In the days following Harper’s birth, Eric and I felt compelled to start writing. We wanted to remember as many details of May 21st and 22nd as possible. I was still in shock when I wrote most of this. It is a very raw, detailed account of what happened to us those days.
Today Harper would be 4 months old. In memory of her, I would like to share part of her story on the 22nd of each month.
You can read the rest of Harper's story here:
-A
Tuesday, May 22, 2018:
Around 6 am, my nurse came back in to check me. I was 5 cm dilated. My water had still not broken, but we knew once it did things would move quickly. I really had no clue what I wanted at this point. I wished more than anything that I would progress quickly in order to get this awful event behind me; but I also was dreading the moment when they placed my dead Harper Jane on my chest. How would I be able to endure something so horrific?
About an hour later I started to feel some intense cramping and pressure in my pelvis. Even with my epidural, it was an agonizing pain that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. My nurse checked me once more and I was 10cm dilated. They immediately called my doctor and started preparing for delivery. They asked me to avoid pushing until my doctor arrived. This seemed impossible to me. The pain was too great-and not just the physical pain. There was an emotional pain that was weighing more heavily on my heart by the second. I knew the moments left before I had to face my daughter were limited. I turned to my right side and started clutching the bed rails. The pain was so unbearable that I began moaning and screaming for my doctor to come. I couldn’t take it. I needed to push.
What seemed like hours later, my doctor came rushing into the room. The nurses raised my bed and helped me roll onto my back. My feet went up into the stirrups and my water broke almost instantly. The fluid flew into the air like some sort of tidal wave. The pressure and pain I had been feeling were immediately gone. My nurse told me that on my next contraction I could start pushing. This was something else I was familiar with and accustomed to doing. The ‘pushing’ part of labor is usually my favorite part. With my epidural there is never any pain and as I close my eyes to push I always imagine what my child will look like. I imagine what it will feel like to hold them on my chest and cuddle them for the very first time.
It was in these moments of pushing Harper out that I began sobbing uncontrollably. ‘I can’t do this!’ I yelled to my doctor. ‘I can’t push out my dead baby. I’m so sorry, Eric. I’m so, so sorry!’ Despite every muscle in my body not wanting to push, I continued. Eric was sobbing beside me and I just kept apologizing. It was taking me quite a bit longer to get her out than it had with my boys. I think somehow the fact that her body was limp and lifeless caused me to have to work much harder.
It wasn’t a two way street where Harper and I were working together to meet each other. It was just me.
When it came down to the last set of pushes, it took everything in me. Even with the epidural, I could still feel the pressure of my precious daughter exiting my body. I looked down for half a second, just enough time to see the doctor holding her tiny, limp body and immediately squeezed my eyes shut.
There were no smiles or cheers from the nurses. No sound of the nasal aspirator sucking the amniotic fluid out of her nose and mouth. No high-pitched newborn cry from my Harper girl. The room was silent.
My doctor held up the umbilical cord to my husband and said- “This was the cause.”
I couldn’t see anything with my eyes sealed shut, but my husband said there was a very tight true knot in the cord. The cord was also extremely long, which made it more likely for the knot to form in the first place. I could hear my husband weeping beside me. I started shaking my head no- I knew what was coming.
I felt what seemed like the weight of the world as they laid her on my chest. I was holding my Harper Jane for the very first time. This meeting was nothing like I had imagined it would be. I squeezed her close to me, but still lacked the strength to open my eyes. Through his tears, Eric kept telling me how beautiful and perfect she was and how proud he was of me. My doctor delivered the placenta and began stitching me up. Still, I couldn’t bring myself to look at my daughter. It was too painful. Looking at her would make it too real, so I continued to hold her as I soaked her blanket with my tears.
My doctor, the man who had delivered all three of my babies and had been on this journey with me, came to my side. He held my hand and looked into my eyes. I could tell he was fighting back tears. He told me how sorry he was that this had happened. He said how unfair and unexplainable it was. He wanted me to know that I could not blame myself for her death. It was nothing I did and nothing I could have done differently. He told me he loved us and kissed my head and then he was gone. It was just the three of us now.
I knew that I had to look down at Harper. I squeezed Eric’s hand and slowly tilted my head down. I could see the adorable pink bow hospital hat we had bought for her, but the baby blanket she was wrapped in was covering her face. Shaking, I pulled it down just enough to reveal her face.
The floodgate of tears opened at that moment and I started moaning, “I’m so sorry, Harper! I’m so sorry!”
She was complete perfection.
Just like any other newborn baby she was still covered in the amniotic fluid. Her hair was a deep brown, almost black, and it covered her whole head. I realized I would never get the chance to comb it, put bows in it, or braid it. Her eyes were shut and I realized that I would never get the chance to look into them or know their color. Her little lips were puckered and full. I realized I would never get the chance be kissed by them, to see her smile, or hear her laugh. Her ears were crinkly and smushed to the sides of her head. I realized she would never get to hear our voices outside the confines of my womb. Her fingers were petite and adorable. I realized that I would never be able to hold her hand or teach her how to fold her hands to pray. Her precious little feet and toes reminded me of her brothers. I realized I would never get the chance to tickle them, play ‘this little piggie,’ or bring her with me for mommy/daughter pedicure dates. There were so many things we would miss out on with Harper. How could the Lord take her from us? How was this plan ‘good?’
Our first visitor that day was Joy, our family photographer. We had her on our schedule to come and take newborn pictures of our happy, “completed family,” but that wasn’t going to happen now. Now, the only thing we had were these next few precious hours with our Harper.
Somehow, we had to take a lifetime of pictures in one day.
There would be no first birthday pictures, first day of school pictures, prom pictures, or wedding day pictures. It would just be today. Looking back, I wish I would have cherished that time we had with her more. My body and mind were in so much shock and grief, that I felt like I wasn’t able to soak in the day. Joy began snapping pictures right away. We could hear her weeping with each press of her camera button. She stayed with us for several hours that day and took 250 photos, but most of the time we forgot that she was even there.
The nurse asked us if we wanted her to take Harper away for her bath or if we’d rather her have it in the room with us. We told her to take her away. I’m not sure if I regret that decision. I think at the time I felt that I couldn’t bear the site of her limp, naked body. So, I handed our nurse Harper’s outfit and she took her away for the first time, but not the last.
About then, Eric’s parents had made it to the hospital with both of the boys. Neither of them had a clue about what had happened to their little sister. We thought it would be the perfect time to talk to Hudson with Harper out of the room for the moment. This talk was something we had been dreading from the moment we found out about Harper’s death. Hudson had been simply ecstatic for months about his baby sister who was on the way. He would ask daily, “How many more days till my sister comes?!” We would always look on the calendar to be sure we gave him the right number.
How were we going to explain that his baby sister would not be coming home? That she had come, but was gone from this world?
*read part IV of Harper’s story here*
