On the car ride to work I was sure I felt baby Kayla moving and was comforted. She always kicked a little when I was driving. Now I know that is not possible, and I know that when I started seeing discharge she was already dead. What I had been feeling was just the weight of her body rolling around. This makes me feel guilty. Shouldn’t a mother know the difference between kicks and a dead baby? I got to the doctor’s right on time. I was alone, because I was really expecting everything to be normal. Everything had been so perfect and normal up to that point.
When I got to the office I asked the receptionist if I needed to do a urine sample since it wasn’t a regular visit. She asked me “Are you pregnant?” (she couldn’t see my belly over the counter). Looking back now that was the last time I could say “yes.”
At first I saw Julie the CNM (certified nurse midwife). I hopped up on the table and she said “Let’s listen to baby first, that’s the fun part.” She tried the Doppler, after a minute she wasn’t picking up the heartbeat. I still wasn’t worried, I thought she wasn’t checking down low enough, I had been feeling like the baby was dropping (YEAH, because she had DIED). She went out and got a different Doppler. I asked “should I be worried?” and she kept it light-hearted saying no, she didn’t think so, baby was probably just turned funny. I wonder now if she really was worried at that point. I STILL thought everything was going to be ok. She said we should do a sonogram, and left me alone for a few minutes while she went to check with the sonogram technician. I was nervous at that point and I think I cried a few tears, but I was still expecting a heartbeat.
The sonographer was the same one we had at our 18-week ultrasound, where we found out we were having a girl and everything looked great. I laid back, looking up at the screen. She looked around for maybe 30 seconds or maybe 5 seconds, right about then time stopped mattering. She took some measurements, then quietly looked up at the screen and said “I’m not seeing a heartbeat.”
My world changed in that second. I started screaming, still laying flat on my back with my belly covered in gel. I saw the outline of my baby’s head and spine in bright white against the dark room, stillness and silence where there should have been movement and a heartbeat. It was so precious. That image is one that haunts me now when I close my eyes, but not necessarily in a bad way.
Julie left to find Dr. P. I was in disbelief and shock. I wanted my baby to still be alive. I pleaded with the sonographer Are you sure? I really didn’t believe it just yet. I hated that lady, I just wanted her to fix whatever she had just done. I looked at her accusingly and yelled I just felt her moving! Fix it! Before she turned the machine off, I saw the screen as she typed DEMISE in capital letters. That cold, clinical word felt like a slap in the face and I knew it was real. This is when a deep distrust in my body took over. How had I not felt that she had died? How didn’t I know?
I sat up and sat in the dark room just sobbing, not caring who could hear me or what noises were coming from me. I wanted to call Fab. but Julie wanted me to wait for Dr. P. They led me to her office and I saw my nurse, who gave me a big hug and brought me some tissues. I sat there for awhile and then called Fab. He didn’t answer, so I called our friend who works with him and told him that it was an emergency. Fab. called me right back. In tears, I changed his life with my words. Nao acharam o coracao da menina. Ela morreu. That was the first time I spoke the words “She died.”
Fab was about 10 minutes away. I think that’s when I called mom too, and changed her life also. I just said “Can you come here?” knowing she was already leaving work to get on the road. I was so sad, I wanted to give her and my dad a grandchild, I wanted Fab to have his daughter.
Finally Dr. P. came in and gave me a big hug. She told me I didn’t do anything wrong, and that we would try to figure out what happened. She talked to me about terrible things that my mind couldn’t’ really process, like how I would need to go in and be induced (to deliver my dead baby), about funeral arrangements, about autopsies. She wasn’t trying to rush me or be insensitive, just preparing me for the next couple of days when these foreign words would become part of our conversations.
Fab arrived and just hugged me and let me cry, he was in complete shock too. He wouldn’t leave my side for the next few days as we endured the worst nightmare that we had never even imagined.
We were told to come back to the hospital at 8 pm to be induced. I was pretty numb. I called my supervisor and my assistant staff at school. I can’t even remember what I said to them. I called two of my best friends as I drove home, then was too exhausted to call anyone else. I drove home by myself since Fab had come in his van. When I got home I collapsed on the steps going up to my living room, just sobbing and yelling. All the PLANS we had made and the people we had celebrated with, our two baby showers and the nursery we had just set up the Sunday before, on our first wedding anniversary. We had spent the day putting together the glider, the stroller, loving our baby together as we organized and prepared for our happy future.
We had just decided on Kayla as a name that Sunday also. After going over names for the past 8 months, we both liked Kayla but couldn’t agree on how to spell it, In Portuguese it makes more sense spelled “Keyla” but I didn’t like that. “Kayla com a” we affirmed to each other, Kayla with an “a.” How naïve we were, just EXPECTING a healthy baby at the end of pregnancy.
The next few hours are kind of a blur because I was so numb. I moved from the stairs to the bathroom, hugging the toilet as I vomited violently, thinking how I would give anything to be vomiting because of morning sickness again. I threw all of the baby stuff that was in our living room into the nursery and just shut the door. I know Becky came over, which I appreciate now that she was literally THERE for me, at the time I just sat blankly on the couch pretending to watch the news while I kind of dry sobbed and cried. I packed a small suitcase, so different from the hospital bag that I wanted to pack, that I had just made a list for that morning.
It’s taking me a long time to write this—because it is emotionally draining but also because I want to get every single detail right. Every small thing is important, because they are the only memories I will ever have of Kayla.
Fab called his mom and my best friend Rose in Brazil. He kept telling people that I was “batida” but OK. Yes, I was battered and I was NOT OK. I was really irritated that he kept saying that. I know he was just numb too and that was all he could say. We bought salads at McDonalds across the street from the hospital, not knowing if we’d eat later. We sat in the car and tried to swallow a few bites. I was just so nervous about having to deliver a dead baby, about walking through the doors to labor and delivery. We have to be strong for each other.
How many times had I fantasized about what our drive to the hospital would be like? Everything was so WRONG. I was dressed in gray yoga pants and my huge Garcia school hoodie, trying to hide my big pregnant belly. It disgusted me to have that belly knowing my baby had died. I still thought I could feel her moving, and Fab said he was hoping for a miracle, that we would get there and suddenly see her heart beating on the ultrasound screen. That I would push her out and she would take a breath. But I had seen the still screen and knew there would not be a miracle. WHY was this happening to us? It’s not fair.
I didn’t look at anyone in the waiting room when we walked in—didn’t want to see anyone happily awaiting a baby. Marilyn, our first nurse, came right out and took me to Room 293. I had excellent care from everyone at the hospital, thankfully. She explained everything that would happen. At 8:30 she put in the cervadil that would soften my cervix. I had to lay flat for 2 hours. I think I just laid there and cried. We met Tricia, the bereavement coordinator. She was very gentle with me and shared that she had lost a son at 38 weeks. Something clicked in my head and for the first time I realized I was not alone in this horrible reality.
Our doula Vanessa also came by. I had managed to send her an email telling her what had happened and that we “wouldn’t need her as our doula anymore.” I think back and realize that was part of my initial shock and anger, to just want to erase everything about my pregnancy. She came anyways and for a second I was annoyed , but I am so glad she came. She hugged me and said she remembered my mom lived far away and that maybe we could use some company. She also said some really validating things, like that I was a good mom, that we were/are good parents. She was giving me words to use in the future, telling me that it is ok to think of myself as a mom. She also said she was glad that I had gone to the doctors that day, that I had felt something was wrong.
I cried back “But I didn’t know anything was wrong.” She replied, “But something got you to the doctor’s today Rachel.” Looking back now, I do think that is true—I had been a little uneasy for a few days before because of the discharge and it felt like the baby was dropping. I honestly thought I was going to have to go on bedrest or have her early. Now that I have a little perspective, I guess it is good that I went to the doctors when I did, because she would have died no matter what, so why prolong her being inside of me? But I kind of thought Vanessa was crazy at the time for saying all of those things to me. She also kept repeating that she knew it was hard, but that she knew I could do it. I needed to hear that.
My parents came at about 11, and I was so glad to see them. But also heartbroken. I wanted them to be grandparents. They left about midnight, and I took some medicine to sleep, but only slept for about 4 hours. Fab pushed the little couch right up next to my bed, and we just kind of laid there, in disbelief how much this one day changed everything. Before I went to sleep I said one more prayer, that I would wake up in my own bed with Kayla still alive inside of me, that this was all a bad dream. How much I wanted to go back in time when we were happy and innocently expecting nothing but the best.
The next morning was May 5th, 5 de mayo. I think the day started off sunny but later turned gray and rainy, which I liked. It matched the tone of the day. From the moment I woke up I was just scared, dreading the moment when I would have to push out my baby, already dead. I was scared of that moment, and worried that I would be scared of my own baby. I’ve never held a dead person before.
When we woke up still in the hospital, our nightmare continued. Marilyn started the pitocin at 6:30 a.m. after Dr. P checked me and I was already one cm dilated. Dr. P. broke my water, which didn’t hurt. Mom and Dad came and they stayed the whole day with me. I don’t think Fab and I would have made it through the day without them.
Some of the details of the day are a little blurry. I started feeling contractions. The monitor showed the peaks and valleys. At the top of the monitor, blankness and silence where the baby’s vitals were supposed to be. I just laid there, mourning the natural labor I had been dreaming about, the working through contractions, feeling powerful in my body. Instead I just lay there, defeated and feeling like my body had failed me in the most important way.
I decided to get an epidural once the contractions were hurting. I was already suffering, what was the point of feeling physical pain? I wanted to give birth without an epidural so my baby wouldn’t have any medicine in her system at birth. But she was already dead so it didn’t matter. At about 9:30 a.m. they gave me the epidural, it hurt going in. Fab kept telling me how strong I was, how I was enduring all of these medical procedures without even flinching. He watched every needle they put in me, every vial of blood they took—I think it was his way of physically suffering along with me. I was just too numb with grief to care about physical pain.
By 11 a.m. I was 5 cm dilated. Karla, my nurse who stayed with me the whole day, checked me and felt an elbow at my cervix. C-section started being mentioned. Dr F. came in with the ultrasound and confirmed Kayla was sideways with her elbow down. Dr. G, who I had never met, was on her way, but a sudden urgency took over as the nurses told me a c-section would be best. I felt myself completely shut down emotionally. Fine. Do whatever. I don’t care. Cut this dead baby out of me and ruin my chances for a fast recovery and future natural births. I stopped feeling like a person and started feeling like just a patient, a procedure. I signed forms, drank some medicine, got prepped and was wheeled off.
I was by myself for a few minutes in the cold, alien OR while Fab got suited up and I got numbed from my chest down. The curtain went up and Fab came in. His mouth was covered by a mask but his eyes looked dead with fear. He never left my side though. The OR tech was getting impatient because Dr. G. was not there yet. We have to cut within 30 minutes (of the anesthesia). Carla kept calling the office, paging the doctor. I think everyone was blaming Carla for not communicating with the Dr. and the OR team. Finally Dr. G got there. She was like an angel. She came around the curtain and told me there was a miscommunication, that she could still try to turn Kayla and avoid a c-section.
I just stared blankly at her while my mind processed. On the one hand, I could do the c-section and just get it over with already. On the other, here was my chance to have a vaginal birth. I am so glad that somewhere in the back of my mind, the part of me that wanted to do everything naturally spoke up, “That would be my preference.” (trying to turn her). The OR tech was annoyed but the doctor really advocated for me in that moment, saying “it’s only a re-do on the blocking’ (or something like that, meaning if it didn’t work, we could still do the c-section).
Right when they were taking the curtain down to try to turn her, I jokingly said to Fab “so falta eu morrer tambem” (all we need now is for me to die too), which I realize now was really inappropriate because he was terrified, but I think I was feeling like were at the bottom of the pit, that this was the worst moment. I was still so scared of seeing our dead baby.
I got really nauseous and started violently vomiting. My heart was racing, I couldn’t lift my head because of the anesthesia so I felt like I was choking as I tried to turn my head and vomit ran down my cheeks. At the same time Dr. F was using all of his weight to forcefully manipulate my stomach. Dr. G had her hands inside of me helping turn her. I felt like I left my body, it was so physically traumatic. Fab was also traumatized. That whole process was the worst part of the labor. Thankfully they did turn her, Dr. G. stayed and kept her hand inside of me, holding Kayla’s head to make sure it didn’t drift back up. After maybe 15 more minutes (not sure really, time was suspended), they moved me back to my labor room. I vomited the whole way down the hallway and started shaking. I am so glad that I did not have to have a c-section though.
By then it was probably 12:30. The next few hours dragged on, since we had thought it would be “over” soon with the c-section. All in all it was relatively quick for an induced labor and stillbirth, the doctor’s said sometimes it can take DAYS but it was still horrible to spend the whole day laboring, knowing that at the same moment I would give birth, I would also be giving death.
The hospital chaplain came in at some point and prayed with us, which I liked. The nurse Carla kept checking me and I was still at 7-8 cm. I started feeling the contractions again but I could push the button to get more medication. I didn’t want them to come increase the epidural because I wanted to be able to feel enough to push when the time came.
Fab kept telling me how strong I was being, his deusa. I liked the affirmation that I am strong. I knew I had to get through moment by moment.
The photographer from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep came and showed us some outfits. I didn’t want to look at them. She also warned us that Kayla might not look “perfect” if she had been dead for awhile and because of them turning her and all the pushing. I was still scared to see her, but I was also curious and like any mom, wanted to see what my baby would look like.
During that time Mom had called the funeral home to make arrangements for Kayla to be cremated. I’m not sure where she found her strength during those horrible hours, but both her and dad were there in every way that we needed them to be.
By 6:15 p.m. I was fully dilated. Mom, dad and Meiry (my friend) left, we wanted just me and Fab in the room. They propped my legs up in the stirrups and there I was, living the dreaded moment. I wanted to “get it over with” and I also wanted to just put my legs down and lie there for a while longer, delay the inevitable.
(It took me several days to get ready to write this next part, because I couldn’t find words that give justice to the experience of pushing out my beautiful, dead baby girl, a part of me).
Dr. K was paged because Carla said the baby was “right there.” She seemed nervous and I had this sudden nightmare that my baby would fall out of me before the doctor got there. I somehow got it together enough to grab my legs and start pushing. Oh, so this is what pushing feels like I thought. It was so surreal. I could feel the pressure and some pain. I kept pushing and pushing, emotionally I was disconnecting more and more with each push . I had to separate myself from the moment. It was the only way to survive.
Carla said the baby had dark hair, and that comment seemed so wrong in the moment. Don’t you know she’s DEAD, Carla? It felt like I was pushing forever and no one was giving me any feedback. It was very quiet. Finally Carla said “You’re doing good” and at the same time Fab, who I am sure felt every single ounce of my suffering, started whispering “esta acabando, esta quase acabando” His touch on my hair, my shoulders, and his words brought me back to a more present state, and gave me strength to keep going.
The world stood still for me as she came out with one final “schlep” sound and I felt her literally being pulled from my body, a part of me dying right along with her, our connection severed. All at the same time I heard that schlepping noise, heard Carla sigh a sympathetic “ooh,” heard Fab say “esta quebradinha” (she looked broken, he was warning me), and heard myself let out a few seconds of low wails as I caught my first glimpse of her. I heard all of those things in contrast to the deafening silence a dead baby radiates. She was a little floppy looking. I laid back and screamed/cried for a few moments, a completely uncontrollable, primal emotion. I went crazy, for just a few seconds. Fab buried his face in my neck and it was such an intimate moment. Just like it is supposed to be after a baby is just born, except everything was all wrong.
After they cleaned her up a little and wrapped her in a blanket and handed her to me, I wasn’t scared of her. I was in complete awe. My crazy grief made way for a tranquil peace. We took her in, her beautiful little face. I think the first thing I noticed was her nose, flat and squishy looking. Fab noticed her color—she was dark, almost the same color as him, although that could have been partly due to blood pooling from death. He also noticed her little nails. We spoke quietly, adoring every piece of her that we could see. We spoke only in the diminutive—a boquinha dela. A unhinha. A maozinha. I cried gently the whole time, but I was more clear-headed than I expected.
Dr. K was still delivering my placenta and scraping out the bits left behind. I asked her if I tore-no-then completely ignored her while we soaked up our little baby. Carla had gently told me that it looked like she had some anomalies, as she handed her to me. Looking back now, I know she was referring to the huge tumor on her tailbone, that made her butt and vulva look deformed, but at the time, I just kind of took in the words, in the back of my head wondering what anomalies, because she looked perfect. Her skin was a little fragile, now I know this is because she had already been dead for 4-6 days before being delivered. But to us, she looked absolutely perfect. Just dead.
We touched her fingers, and toes, admired her kinky hair, her dimpled chin. I put my finger to her lips, willing her to suck on it. I touched her eyelids, sad that I couldn’t look into her eyes. We told her we loved her, that mamae and papai te ama, estamos aqui. Everyone left and we had maybe 30 minutes alone with her.
I saw her feet. My biggest regret is that for some reason (shock, fear?) we did not take the blanket off and look at every inch of her. I think I was scared to move her too much because she was so fragile and limp. So I never got to see her knees, her thighs, her vagina, her bottom, the huge tumor that was killing her from the time her cells even started forming. I never saw her back, checked for birthmarks. I will never get to know those parts of her. Never.
I held my dead baby Kayla and I was so peaceful. I had all of those good birth hormones doing their job and I was so PROUD. It seems like a strange emotion but Fab and I were both really proud of the little baby we had made together. Ainda fizemos uma coisa boa, I said. MInha pescadora he said, with so much love and sadness. His litte fisherman. Nossa honeyzinha, the nickname we had called her all during her pregnancy. Our little angel, sem pecado. At one point Fab farted and we actually laughed. See, I told her, that’s how your papai acts.
I held my baby. I HELD MY BABY. She had weight in this world. 5 lbs, 6 oz. 17 inches. She existed. She did not breathe or open her eyes. I grew a dead baby. I birthed a dead baby. I held my dead baby in my arms and I was not scared. I am not scared of death.
They took her away to dress her and take pictures. My parents and Meiry came back in. I don’t remember if we talked or cried. I was very peaceful. I think God must have been with me. I am not a very religious person, but I felt close to God and the divine in those moments.
Eventually they wheeled her back in, she looked so peaceful in a little white dress and hat, with her hands folded neatly. My mom and dad got to meet her and hold her. It meant so much to me that they weren’t scared either, that they didn’t reject her.
A different chaplain was there and he said a prayer but it felt empty. I really wanted him to leave so we could just be together.
We did some poses for pictures, mom held her for a minute and so did Fab. It was so sad for me to look over at the couch and see him tenderly holding our daughter, knowing it would be the first and the last time. It was a moment I had been waiting for, just knowing he was going to be the best, most loving dad.
Basically, I just want more of her, anything of her. All I have of her are her ashes in a tiny urn, her handprints and footprints, ultrasound pictures, and a variety of “things” in a box on our dresser. They’re not enough. But they do comfort me a little. I don’t want to become the “grieving woman with a shrine” but for now, I like having those things close to me.
At some point my parents left, I don’t remember saying goodbye to them. Fab and I had some more time alone with Kayla, just holding her. Fab started getting anxious, telling me we needed to call the nurse to come get her. She was starting to get cold. I called for the nurse, and in the meantime our friends Luciene and Eddy walked in. Luciene was 20 weeks pregnant at the time and I wasn’t sure how I would react to her, but I am really glad they came. Luciene and Fabricio grew up together so it was nice for her to be able to see Kayla and share that with us. I am grateful that she was not scared to come sit with me and see my dead baby.
Luisa my night nurse came in to take Kayla. I had already told her I loved her and that I knew she was okay before Luciene got there, so we didn’t have a long emotional goodbye when Luisa wheeled her out. I did have a few panicky seconds but was able to keep talking to everyone. Luisa wheeled her out, and that was it. I was left behind, without my baby.
There was so much left to say, so many memories that we will never get to make. We had so many hopes and dreams for ourselves as parents and for our daughter. Death is so final, but it is even more final when it happens before life.
The next day we slept peacefully in the morning, and walked out into the sunlight, drove home to our house full of baby items, and fell asleep for the whole afternoon, unsure of what to do next.
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