baby’s own good. That is love. I would do anything to be taking Hudson in for a flu shot this week, holding her arm still for the nurse, comforting her when it was all over. I cried the rest of the way to the dealership.
When today’s mail arrived, included was the annual Friends of the National Zoo calendar. Last year’s calendar was a staple of Hudson’s afternoon fun. I kept it on a bottom shelf in the kitchen and she would pull it out and leaf through it, tearing a page every once in a while just for fun and putting the small pieces of torn paper in the trash. I remember when we joined the zoo last fall. We got a coupon for a free stuffed panda bear. On our next trip, I took Hudson to one of the gift shops and got her little panda. She loved it. We kept it in her bed—it was one of two bears I tucked under her arms at night when she went to sleep. We brought it to the hospital, but not until after she was already in a coma. I never dreamed when I made the trip to the ER that I would need it. I never expected to stay longer than a few hours. What I would give for another trip to the zoo, another torn page in the calendar, another night to tuck that panda bear in. As I thumbed through this year’s calendar, I cried.
Tonight, I was watching some dumb movie while eating dinner and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” played in the final scene. Not the Iz version we played as part of the memorial service slideshow, but it doesn’t really matter. While I guess I won’t regret choosing that song as part of the soundtrack of the slideshow—it was a perfect song in many ways—it is sad that it is associated with such a heartbreaking memory. I remember one friend who said she heard it on the way to work one day and smiled to think of Hudson. I know I will get to that point, too. But right now, I can only cry as I think upon these words:
Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
High above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me.
Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow.
Why then, oh, why can’t I?
Why can’t I?
When today’s mail arrived, included was the annual Friends of the National Zoo calendar. Last year’s calendar was a staple of Hudson’s afternoon fun. I kept it on a bottom shelf in the kitchen and she would pull it out and leaf through it, tearing a page every once in a while just for fun and putting the small pieces of torn paper in the trash. I remember when we joined the zoo last fall. We got a coupon for a free stuffed panda bear. On our next trip, I took Hudson to one of the gift shops and got her little panda. She loved it. We kept it in her bed—it was one of two bears I tucked under her arms at night when she went to sleep. We brought it to the hospital, but not until after she was already in a coma. I never dreamed when I made the trip to the ER that I would need it. I never expected to stay longer than a few hours. What I would give for another trip to the zoo, another torn page in the calendar, another night to tuck that panda bear in. As I thumbed through this year’s calendar, I cried.
Tonight, I was watching some dumb movie while eating dinner and “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” played in the final scene. Not the Iz version we played as part of the memorial service slideshow, but it doesn’t really matter. While I guess I won’t regret choosing that song as part of the soundtrack of the slideshow—it was a perfect song in many ways—it is sad that it is associated with such a heartbreaking memory. I remember one friend who said she heard it on the way to work one day and smiled to think of Hudson. I know I will get to that point, too. But right now, I can only cry as I think upon these words:
Someday I’ll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me.
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
High above the chimney tops
That’s where you’ll find me.
Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly.
Birds fly over the rainbow.
Why then, oh, why can’t I?
Why can’t I?
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Grateful
It feels like it has been such a long time since I’ve written. Somewhere in there, it became October. October. The winter squashes just started showing up in our local market and we are reminded of last year, when acorn squash with apples and cinnamon became one of Hudson’s favorite meals. Last year, October was the month that Hudson became really fun. Of course, she was a delight, a joy, the light of our lives for all the time leading up to that, but you parents out there know what I mean. Around nine or ten months, it all starts to come together. They start to get really interactive in a way they weren’t before. The developmental leaps start coming every single day and all you can do is sit and marvel. My best and favorite memories of my sweet Hudson began in October of last year. I usually love this month, but I am so very sad she is not here to share it with us.
But even though it is a terribly sad Sunday morning here at our house, full of nostalgia and longing for our life that no longer exists, I take comfort in the lingering warm glow of a weekend spent with many very good friends. We hosted two different sets of friends for Friday dinner and Saturday brunch and had such a good time catching up. It feels like I am crawling, slowly, warily, out of a dark hole. While I’ve never had difficulty laughing since Hudson died (laughter is and always has been one of Ed’s and my lifelines—we’ve never relied on it more than we have during this awful time), I feel for the first time as though the laughter is not so hollow, as though there is some fullness to it.
And then last night, Rich and Lynn Matheny had us over for an amazing meal, some fabulous home-brewed beer, wonderful camaraderie, and the unveiling of all the lovely books collected in Hudson’s memory for the D.C. Public Library. I had already seen the remarkable list on paper, but seeing all the books in person, touching them with my hands, turning their pages, reading the notes enclosed, helping place the memorial bookplates—that was an entirely different and visceral experience. We were stunned, and incredibly moved, by the obviously painstaking choices so many people made when selecting books. Each book, in its own way, was so perfectly appropriate for this wonderful tribute to our precious Hudson. The rich variety of the more than 300 titles will make such a difference at our little Woodridge library. I wish I had endless time to sit and look at and read them all and think about my girl. I can already picture in my head a small child with his or her mama or daddy reading a book they had checked out at the library, seeing the bookplate, and wondering who the special little girl was who inspired such a gift. Our girl’s light will keep shining forever on all those children.
I want to take yet another opportunity to thank Rich and Lynn, not only for conceiving of and putting together such a thoughtful, appropriate, and excellent tribute to Hudson, but also for providing a way for so many of our friends, family, and many who did not know us, to do something else so tangible and personal and purposeful to honor Hudson’s life. As Rich remarked to me, in the end, “the impact may be greater for those who gave than those who will receive.” Thank you, Rich and Lynn, for opening that door for everyone, and thank you so much to everyone who stepped through it to remember Hudson with us in such a special way.
On this otherwise-sad, chilly October morning, Hudson’s books, and all of you, are my One Good Thing. Thank you.
But even though it is a terribly sad Sunday morning here at our house, full of nostalgia and longing for our life that no longer exists, I take comfort in the lingering warm glow of a weekend spent with many very good friends. We hosted two different sets of friends for Friday dinner and Saturday brunch and had such a good time catching up. It feels like I am crawling, slowly, warily, out of a dark hole. While I’ve never had difficulty laughing since Hudson died (laughter is and always has been one of Ed’s and my lifelines—we’ve never relied on it more than we have during this awful time), I feel for the first time as though the laughter is not so hollow, as though there is some fullness to it.
And then last night, Rich and Lynn Matheny had us over for an amazing meal, some fabulous home-brewed beer, wonderful camaraderie, and the unveiling of all the lovely books collected in Hudson’s memory for the D.C. Public Library. I had already seen the remarkable list on paper, but seeing all the books in person, touching them with my hands, turning their pages, reading the notes enclosed, helping place the memorial bookplates—that was an entirely different and visceral experience. We were stunned, and incredibly moved, by the obviously painstaking choices so many people made when selecting books. Each book, in its own way, was so perfectly appropriate for this wonderful tribute to our precious Hudson. The rich variety of the more than 300 titles will make such a difference at our little Woodridge library. I wish I had endless time to sit and look at and read them all and think about my girl. I can already picture in my head a small child with his or her mama or daddy reading a book they had checked out at the library, seeing the bookplate, and wondering who the special little girl was who inspired such a gift. Our girl’s light will keep shining forever on all those children.
I want to take yet another opportunity to thank Rich and Lynn, not only for conceiving of and putting together such a thoughtful, appropriate, and excellent tribute to Hudson, but also for providing a way for so many of our friends, family, and many who did not know us, to do something else so tangible and personal and purposeful to honor Hudson’s life. As Rich remarked to me, in the end, “the impact may be greater for those who gave than those who will receive.” Thank you, Rich and Lynn, for opening that door for everyone, and thank you so much to everyone who stepped through it to remember Hudson with us in such a special way.
On this otherwise-sad, chilly October morning, Hudson’s books, and all of you, are my One Good Thing. Thank you.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Hijacked
I don’t really know what’s going on with me this past week. I’ve had a hard time even thinking about writing. Maybe I wore myself out with Monday’s post and just didn’t realize it. I’m sure that coming to the end of my second full week of work is at least some of the issue, and I “worked” (I use that term lightly because it is nearly impossible to sustain my attention for anywhere close to a full work day) an extra hour each day this week to make up for some time I missed on Monday when my sweet niece was in town. I feel tired. I feel like I still have so much to say, but none of it is new—it is all simply a repetition of the same themes over and over again.
I am exhausted from what I call getting my thoughts “hijacked.” This is when, out of nowhere, I am struck, either with a specific memory or just a sudden overwhelming sense of the loss we have experienced, and I just immediately get pulled right down into the thickness of the grief. When it’s a specific memory, like something that happened today, it usually only lasts only for a bit, marked by a quick crying jag. When it’s the other, like it was this past weekend, it lasts for a few hours or days, marked by a seemingly unending malaise, where I feel like I am walking around in a fog—I am functioning and talking to people, but it’s almost as if I am outside of myself. It is utterly frustrating to have so little control over my emotional state from one moment to the next. Grief’s unpredictability is probably one of its worst features. And if it seems sometimes as if I speak of grief as a whole separate being, that is, indeed, how it feels—like its own entity that is just always with me, a most unwelcome presence everywhere I go, even in my sleep.
Today, I was brought to quick tears by a sudden memory of a Facebook post I made not long before Hudson died. I said something like, “I looked down today and realized that I no longer have to lean over to hold Hudson’s hand. Yay for my poor back; boo for growing too fast.” The naivete, the unknowing, the carefree quality of those words just shook me. Even more painful than the memory of the words was the fact that I could remember the exact moment earlier that day when I had the realization. Hudson and I were walking out of the front door of St. Ann’s after school one day. I was holding her left hand in my right, always keeping her on the inside of the sidewalk. She had gotten to the point where she sometimes rebelled against holding my hand at all, so eager was she to leave me and go play in the grass. I was starting to have to be firm about holding Mommy’s hand on the sidewalk. But that day, I just noticed for the first time that she was tall enough and her arm was long enough for her hand to rest fairly comfortably in mine without a stretch on either of our parts. I had no idea how we’d gotten there so quickly.
Now, I have no idea how we’ve gotten here at all. Where is my little girl? Why can’t I hold her hand anymore? Why isn’t she still growing too fast? And it just spirals downward from there.
This is what I mean by hijacked. Now I will cry for several minutes and then go to bed.
I am exhausted from what I call getting my thoughts “hijacked.” This is when, out of nowhere, I am struck, either with a specific memory or just a sudden overwhelming sense of the loss we have experienced, and I just immediately get pulled right down into the thickness of the grief. When it’s a specific memory, like something that happened today, it usually only lasts only for a bit, marked by a quick crying jag. When it’s the other, like it was this past weekend, it lasts for a few hours or days, marked by a seemingly unending malaise, where I feel like I am walking around in a fog—I am functioning and talking to people, but it’s almost as if I am outside of myself. It is utterly frustrating to have so little control over my emotional state from one moment to the next. Grief’s unpredictability is probably one of its worst features. And if it seems sometimes as if I speak of grief as a whole separate being, that is, indeed, how it feels—like its own entity that is just always with me, a most unwelcome presence everywhere I go, even in my sleep.
Today, I was brought to quick tears by a sudden memory of a Facebook post I made not long before Hudson died. I said something like, “I looked down today and realized that I no longer have to lean over to hold Hudson’s hand. Yay for my poor back; boo for growing too fast.” The naivete, the unknowing, the carefree quality of those words just shook me. Even more painful than the memory of the words was the fact that I could remember the exact moment earlier that day when I had the realization. Hudson and I were walking out of the front door of St. Ann’s after school one day. I was holding her left hand in my right, always keeping her on the inside of the sidewalk. She had gotten to the point where she sometimes rebelled against holding my hand at all, so eager was she to leave me and go play in the grass. I was starting to have to be firm about holding Mommy’s hand on the sidewalk. But that day, I just noticed for the first time that she was tall enough and her arm was long enough for her hand to rest fairly comfortably in mine without a stretch on either of our parts. I had no idea how we’d gotten there so quickly.
Now, I have no idea how we’ve gotten here at all. Where is my little girl? Why can’t I hold her hand anymore? Why isn’t she still growing too fast? And it just spirals downward from there.
This is what I mean by hijacked. Now I will cry for several minutes and then go to bed.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Until Tomorrow
I am exhausted and emotionally drained tonight and don't have the mental energy or room for a full post, but I just wanted to thank everyone for your very heartfelt and loving responses to yesterday's post. The responses I got yesterday surprised me in their intensity and brought me great comfort. It's funny to me when people remark at how private these moments seem-- I guess I feel like I threw the privacy out the window the day I first started writing about my grief. It all just runs together now for me--none of it seems more or less personal. It's all terribly personal. Some memories and reflections, like yesterday's, are decidedly more painful than others, but sharing them always, always helps. And to anyone who ever feels like an intruder, please don't. I've invited you in for a reason and am glad to have you here, whether I know you or not.
Thank you all again. Hopefully I will be in a writing state of mind tomorrow. Missing my girl so very much tonight.
Thank you all again. Hopefully I will be in a writing state of mind tomorrow. Missing my girl so very much tonight.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Skin-to-Skin
I have really been struggling these past few days with why this happened to us. With why, with all the many precautions I took for 17 months and 12 days (plus the nine months that she was in my belly), why I couldn’t save Hudson’s life. Even though I have gotten over the worst of the guilt, I still, always, imagine in my head how things might have been different if we’d made that trip to the ER at 4AM. I want so badly to have a do-over, one that somehow brings Hudson back to us. Because I have also been struggling, again, with the finality of all this. I look at the pictures of my sweet girl, and I just can’t fathom that she is really gone forever. It just seems like there has to be some way to bring her back.
When I was pregnant with Hudson, I read a lot about breastfeeding and attended several breastfeeding classes. I knew I wanted to try to breastfeed her for at least a year, so I wanted to have as strong a foundation for that as possible. One of the things I read was most important for establishing the breastfeeding relationship early on was frequent skin-to-skin contact, starting as soon as the baby is born. I’d read that the baby should spend some time on the mama’s bare chest just as soon as possible, and certainly before the baby is whisked away for measurements and eye goop and cleaning.
When they held Hudson up in front of me, my first reaction was, “It’s a girl!” realizing only then for the first time that despite all my assertions that I didn’t care what we had, I’d wanted a girl the whole time. My next reaction, a split second later, was to start tearing my hospital gown off—it was tied in the back and I couldn’t get the knot undone. I was desperate to get that little girl on my chest, to hold her close so she could smell me and try nursing. (I realize now, as a member of many online grief communities for babylost parents, how fortunate I was to have that time with Hudson, how lucky we were that she was born perfectly healthy and did not have to be whisked away to the NICU.) We sat together, with Ed right next to us, for at least 20 or 30 minutes, with the OB, the nurse, and the doula all nearby trying to help Hudson and me learn how to become a successful “breastfeeding pair.” Again, I know now how incredibly lucky we were yet again that Hudson took to nursing like a champ, that breastfeeding came very easily to us. But for as long as I live, I’ll never forget my fervor in trying to get that gown off so I could pull my daughter close to my skin, trying to give her the best start I could.
On the day Hudson died, we spent the entire day with her, knowing it would be our last, knowing that at around 8:30 that night, the doctors would do a second test for brain death and that barring a miracle (which thousands of people we knew and didn’t know were hoping and praying for), she would be declared dead. The doctors and nurses had told us that we could hold her, even though she was still hooked up to so many different tubes and machines that were keeping her systems functioning so that the results of the brain death test would be accurate. We pulled an armchair up as close as possible to the bed, trying to make the distance we had to move her as small as possible. I sat down and as the nurses began to prepare to try to move her into my lap, I said out loud, “You know, I’m also tempted to tell everyone to get out so I can take my shirt off and hold her skin-to-skin.” My sister looked at me and said, “Do you want us to?” I thought about it for a second. I remembered what Ed’s friend Scott had told me earlier that morning—he’d said that I should be sure to do anything I wanted to today and to say no to anything I didn’t want to happen. He said, “You don’t want to have any regrets about today.” I looked at my sister and said, “Yeah, I think I do.” I thought to myself that maybe, just like when Hudson was born, the skin-to-skin contact would have a magical effect, that just having my skin so close to hers might make her well. I pictured her in my arms, against my chest, slowly regaining consciousness.
I didn’t want to come to the end of the day and regret not having at least tried.
The rest of the family left the room. I was still a little shy and at first took off only my shirt, but then I realized that these were nurses and had seen a lot more, and probably a lot stranger, than a bare-chested mother holding her baby close, so then I took off my bra, too. We got Hudson situated in my arms--it was no easy feat. My poor little girl, so very different than the tiny baby that had been placed on my chest 17 months and 12 days before. So much bigger and yet so lifeless. I wished so hard that she would open her eyes. I thought wildly that if I could just nurse her (which I had not done in almost 5 months), then she would be healed. I wondered whether she’d have been able to avoid the terrible strep pneumo bacteria if I’d continued breastfeeding her after the first year—maybe her immune system would have been stronger or I could have given her the antibodies to fight it off. She slumped against me. The day before, her temp had dropped into the high 80s before anyone realized it—a very bad sign for her brain activity—and she’d been getting warming fluids and lying under a warming blanket ever since to keep her temperature normal. When they took her out from under the blanket, her temperature dropped a few tenths of a degree. I held her and waited, hoping that my skin next to hers would make that temperature start to rise again, just like skin-to-skin contact is supposed to help regulate the temperatures of newborns. I waited, and was crushed to see that her temp dropped another tenth of a degree while she was sitting with me. I could not save her. My chance to save her had been early Monday morning and I had missed it. I could not save her. I could not save her.
We then changed places so Ed could hold her for a while. I can’t remember if he took off his shirt, too—we’d tried hard when Hudson was younger to let her have skin-to-skin contact with her daddy, too, although it obviously wasn’t nearly as frequent. Moving her to the chair in the first place, though, had inadvertently caused a crack in her central line apparatus, but no one had realized it yet. Her blood pressure kept dropping, marked each time by a terrible alarm on the machine that monitored it. I thought it was possible that we might lose her then and there (even though we knew, of course, that she was already gone—her body was only with us because of the all the medicines being pumped into her). At one point, about 4 different nurses and the attending physician were in there, trying to replace the central line valves so that her medications could start flowing regularly again. The doctor told us that it was possible that these fluctuations in her blood pressure were just a sign of her body shutting down, that Hudson might not make it until tonight for the second test, and the doctor needed to know whether we wanted them perform any life-saving measures. We both immediately said no. As I said, we knew she was gone—all we were holding on for was a little more time to be with her, or with her body at least, and a chance to really say goodbye without alarms sounding all over the place. Ed and I looked at each other and I think I said something like, “We need to be prepared that this may be it.” And he nodded. We were so incredibly calm somehow. But they managed to get the central line fixed, which stabilized everything pretty quickly. I remember feeling traumatized that our attempts to hold her had almost been the end. How very wrong that seemed.
I have been thinking about these moments—again, two very incongruous images battling in my head—all weekend as I’ve been struggling again with disbelief, with the question “WHY?” and with my torment over my inability to keep my sweet girl alive, or to bring her back from the brink of death, or now, to bring her back from I don’t know where. Two poignant and precious moments: my first chance to hold her skin-to-skin seconds after she was born, and then my last chance to hold her skin-to-skin when she was only hours away from death. If only the latter could have saved her. Why couldn’t I save her?
When I was pregnant with Hudson, I read a lot about breastfeeding and attended several breastfeeding classes. I knew I wanted to try to breastfeed her for at least a year, so I wanted to have as strong a foundation for that as possible. One of the things I read was most important for establishing the breastfeeding relationship early on was frequent skin-to-skin contact, starting as soon as the baby is born. I’d read that the baby should spend some time on the mama’s bare chest just as soon as possible, and certainly before the baby is whisked away for measurements and eye goop and cleaning.
When they held Hudson up in front of me, my first reaction was, “It’s a girl!” realizing only then for the first time that despite all my assertions that I didn’t care what we had, I’d wanted a girl the whole time. My next reaction, a split second later, was to start tearing my hospital gown off—it was tied in the back and I couldn’t get the knot undone. I was desperate to get that little girl on my chest, to hold her close so she could smell me and try nursing. (I realize now, as a member of many online grief communities for babylost parents, how fortunate I was to have that time with Hudson, how lucky we were that she was born perfectly healthy and did not have to be whisked away to the NICU.) We sat together, with Ed right next to us, for at least 20 or 30 minutes, with the OB, the nurse, and the doula all nearby trying to help Hudson and me learn how to become a successful “breastfeeding pair.” Again, I know now how incredibly lucky we were yet again that Hudson took to nursing like a champ, that breastfeeding came very easily to us. But for as long as I live, I’ll never forget my fervor in trying to get that gown off so I could pull my daughter close to my skin, trying to give her the best start I could.
On the day Hudson died, we spent the entire day with her, knowing it would be our last, knowing that at around 8:30 that night, the doctors would do a second test for brain death and that barring a miracle (which thousands of people we knew and didn’t know were hoping and praying for), she would be declared dead. The doctors and nurses had told us that we could hold her, even though she was still hooked up to so many different tubes and machines that were keeping her systems functioning so that the results of the brain death test would be accurate. We pulled an armchair up as close as possible to the bed, trying to make the distance we had to move her as small as possible. I sat down and as the nurses began to prepare to try to move her into my lap, I said out loud, “You know, I’m also tempted to tell everyone to get out so I can take my shirt off and hold her skin-to-skin.” My sister looked at me and said, “Do you want us to?” I thought about it for a second. I remembered what Ed’s friend Scott had told me earlier that morning—he’d said that I should be sure to do anything I wanted to today and to say no to anything I didn’t want to happen. He said, “You don’t want to have any regrets about today.” I looked at my sister and said, “Yeah, I think I do.” I thought to myself that maybe, just like when Hudson was born, the skin-to-skin contact would have a magical effect, that just having my skin so close to hers might make her well. I pictured her in my arms, against my chest, slowly regaining consciousness.
I didn’t want to come to the end of the day and regret not having at least tried.
The rest of the family left the room. I was still a little shy and at first took off only my shirt, but then I realized that these were nurses and had seen a lot more, and probably a lot stranger, than a bare-chested mother holding her baby close, so then I took off my bra, too. We got Hudson situated in my arms--it was no easy feat. My poor little girl, so very different than the tiny baby that had been placed on my chest 17 months and 12 days before. So much bigger and yet so lifeless. I wished so hard that she would open her eyes. I thought wildly that if I could just nurse her (which I had not done in almost 5 months), then she would be healed. I wondered whether she’d have been able to avoid the terrible strep pneumo bacteria if I’d continued breastfeeding her after the first year—maybe her immune system would have been stronger or I could have given her the antibodies to fight it off. She slumped against me. The day before, her temp had dropped into the high 80s before anyone realized it—a very bad sign for her brain activity—and she’d been getting warming fluids and lying under a warming blanket ever since to keep her temperature normal. When they took her out from under the blanket, her temperature dropped a few tenths of a degree. I held her and waited, hoping that my skin next to hers would make that temperature start to rise again, just like skin-to-skin contact is supposed to help regulate the temperatures of newborns. I waited, and was crushed to see that her temp dropped another tenth of a degree while she was sitting with me. I could not save her. My chance to save her had been early Monday morning and I had missed it. I could not save her. I could not save her.
We then changed places so Ed could hold her for a while. I can’t remember if he took off his shirt, too—we’d tried hard when Hudson was younger to let her have skin-to-skin contact with her daddy, too, although it obviously wasn’t nearly as frequent. Moving her to the chair in the first place, though, had inadvertently caused a crack in her central line apparatus, but no one had realized it yet. Her blood pressure kept dropping, marked each time by a terrible alarm on the machine that monitored it. I thought it was possible that we might lose her then and there (even though we knew, of course, that she was already gone—her body was only with us because of the all the medicines being pumped into her). At one point, about 4 different nurses and the attending physician were in there, trying to replace the central line valves so that her medications could start flowing regularly again. The doctor told us that it was possible that these fluctuations in her blood pressure were just a sign of her body shutting down, that Hudson might not make it until tonight for the second test, and the doctor needed to know whether we wanted them perform any life-saving measures. We both immediately said no. As I said, we knew she was gone—all we were holding on for was a little more time to be with her, or with her body at least, and a chance to really say goodbye without alarms sounding all over the place. Ed and I looked at each other and I think I said something like, “We need to be prepared that this may be it.” And he nodded. We were so incredibly calm somehow. But they managed to get the central line fixed, which stabilized everything pretty quickly. I remember feeling traumatized that our attempts to hold her had almost been the end. How very wrong that seemed.
I have been thinking about these moments—again, two very incongruous images battling in my head—all weekend as I’ve been struggling again with disbelief, with the question “WHY?” and with my torment over my inability to keep my sweet girl alive, or to bring her back from the brink of death, or now, to bring her back from I don’t know where. Two poignant and precious moments: my first chance to hold her skin-to-skin seconds after she was born, and then my last chance to hold her skin-to-skin when she was only hours away from death. If only the latter could have saved her. Why couldn’t I save her?
Friday, September 24, 2010
My Big Girl
I looked at this photo the other day and thought it might be the closest we’ll ever come to knowing what Hudson would have looked like as an older child.
My big girl.
My precious, sweet, brilliant, loving, free-spirited girl.
My beautiful Hudson.
My precious, sweet, brilliant, loving, free-spirited girl.
My beautiful Hudson.
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