I Couldn't Imagine...

I couldn't imagine..."

A common turn of phrase. Three simple words I would mindlessly use to express sympathy, unimagined pain, loss I had never experienced...

Simply put, I could not imagine how a mother, woman, man , father could ever feel having to experience the loss of a child. It was not conceivable to me. I had been lucky to make it 36 years on this planet which can be full of unfairness and pain without experiencing true grief.

And then it happened. To me. And my love...

The story begins two years ago. A monthly girls' night out led my friends and I into the town of Eureka Springs, AR for a tribute to Prince purple party. Needless to say, the raucous bar hopping ensued when the girls' were all stumbling around and shouting, "The night shall NOT end here." (Maybe those words were not so eloquently spoken, but you get my drift).

THIS is where the story begins...

Drunk girl walks into a bar, sings a really bad karaoke rendition of some song by Sublime, spots the ridiculously gorgeous bartender slinging drinks and tells her friends, "That's him, I want to sit..." (You can complete that sentence on your own because any way you end it, I probably said it).

Now, believe it or not, I am a terribly shy girl. Yeah, I know. Liquid courage, am I right? Anyways, the night ends with my best friend shamelessly plugging my wares like the perfect little wingman and a little peck of a kiss.

Did I show up at the bar two nights later all alone? Yes, I did. Did I walk past the bar three or four times before mustering up the courage to walk through the door? Also, yes. Did I sit at the end of the bar like a sad little bundle of nerves and awkward shyness, chewing on a straw and whipping my high ponytail back and forth, trying to look nonchalant? Most definitely. But did it work...? Turns out my awkwardness is quite endearing. That night I found my love.

Skip ahead two years. The world is dealing with a global pandemic. The homeschooling of a 13-year-old sports lover has begun. Whoa and behold, this 36-year-old ends up pregnant. Want to talk about a whirlwind of emotions? After the surprise finally settles, Michael and I end up enthralled. Early DNA testing (apparently they do that now) reveals it's a boy! Michael is beside himself, and he already has the name. Meyer Christopher Trujillo.

Then comes along the doctors visits with each one having more disturbing news. Early blood panel, you have thyroid issues. Take this medication. Glucose testing, you have Diabetes of the Type 2 kind, it's just been an underlying condition which hasn't been treated up until now. Ok. We deal with it. We go to the perinatal specialist. Got it. Oh, hey, you also have hypertension. Here, start taking this low dose aspirin...

Then, the bleeding starts. Terrified, I head into the emergency room alone because it is now the height of Covid-19 and only the patient is allowed into the ER. After hours of sitting alone, I get sent home saying it could possibly be a threatened miscarriage and to follow up with my doctor. After getting into the doctors office, Michael and I have terrifying words thrown at us. Subchorrionic hematoma. My placenta has a tear in it along the uterus which allows blood to pool up behind it which has to come out some how which is through the cervix. Good news- most potentially have the ability to heal in the first trimester, and mine does.

We have monthly ultrasounds to monitor growth due to the diabetes and placenta due to the hematoma. Meyer continues to grow perfectly. We see all the fingers and toes. Michael always comments on how long Meyer's legs look. He's constantly bouncing around. Another soccer player we say we have coming.

I buy things. The perfect manly, backpack style diaper bag. Wipes, diapers, washcloths, shampoos, lotions. blankets, etc... We begin redecorating and remodeling. We are now 20 weeks in. Halfway there! Then another bleed happens. Another trip to the ER. Another follow-up. Another ultrasound. It looks like the growth of my uterus has caused another tear. A small portion of the placenta has torn away from the uterus. Our doctor tells us to expect more bleeding as there is still a small pool of blood behind the placenta. We continue with cautious optimism and partial bedrest and lifting restrictions. It'll heal again, we are certain. I don't really think twice about it.

It is a Thursday. Michael has an eye appointment and a hair cut. We go about our normal routine. The next morning I stay in bed late as I am not feeling great. I stand up to go to the bathroom and feel the bleeding. I make it to the bathroom and as I pull my pants down I am horrified as I find not blood, but a clot the size of my fist which falls to the floor with a sound I will never be able to quite get out of my mind. Michael is in the kitchen making a snack, and I yell at him to come quickly. After hastily packing a bag, we are out the door and headed to the hospital again. I am 22 weeks and six days.

I am crying as we get to the hospital. I do not want to stand up out of the car because I am scared. We make it into the doors and are rushed to OB trauma. As the nurse hands me a gown and asks me to change, the bloods starts gushing down my legs, into my shoes. My black and white plaid shoes. That is all I can think as I begin to shake and cry, "this can't be happening." Michael and the nurse strip me, get me changed, and into the bed. There are IV's already being inserted. The doctor is already there. The ultrasound equipment is ready. Baby Meyer is not in distress. Heartbeat is strong. We get moved to labor and delivery.

Nurses and doctors come and go. The bleeding slows. Michael and I are told what to expect. My placenta has had a partial abruption. This still cannot be happening. They send the neonatologist in to talk about what could happen if delivery occurs now to over the next couple of weeks. Our options. Interventions. The doctor's continue to tell us we need to talk. We have serious decisions which need to be made.

The bleeding slows. Michael and I are again optimistic. I am told that I will not be leaving the hospital. I will be there until the time that I deliver whether it be days or weeks. I stabilize and am moved to long term care. This is a good sign, but I continue to break down. Michael is only allowed to visit an hour per day due to Covid restrictions. My son is not allowed at all. I take it quite hard.

The days get easier. Michael and my son are staying in a long-term-stay hotel down the road. I look forward to the evenings when Michael visits. I have Netflix. I have my knitting. I am the only person in the Perinatal Care Unit, so I have the nurses to talk to when I do get lonely. They tell me the stories of women who have stayed six weeks and delivered early yet healthy babies. I talk to my little Meyer everyday. Pep talks about how we will get through this whole event with a story to tell, how his daddy and I our so excited to meet him, but he has to wait a little longer. I meditate and will my body to heal and hold onto my little guy. I video chat Michael and my son in the mornings and at night. I can do this.

It is now a Wednesday morning. Two days before my son's 14th birthday. I am 23 weeks and four days pregnant. I wake up early in horrible pain. I know that the pain is contractions, but I am unwilling to except that as happening. It gets worse. I call the nurse. I get up to the bathroom and can't move. My placenta has completely abrupted. It all happens so fast.

I am screaming. NO. This cannot be happening. I need two more weeks at least... I am crying. I need Michael. The nurses are calling him. The doctor is there. I am already dilated to seven centimeters. I am delivering a baby that is not ready. I am screaming, "I can't do this." The nurses are there holding my hand. A monitor is trying to find our baby Meyer. The pain is intense. Michael is still not there. I don't want to do this. I am screaming that something is happening. The doctor is yelling that there is a baby coming and one small push and he's here in this world... It was all less than an hour.

Michael and I have had the talks about what we would do over the past couple of days. We didn't actually think that it would occur. We stayed extremely optimistic, positive that the tear could heal once the clot was passed as had previously occurred. If we could make it another month before my uterus stretched again, our little guy would be more ready. But we made a decision. We did the research. We talked to doctors. Read the statistics. If our baby were to be born now, we wanted to do compassionate care. We did not want to subject him to tubes, needles, machines which would try to breathe for him. Pain. Ultimately, death after a a few days or weeks. It was not an easy decision, but it was an educated decision on our part. We did not want to selfishly try to keep our little bean going for our comfort or guilt.

The nurses gave me my tiny little Meyer. One pound and three ounces. Eleven inches. Michael finally arrives. Michael takes our baby as I am willed into the operating room for a D & C as my placenta, which would not stay attached to nourish my baby, now will not exit my body.

I make it into the recovery room and Michael comes in and tells me that Meyer passed. I wasn't even there to hold my baby as he left this world. My body completely failed me. I hold by baby, still. His little fingers, little toes. His tiny, perfect little nose. My Meyer would have been the spitting image of his father if he made it full term, and I can't bear it. I cup his fuzzy head.

Four hours and 58 minutes. That is how long we have our Meyer.

I sob. I cover my mouth as a terrifying sound escapes my throat, and Michael crawls into the hospital bed with me, his arms squeezing me.

We are told we now have to make arrangements. Funeral homes. Michael does it all. He is my rock.

The next day, we leave the hospital. Without a baby. I still look pregnant. My breasts are already swelling. We go home. I look at the baby stuff piled in the corner of our room. I break down.

The days continue. Life continues outside of the walls of our home. I don't know how to go on with my days. I cannot breathe. I look in the mirror. My eyes are ridiculously swollen. The crying comes and goes. My body still tells me that I should be holding a baby in my arms. My milk comes in and finally wanes. The "what-if's" and guilt sets in hard. "What if I would have rested more after the first bleed?" "What if I would have done less work around the house?" Why did this happen to me?

There are numerous stories such as mine. Stories of loss and hope. We are here ready to listen, hug, and be a part of the collective journey. Up until now I had not known true grief. The guilt that festers. I slowly began to laugh and smile again. At first it was immediately stolen. The guilt I would feel from a simple laugh, a happy moment stolen and would startle me with such intensity. It took a dear friend telling me it is ok to smile and laugh, to see the pleasure in things no matter how small. While I hated most people telling it would be ok, she told me how our Meyer wouldn't want to see us unhappy in life. He would want us to smile.

The pain begins to subside. I will never forget my little Meyer. I will also never forget the pain of loss. I now know how woman who experience such a loss feel. I can imagine.

I want to tell my story. I want for those that need to hear it, to bear witness and know that they will never be alone. I want women and partners to know that others have experienced pain. That others have had people tell them their choices were not ethical. That happened to us. People told us we made an unethical choice by not doing everything to save our baby. The pain those words inflict are indescribable. Michael and I made the hardest choice. We are here for those people and their Meyer's.

There continue to be bad days. Days when I can't get out of bed, and that's ok. I still experience guilt. There are days when the "what-if's" are all that circulate through my mind. That is ok. It is ok to grieve. Michael and I are strong and we have gotten stronger together. For that, I am forever grateful.

We continue to heal. Each day has been a blessing and a curse, but we continue...