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Sometimes Babies Don’t Come Home
Introducing to you all, the wonderful Celeste, who (when I suddenly pounced on her and asked if she’d write for Sisterwives) not only doesn’t take offense at you asking her to share some of the most painful moments of her life, and the aftermath it’s left her dealing with, she *jumps* at the chance. Because I get the impression that (like me) she’s out to support others who are struggling through the horror of child loss (at whatever stage) and is generous enough to share her story, most beautifully, here. I for one, was hugely affected and inspired by the telling, and her determination to gather up the pieces of her life and stick them back into a very differently shaped frame – Lizzi
My family never kept the reality of death away from us, mostly because they never had the opportunity. Uncles and Aunties and cousins were lost with a kind of relentless regularity. Funerals were attended, most of them held at the same mortuary nestled at the foot of Diamond Head. They were almost joyous family reunions, more reliable than weddings.
In between funerals, I tagged along with my grandmother and her sisters as they tended the graves of those who had gone before. When I was old enough to help, I filled vases with water. Brushed debris from headstones to reveal row after row of familiar names.
And there, alongside my grandfather’s, was the name of my brother.
Baby Robin died just a few moments before his birth. As my mother labored with her first baby, a nurse checked her baby’s heartbeat. Everything was fine. A few minutes later my mom asked to be checked again. Suddenly, everything was not fine.
My brother was laid to rest on top of his grandfather, his tiny casket taking up the space intended for my grandmother. His name plate was commissioned and installed, a single date marking his arrival and departure.
This is how I learned about stillbirth. About death. I learned that sometimes babies don’t come home. That going to sleep was a crap shoot to see if you woke up in the morning. And I knew that people kept having babies and going to sleep because it was better than the alternative of doing nothing at all.
So when it was time for me to have my children, I understood loss was a constant possibility. I knew, and I did what I think we all have to do in order to cling to any kind of hope at all: I distanced myself from knowing. I told myself that these things happen. If my baby died, I’d be sad but I’d go on. I would make more babies.
If at first you don’t succeed, try and try again.
I really believed this, even after my first pregnancy led to the premature birth of my son at twenty-six weeks. Even after watching my closest friend endure round after round of miscarriages. Even after all of the knowing about loss, I was still cocky and self-assured enough to barrel back into baby-making with the quaint notion of “let’s just see what happens.”
What happened was I held my dead son in my arms, and nothing has been the same ever since.
It really wasn’t until I saw him that everything changed. Even a moment before, as I pushed my son’s body out of mine, I didn’t get it. Earlier that day, when the perinatologist told me his heart had stopped beating, I was still unenlightened. Before that, when I saw my husband at the hospital, I was a little confused by his tear-streaked face . And even earlier, when I called him from work and sobbed out the words “I think I just lost the baby” I wasn’t quite sure why I was carrying on.
I didn’t understand, even during all of those dramatic, slow-motion moments, the real significance of losing a child.
I thought I got it. I thought my knowledge of loss made me a thorough and careful enough mother. I was nervous throughout the entire pregnancy, hounding my doctor for reassurance that she gave almost cheerfully. No increased risk of preterm labor, she told me. No need for additional monitoring. And because I wanted to, I believed her.
By twenty weeks, I was so sure that everything would be perfect that I invited my nine year-old son Jonas to my anatomy scan. He had been so excited to finally be a big brother, setting aside toys to pass down. Planning trips and adventures and birthday parties. When the ultrasound tech announced that the baby was a boy, he literally cheered. He asked if he could help name his brother. We said of course.
Two weeks later, my water broke.
I called my mother from the hospital. She’d picked Jonas up from school and was on her way to my brother’s birthday dinner. When I told her what happened, she whispered a rarely uttered cuss word.
“Do you want us to come there now?” she asked.
“No,” I told her. “I’m fine. Have a nice dinner and come afterwards. Tell Evans I’m sorry I’m missing his birthday party.”
A few hours later the door opened and my son peeked through. I motioned for him to come to me and he climbed into my hospital bed. As he curled his body against mine, I kissed the top of his dirt-scented head. He was a miracle, my relentlessly fighting NICU graduate. The boy who wanted so badly to be a big brother.
“What if the baby dies?” He asked softly.
“Well,” I told him bravely, “we’ll still have each other.”
I believed myself when I said that. I felt calm and prepared in the face of whatever would happen over the next few hours. There were paths laid out that I just needed to follow: the NICU Warrior Mom if my son survived, and trying again if he didn’t.
Fifty-three hours after his membranes prematurely ruptured, I grasped my husband’s hand and gave birth to my son. His tiny, lifeless body slid out of mine and my pregnancy was officially, horribly, over. The doctor congratulated me on doing such a good job and I winced. I had done the worst job. The very worst. There was nothing good in any of this.
The nurse took my son to the warming table where she measured and weighed him, and did most of the things that they do with a live baby. Finally, she turned.
“Do you want to see your son?” she asked. I answered immediately. Of course I wanted to see him. Hold him. Be with him in the only moments I could be with my precious boy. After wrapping him in a blanket, she laid him in my arms. That tiny breathless bundle became the gravity that shifted my entire reality.
I saw in my son’s mottled, dead baby face, the nose I had inherited from my grandmother. The cleft of my husband’s distinctively handsome chin. Through his parted lips, I spied the most darling tongue I have ever seen. And I knew I would never see any of it again.
The nurse let us know we were being moved to a different room. She had to take our baby for the move, she said, though we could get him back whenever we wanted. Just call, and they’ll bring him right to us. As long as we wanted. As often as we wanted. Just ask. Let them know whatever we needed. Anything at all. I knew she couldn’t make good on that promise.
We gathered our stuff and the nurse helped wheel me to my new room. Away from the labor and delivery unit, she said gently, to spare us in our shock and heartache. We knew that was only half of it. Wailing away in their own birthing rooms, other laboring mothers also needed to be spared. From the sight of nurses shuttling our son back and forth between my room and the morgue. From me and my dead baby.
I hated the mothers who got to be spared.
The next day I handed a nurse my son’s corpse for the very last time. I took the single wrongest walk I have ever taken, and I left my son behind. I went to a funeral home and I picked out an urn. I signed paperwork giving my consent to have his body cremated.
I requested a death certificate.
I did all of these things while still bleeding and cramping and awkwardly shuffling in the aftermath of delivery. When my milk came in, my unsuckled breasts seemed to gloat over my broken, empty belly. “We can do our job”, they said. “Why can’t you?”
I rented a pump to extract ounce after ounce of pale yellow liquid and donated all of it in a stubborn attempt to give my son’s life meaning. I scheduled the pickup for October 15th; Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I thought it would make the day somehow bearable.
Of course it didn’t.
The days went on and life tried desperately to return to normal. There were dinners to make, and Math worksheets to check, and all manner of minutia to tend for the living. But I was hunched over by grief, pressed beneath a deafening, bone-chilling weight that made every single action slow and confusing. When the string of sympathy dinners stopped and I tried to cook again, I turned angry, distracted circles in the kitchen. I stared at the knobs in the shower trying to remember how they worked. I had Jonas read a permission slip and point to the place for me to sign it because the words on the page were a haphazard jumble.
Nothing made sense, and I did not understand why.
I had seen death before. I had grown up knowing its pragmatic reality. These things happen. We will all lose everyone. Nobody, nothing, is permanent. All you can do is pick yourself up and carry on. But when I tried to do just that, the way I had done so many times before, it didn’t work.
So now I have to relearn everything. From scratch. Revisit every old ache, every loss, and heal from them anew. Maybe heal for the very first time. Most of the time, I don’t know how to do it. All of the time, I wish I didn’t have to.
I always knew that sometimes babies don’t come home, but when mine didn’t I realized that there is no knowledge of this kind of grieving. No knowledge of loss you haven’t actually touched. Just a deep down, life changing action when you finally do.
And maybe, if you’re lucky, and work very, very hard, an eventual and unwilling sort of acceptance.
Five years later, I am still trying to find it.
Celeste McLean is the woman behind RunningNekkid.com, where she writes about grief, mental health, and her Pacific Islander ancestry. She left her home in paradise twenty years ago and has been trying to figure out how to get back ever since. She currently lives in Seattle with her husband where they raise two children and tolerate one very demanding cat.
Social media links:
Twitter: https://twitter.com/runningnekkid
FaceBook: https://www.facebook.com/Runningnekkid
I couldn’t hit “like.” But I loved the way you told this heartbreaking story. Your ending brought tears to my eyes.
Thank you for sharing here with us at Sisterwives.
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Thank you, Samara. I know exactly what you mean about not hitting like. That’s how I feel about so much of the tough, important pieces I’ve read here.
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This is the most beautifully written, most heartbreakingly sad thing. Words escape me. Thank you for reminding us mothers why we do what we do, why each day we have with our children is a crazy, unbelievable miracle. Sending you wishes for whatever it is you hope for.
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Miracle, exactly. Each and every one of us are here because of all the things that went *right*.
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I “like” this only because I like – no, ADMIRE your bravery to share this story.
These are some of the events in life that I don’t think any of us will ever understand. I cannot imagine how extremely difficult this has been & possibly continues to be for you. Just know that you touched anyone that reads this.
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I can’t thank you enough for your kind words. It does continue to be difficult, but in different, evolving ways of course. Knowing that I can speak my truth does help immeasurably. Mother was rushed into silence and healing when her son was stillborn in 1970, and it affected the rest of her entire life. Thank you so much for reading. The simple act of doing that does make a difference.
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You’re more than welcome, dear. I know your sharing will help others. I cannot tell you how much I hear that people are so moved by the storytellers here.
I can certainly relate to not feeling the same after something traumatic. I think some of us just learn how to move about & grow thicker skin while our strength lies in helping others.
I know that’s what you’ll do – you already are. 😉
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I’m so sorry for the loss of your baby. My sister died a month ago. My head wants to grieve one way, my heart another and neither can tell the other how to do it. Your experience is so moving and you write about it beautifully. I’m sending you peace and light from my little corner of the universe.
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I am so close to my sister and I could not imagine losing her. Or my brother. I keep saying that I lost a brother because mine was stillborn, but I know that his loss does not and could not compare to losing my siblings now.
I am so sorry the the loss of your sister. What fresh grief you are enduring. I’m sending your peace and light as well, whenever and however you are able to feel it. ❤
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I only hit “like” as a show of support. I can’t even begin to imagine how horrible all this must have been to experience.
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I appreciate your support so much.
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That is heartbreaking – thank you for sharing! I pray you find peace and healing.
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Thank you so much. I find small pieces of peace every day. Healing as well. Going forward, always.
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My deepest condolences, Celeste. Powerfully, beautifully, lovingly written.
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Thank you so very much, Kitt. I really appreciate your support and your presence. ❤
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Thank you. God bless you.
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I’m a pediatric nurse, and saw from a very young age a heartache so similar to this when working shifts in the NICU, or with kids on my own unit. It’s scarred my heart for having children, because the irrevocable loss that comes with putting a piece of your heart outside yourself is, as you put it, heavy and bone chilling.
You’re in my prayers. Thank you for sharing your experience, for it truly gives me strength.
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I can’t tell you how grateful I am that there are amazing people like you to take care of those fighting babies. Watching those nurses take care of my oldest while he was in the NICU showed me just how strong and generous people can be.
Thank you so much for your comment. It means so much.
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I feel the pain… I have suffered loss, but nothing that lets me imagine what this must be like. Once again, I am moved by the strength of the ‘weaker’ sex.
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I know what you mean. There are so many losses I can’t even fathom, even though I feel like I have a “handle” on life / death. On loss itself, I guess. But I learned that you can never be prepared for grief. It just manifests in its own way.
Thank you so much for reading and commenting. I appreciate it very much.
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We appreciate you sharing your story with us.
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I have read a lot of posts in the year I’ve been blogging but I cannot remember ever sobbing as hard as I am at this moment. This tore my heart out and what hurts even more is knowing the sadness I feel doesn’t even come close to yours. I am so very sorry for the loss of your precious son. Thank you for being so brave.
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Oh Sandy, I am SO grateful for your comment! Thank you very much for reading and being here “with” me. It truly does bring me a great deal of comfort.
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Celeste, you’re incredible. Thank you so much for trusting us with this most precious story of your son.
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I am so grateful to you, Lizzi, for your help and support in finding my courage to do so. I talk about him often, but sharing him here was a big step for me. (And him.) I honestly can’t thank you enough. This is such an awe inspiring site and its readers really do feel like a group of supportive friends. The internet is so amazing.
Sending you love.
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The readers here are second to none, honestly – they’re fabulous. And as for the Sisterwives…I can’t speak highly enough of them. I’m just so grateful you took that step and let us share this. I know it’s a HUGE deal, and I’m so glad you’ve had (what looks like) a positive and sensitive response.
I’m glad you talk about him often. I don’t talk about mine any more. I know they were barely there. My WonderAunty gave me christmas decorations for them the other day, so that we could honour them at Christmas, and have the ‘family’ celebration we always wante, in a way. I damn nearly broke.
Thank GOODNESS for the internet.
*hugs*
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I am so sorry for your loss. And thank you so much for describing your feelings. When you were writing about ‘not getting it’ I connected with that so much..not for the same reason, but I understand the ‘thinking you get it’ until you really have to face it and then understand that you didn’t get it at all.
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Thank you so much. My confusion after loss definitely helped create instability on top of instability. It’s not that I think I’d have been better off if this was my first experience with death, but I do think that being so “experienced” with it made me take it for granted in many ways. I hope I never take death, or life for that matter, for granted again.
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First of all, I’m sorry for the loss of your precious son
I felt the same way… my first child was a RNICU fighter all the way! At 6 years old, he managed to ‘catch up’ after many years of struggling developmentally. He presented with significant speech and language delays and sensory issues. Anyway, he is such a different boy- at almost 8 years old, he is at benchmark and above for the first time ever at school!!
With my second pregnancy, I was soooo ready for the NICU again. I thought… I can do this again. I know how it works, know what to do. I even bought a breast pump and sterilized it in anticipation. My worse case scenario: my daughter would come early and we’d do the NICU thing all over again. It ended with me in severe preeclampsia and my daughter with IUGR and born at 24 weeks still developmentally behind by 3 weeks.
But there will be ‘no rainbow’. We decided on permanent birth control. I think I’m ok with it, but at the same time, I feel defeat.
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That is so amazing about your son! My NICU grad is 14 and struggles a lot, but I never forget the two pound baby that he was all those years ago.
And I am so sorry for your loss. I relate to that feeling of defeat. It’s really heartbreaking to realize that your body can’t to this normal body thing. A punch to the gut. I hope that you are doing well and that you have an army of supportive people around you. ❤
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Four months in and so glad for this community! I’m learning a lot!! God has been our comfort in this and He continues to be pursuing our hearts in the midst of heartbreak.
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First of all, I am so sorry for the loss of your precious son.
I identified with your ‘NICU Warrior Mom’ statements. My first child was born early and was in the NICU. Everything was new, scary, uncertain. With my second, I was sooo ready to deal with the early delivery and deal with the NICU and afterward. I even bought a breast pump and sterilized it. With my first pregnancy, after delivering, I had no idea what ‘pumping’ was. Lol!
I was not ready for stillbirth and that my daughter was going to die and I had absolutely no control over it. My worst case scenario was that she was going to be born early and that the NICU was going to be in my future.
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I do not know your pain, I can only imagine it. I understand your anger at the other moms and at your breasts. Thank you for sharing this, while I haven’t walked in your shoes I do understand going through the motions trying to make this life work. That no one truly understands until they have no freaking choice. Your son must be so proud of his mommy. I am so sorry for your loss, which sounds trite. But from one mom to another, you have my sympathy and admiration.
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I got all teared up from reading your comment. I really can’t thank you enough for reading and taking the time to share your thoughts with me.
We walk a lot of roads as parents, and a lot of those roads is just, like you said, going through the motions. We do what we can, and try to help each other whenever possible. Thank you so much for being here, because it really did help me today. ❤
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Oh boy. Thanks for sharing. That was hard to read.
It did give me a different perspective on hardship and family, though. I’m struggling through a different sort of struggle, and my mother faced something similar. I’ve been having a very hard time with our relationship lately. Something about how you explained seeing your brother’s grave, and that relation to your own loss of a son, rang true for me.
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I had such a difficult relationship with my mom, and it wasn’t until I lost my son and she started opening up about her experiences that we started to find new footing. She kept that bottled up for decades and the trauma was just eating her up inside. She kept telling me “It wasn’t like it is nowadays, where everybody talks about everything.” That was a really sobering moment. I was always so upset with her for her inability to communicate. I’m only now getting a grasp on the idea that she honestly did not know how.
I hope you and your mom get a chance to work through some “stuff.” It’s so complicated sometimes.
Thank you so much for your comment. I really do appreciate it.
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*stunned* I hit “like” once and I would’ve hit it a hundred times just for how incredibly this is written. Your words effected me. I’m so sorry for you loss, and equally astounded by the gentle, insightful manner in which you conveyed your experience to us. Thank you for sharing this here. We’re honored.
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Beth, I am so grateful for your comment. It really does mean so much to me that people are able to “sit” with me (as it were) while I talk about my son. And it is most definitely my honor to share my son and my story here. ❤
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Your story was beautiful and so sad! I’m so sorry for your loss! I work in an OB/GYN office. Occasionally and unfortunately, we have patients come to us for their post-partum care after they have lost their baby. Interacting with parents who have suffered such a loss is scary – we don’t want to say the wrong thing and make things worse, and so often, the clerical staff (who are checking the patient in and out) don’t say anything at all. If I’m not being too presumptuous, do you mind telling me, based on your experience and perspective, how we can handle these types of situations better?
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A month or so after my loss, I went in for my post-natal checkup. The receptionist saw the reason for my appointment and was SO excited. She asked how the baby was doing, and I had to tell her that my son died. She was totally embarassed and retreated into herself. She avoided looking at me the rest of the time I was in the waiting room. In that instance, I wish she had just extened her apology and condolences. And I certainly wish that she hadn’t avoided looking at me like I was the plague. BUT, I get it. It’s tough for everyone. Nobody knows how to deal with such an awful situation.
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My sister lost her seven month old unborn baby a couple of months ago, and I never once heard her complain. I knew she was feeling pain that I couldn’t understand, and I wanted to be there for her but she shut everyone out. I wondered how she was doing, and now I have my answer. Thank you for being open about how you felt. I am so, so sorry for what you went through and I wish I could give you more than a virtual hug!
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I am so sorry to hear about your sister’s loss. I hope she finds supportive places and is encouraged to speak about her experience. Even if it is in a really limited setting. We all react differently, and I do know several people who have kind of buttoned up about their loss(es). I don’t get it but I get it, you know? Whatever that person needs to go on is totally legit.
For me, the first few months were just a shock, and it wasn’t until that really started to wear off that I was able to speak to more people about what happened. I mean, I always wrote about my son, but speaking in person was totally different. Maybe your sister will open up eventually. I hope that your sister finds a way to let others help her carry this pain. It really is a lot to bear.
And thank you SO much for taking the time to read and comment. It means so much.
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Thank you so much for sharing your story with us Celeste. We can never be prepared for the loss of our children. I feel your pain in every one of your word. And I feel your strength too, your beautiful love for life and for your family.
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Thank you so much for your very kind and thoughtful comment.
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I have waited to comment here. I cried and left hoping eventually words would eventually come. Words that would make some sort of difference. But… I can’t and I won’t because words will never and can never be enough. That is a hard lesson for me to learn. All I know is that my heart nearly stopped beating with every painted picture your words brought to my mind. I could feel your sobs and broken heart so very deeply and I feel totally helpless to do anything to ease that kind of pain.
I know so many others who have had to deal with this type of pain and I personally don’t think I could survive it…so…I guess I am saying I am in awe of your strength for you and your son. I feel in a way I am prepared to survive in the case I ever do face something as painful simply because your words gave me hope for my own strength.
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I am so grateful that you were able to come back and comment. It means so much to me.
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