Beaglemama
Lost our little girl
- Joined
- Jul 13, 2012
- Messages
- 143
- Reaction score
- 0
Hello everyone. First, let me express my condolences for everyone on this board. This is a thread I was hoping I would never have to make.
Monday afternoon my husband and I went in to my OBGYN's for a heartbeat check. For the past month we have been holding our breath, waiting to see if our 20 week old girl would survive a grim prognosis. Each week my doctor would put the doppler on my belly, and loud and clear we'd hear the unmistakable beating of our daughter's heart. Monday, however, all was silent. No movement, no wooshing, no sound. Our ultrasound confirmed what we already knew. Our little girl was still. Her swelling was so severe, I couldn't even make sense of what we were looking at on the ultrasound screen. Our once fidgety and active baby was gone.
At the hospital I was induced, and after a painful 10 hours delivered our lifeless little girl. The nurse cleaned her for us, and placed her in my lap. My husband and I looked at her, touched her little toes, held her tiny hand with all of its perfect fingers. I didn't even say "I love you". Why didn't I? All I could say was "I'm so sorry." The last image of her was the nurse carrying her out of the room, wrapped in a blanket, and she was gone. I was later wheeled out of labor and delivery, wheeled down to my car. I passed women also being sent home, their wheel chairs full of balloons and flowers, holding their babies. I was wheeled out alone, in pain, holding a memory box. A stupid box.
I feel so empty inside. The first night at home, I just laid in bed hating how still I felt. No movement, no flutters, just emptiness. I was desperate to have her with me. I slept with her unworn baby clothes. A little purple dress I had bought and surprised my husband with when I found out I was pregnant. Each night since has been different. Some nights I have to sleep with the door to her room left open, or the light left on. How irrational that I'm afraid to turn out the light in her room because I don't want her to be scared of the dark.
Now, each day, I feel waves of strength and waves of sorrow wash over me. A cruel and painful insult to injury is that my milk has come in. I am swollen and engorged. Just another reminder of what should've been. I'm trying to focus on the future. Someday I hope to have a happy ending. My husband and I have no children, our daughter Madison was our first. The thought of going back to "just us" is unbearable right now. So I set my sights on the horizon. Sometimes clouds of pain distort my view. But I know that I will grow stronger. Maybe, hopefully, one day I'll have my rainbow baby. I've been told a rainbow baby is the birth of a child after a loss. Just like after a dark storm there's the hope of a rainbow, I know after these dark days will be the promise of brighter days to come.
If anyone has any advice, or even just sympathies on how to cope with this emptiness, please feel free to write. With prayer and by the strength of family, friends, each other, and ourselves, we will keep moving forward on our path to better days.
Take care everyone.
Monday afternoon my husband and I went in to my OBGYN's for a heartbeat check. For the past month we have been holding our breath, waiting to see if our 20 week old girl would survive a grim prognosis. Each week my doctor would put the doppler on my belly, and loud and clear we'd hear the unmistakable beating of our daughter's heart. Monday, however, all was silent. No movement, no wooshing, no sound. Our ultrasound confirmed what we already knew. Our little girl was still. Her swelling was so severe, I couldn't even make sense of what we were looking at on the ultrasound screen. Our once fidgety and active baby was gone.
At the hospital I was induced, and after a painful 10 hours delivered our lifeless little girl. The nurse cleaned her for us, and placed her in my lap. My husband and I looked at her, touched her little toes, held her tiny hand with all of its perfect fingers. I didn't even say "I love you". Why didn't I? All I could say was "I'm so sorry." The last image of her was the nurse carrying her out of the room, wrapped in a blanket, and she was gone. I was later wheeled out of labor and delivery, wheeled down to my car. I passed women also being sent home, their wheel chairs full of balloons and flowers, holding their babies. I was wheeled out alone, in pain, holding a memory box. A stupid box.
I feel so empty inside. The first night at home, I just laid in bed hating how still I felt. No movement, no flutters, just emptiness. I was desperate to have her with me. I slept with her unworn baby clothes. A little purple dress I had bought and surprised my husband with when I found out I was pregnant. Each night since has been different. Some nights I have to sleep with the door to her room left open, or the light left on. How irrational that I'm afraid to turn out the light in her room because I don't want her to be scared of the dark.
Now, each day, I feel waves of strength and waves of sorrow wash over me. A cruel and painful insult to injury is that my milk has come in. I am swollen and engorged. Just another reminder of what should've been. I'm trying to focus on the future. Someday I hope to have a happy ending. My husband and I have no children, our daughter Madison was our first. The thought of going back to "just us" is unbearable right now. So I set my sights on the horizon. Sometimes clouds of pain distort my view. But I know that I will grow stronger. Maybe, hopefully, one day I'll have my rainbow baby. I've been told a rainbow baby is the birth of a child after a loss. Just like after a dark storm there's the hope of a rainbow, I know after these dark days will be the promise of brighter days to come.
If anyone has any advice, or even just sympathies on how to cope with this emptiness, please feel free to write. With prayer and by the strength of family, friends, each other, and ourselves, we will keep moving forward on our path to better days.
Take care everyone.