I didn't get settled back into my hospital room after surgery and saying my goodbyes to my daughter until around 2 am on February 2nd. I was in a medicine and pain-induced fog - both physically and mentally. My legs were slowly starting to regain some feeling, and the soreness from the incision area was beginning. The nurses had to push down on my abdomen after moving me from one bed to the other. I was exhausted, yet I didn't want to sleep. My thoughts were numerous and eating away at me.
I was given some medicine to help me sleep - I was told I needed to maintain my physical strength. Part of me didn't care about that, but I knew it was necessary. After all, I deserved to feel every bit of pain I could to somehow make it up to Ellie. I was woken up every few hours to be prodded and have my vitals checked. I finally woke up around 8 am in the morning. They had brought me some light food - broth basically - to eat. Though I wasn't feeling nauseous, and truth be told, I was actually hungry, I felt guilty eating. I'm not sure why. Everything made me feel guilty because I was living and she was not.
Different nurses came in throughout the days to hug me, and cry with me. Everyone was feeling the loss. My doctor, who had just returned from vacation the night before, came in to see me that Sunday morning. I had to ask as many questions as I could think of in my drug-induced mind. Believe you me, I have even more now than I did before. I really wanted to know if Ellie had felt any pain. This bothered me tremendously. Everything was bad enough, but the thought of her even feeling one iota of pain probably would have killed me. It would have broken the last remaining piece of my heart. The doctor assured me she had felt no pain. It would have been painless and quick. That thought alone was terrifying. If anything, I never wanted my daughter to feel scared and face anything alone. My doctor tried reassuring me that I had done nothing wrong, and had done everything I could have possibly done for her. It just didn't seem like it, and I still haven't accepted this.
The doctor said that numerous other doctors had looked at Ellie's monitoring strip from the morning before, and saw no indications that anything was wrong. She had no answers for me other than what the doctor from the surgery had surmissed - a cord accident was most likely to blame. She assured me that everything internally looked fine and that if we decided to try again, this would not effect our chances. She, too, was visibly upset at this outcome and hugged me.
Doug and I laid in that hospital room for the next 2 days, going in and out of sleep, in and out of uncontrollable crying spells, and in and out of numbness. I was extremely sore. It didn't even sink in that I had had major surgery. I was in pain no matter what. The worst pain I had to endure was hearing the little heartbeat coming out of the monitor in the patient's room adjoining mine several times a day. A sound I would never hear again from my Ellie. I would try to cover my ears, or turn the TV all the way up, or even put on headphones and listen to music. Nothing seemed to drown out the sound. I kept thinking how lucky that patient was to be able to hear her baby's heartbeat and know that her baby was alive, and how it just wasn't right that I was living this terrible nightmare.
The day of the 2nd wore on, and being a huge football fan and Peyton Manning fan, I didn't even really watch the Superbowl or even care that it was on. I could have cared less if the stupid groundhog saw his shadow or not. I was in a perpetual state of winter anyways. I laid there sobbing and clutching the blanket that she had been wrapped in because it smelled like her. As we laid there, Doug and I had to talk about what to do with Ellie's remains. How does one even bear talking about this? Facing the reality that she was going to be forever gone from this world and from us was just the worst reality one could possibly face.
We talked about our options -a burial, a cremation, etc. The thought of her being alone in the ground and away from us just did not seem right so burial was ruled out. The logical option became cremation - at least she would be with us in our home, in her room. We had the hospital staff make the initial call to the funeral home and then the responsibility fell upon Doug to handle the contact from there. I felt horrible making him do this, but I knew I just could not handle it. I could not talk about arranging a permanent goodbye to our daughter. We decided upon a private family memorial for Ellie. After all, everyone in our families was feeling the loss and she would have wanted to know that her family loved her. Not that she wasn't loved by friends and acquaintances, because we know everyone was excited to meet her, we just knew we wouldn't be able to make it through a memorial in that format.
Monday morning I was finally allowed to take a shower. The nurse removed my dressing for me, and this was the first time I saw the physical scar from the surgery. I stood in the bathroom mirror, looking down at what looked like a pregnant belly, and the scar from a c-section, all without the reward of a healthy, happy baby. As Doug says, a further insult to injury. The shower wiped me out. The doctor came back to visit and answer more questions. She explained my restrictions and how my recovery would go. She explained that 3-5 days after surgery, my milk would come in and my breasts may get engorged. To suppress milk production I was to ice several times a day, wear a sports bra, and use cabbage leaves. I remember thinking to myself, how cruel could nature be? Here I was mourning the loss of my child and having to deal with the fact that the milk that was supposed to noursih her would be coming in and there was no baby to nourish. Just unfathomable.
Medicine options were suggested and a follow-up appointment was made. We were given the option of being discharged later that evening or waiting until first thing in the morning. I pondered this and made the decision to wait until the morning. The thought of leaving the hospital and returning to my more comfortable home was enticing, but the thought of leaving the hospital without our baby was terrifying. I knew it would be a difficult process and transition. I'd have to return home to a house with a newly put together nursery for Ellie and no Ellie to put in it. I needed a night to process this. Even though Doug had spent every night after the surgery sleeping on the hard hospital sofa, he did not complain about my decision. In fact, my parents and Doug had made sure that I was never alone in that room the whole time. I think about my poor Mom having to sit with her own daughter facing this reality and knowing she was heartbroken for me that she could not take the pain away from me or turn back time to make everything right, as any mother would wish for (as I wished for myself).
Finally Tuesday morning rolled around. The nurse came in early and advised that we could leave whenver we were ready. I decided to shower again, and then the discharge instructions were read to us and we signed stating we understood. Doug had packed up my items from the room and the nurse retrieved a wheelchair. I sat down in the chair, clutching the butterfly box - the only items I had to remind me of our Ellie. Instead of my sweet girl I had a box. It still isn't fair. I was wheeled down the hall, past the nurse's station. Everything was silent - a pin could have dropped. I tried to hold it together, but the tears started falling as I clutched all the mementos I had of my daughter. The nurse hugged me as I got into the car, and we drove off. What should have been a happy send-off from the hospital was instead a very somber moment.
We arrived at the house and Doug helped me inside. Sabre and Samantha gave me kisses and were obvioulsy happy that I was home. I walked up the stairs, turned, and went into what was supposed to be Ellie's room. It was the first time I had seen it as I had been in the hospital while it had been painted and set up. I immediately cried. It was a beautiful room - a pretty light yellow. I remember thinking about how she would have loved it - it was bright and peaceful at the same time. I placed her butterfly box on the changing table and cried. I looked at her pretty pictures, smelled her outfits, and then had to leave the room. I don't know what I'll do when I no longer smell her scent on the clothes...
-A lot of my memories during my surgery recovery are blurs. I tried to remember what I could of those horrible days, but the medicine and emotions have clouded my memory some. These are the memories that I can recall, as painful as they are. Tomorrow, I will delve more into my emotions and thoughts during this past week while I've been recovering at home - a short hallway away from where my sweet Ellie should be sleeping right now...
No comments:
Post a Comment