Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep (NILMDTS) and Reflections at Twelve Weeks
Isabella would have been twelve weeks old yesterday. Had I taken maternity leave as initially planned, it may have ended this next week. I'm amazed how some days it feels like she was born and died forever ago, other days it feels like our lives were shattered much more recently.
My niece has some of the longest and most beautiful fingers I have ever seen. One of the most difficult parts of Isabella's birth and death is that the first time we got to hold her was when she died. The first time we counted her fingers and toes was when a volunteer photographer with Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep came to the hospital and we held our daughter.
Shortly after Isabella died, one of the NICU nurses asked us if we wanted a photographer to come and take photos of us and our daughter. My first thought was, "Why in the world would I want photos taken with my dead child?" The nurse has certainly seen families reeling in shock following their child's death and amended her statement to, "The photographer will be here in an hour." We were told that we never had to look at them, a link to the photos would be emailed to us, but that this was our only chance to have photos and that most parents end up valuing them.
Having photographs taken with Isabella is one of our sweetest memories in the midst of a birth story unlike we had ever planned.
After she died, we had gone back up to our room on the fourth floor to wait for the photographer to arrive. I remember laying on my hospital bed next to my husband staring at the curtain separating the bed from the door and talking. Talking about all the dreams that died with her. Dreams about her learning to walk, talking, learning to ride a bike, laughing, growing up. Dreams that most parents have and that we did not truly start talking about until a few weeks before she was born. We were both holding onto her lightly, knowing that babies can be born prematurely and not survive. We did not know, though, that things can unexpectedly happen at the last minute after a normal pregnancy.
One of the things we had tried to imagine before she was born was whose ears she would have. My earlobes are detached and my husband's are attached. When I was 37 weeks pregnant and my sisters were in town visiting, we all talked about whose ears she would have. We also wondered if she would have my husband's dimples and my long second toe.
About an hour after we had gone to my hospital room, we were told the photographer had arrived. I don't remember if I walked downstairs or was wheeled there, since I was one day out from a C-section, but we somehow arrived at the NICU.
A small room with a bed is outside the NICU and the photographs were done there. The photographer introduced himself and said he was so sorry for our loss. Then we got to hold Isabella again.
Holding her felt amazing. My dad and one of the nurses had bathed her. One of the NICU nurses had bought Isabella a pink bow which was on her head. She was still discolored from the chest compressions and death, but she was ours. We looked at her hands, her feet, her back. At the time, it was too hard for me to look at her face. She had been intubated since shortly after birth and her lip was somewhat curled up. Since she had had several transfusions, she was swollen and attempts at resuscitation are hard on a body.
Her feet and hands were beautiful. Perfectly formed fingers and toes, long feet, a longer second toe (which tickled me to see), and sharp heels that I remember getting lodged beneath my ribs. Her ears were detached. By angling the blanket so her face was partially covered, I could focus on her limbs and get to know the familiar body, but now on the outside of me.
The photographer captured my husband wiping her feet with a washcloth, her small hands nestled in ours, the shape of her toes, her face somewhat marred in attempts at saving her life, and her physical features. Even more than her features, he captured the pain, heartache, and love that marked that day in our lives. Forever we will mark time as before and after Isabella.
When we received the link about a month after she died, we sat on a couch and together walked back through the worst day in our lives. Isabella died twelve weeks ago today and I looked back at the photos last night.
As I mentioned earlier, my niece has long and beautiful fingers. I imagine most parents spend hours looking at their children. We spent has many as we could looking at Isabella, but they were much shorter than the years we thought we would have. While looking at my niece's fingers, I wanted to know how if they were similar to my daughter's. They are. We will never know if she had my husband's dimples, whether her hair would have stayed dark or turned blond like her eyelashes, or what color her eyes would have been.
Although the photos are hard sometimes to see, I will value them because they are the first family photos we had taken. We will never have the opportunity to take more photos of her. My sister and I bought matching blocks with numbers and weeks/months/years to take photos with. My niece has used those blocks, but we never will with Isabella.
I'm thankful we had an opportunity to hold our daughter again, have photographs taken, and spend time memorizing her features. After the photographer left, we held her for several more hours. In the twelve weeks following her death, our arms have felt empty every single day.
My niece has some of the longest and most beautiful fingers I have ever seen. One of the most difficult parts of Isabella's birth and death is that the first time we got to hold her was when she died. The first time we counted her fingers and toes was when a volunteer photographer with Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep came to the hospital and we held our daughter.
Shortly after Isabella died, one of the NICU nurses asked us if we wanted a photographer to come and take photos of us and our daughter. My first thought was, "Why in the world would I want photos taken with my dead child?" The nurse has certainly seen families reeling in shock following their child's death and amended her statement to, "The photographer will be here in an hour." We were told that we never had to look at them, a link to the photos would be emailed to us, but that this was our only chance to have photos and that most parents end up valuing them.
Having photographs taken with Isabella is one of our sweetest memories in the midst of a birth story unlike we had ever planned.
After she died, we had gone back up to our room on the fourth floor to wait for the photographer to arrive. I remember laying on my hospital bed next to my husband staring at the curtain separating the bed from the door and talking. Talking about all the dreams that died with her. Dreams about her learning to walk, talking, learning to ride a bike, laughing, growing up. Dreams that most parents have and that we did not truly start talking about until a few weeks before she was born. We were both holding onto her lightly, knowing that babies can be born prematurely and not survive. We did not know, though, that things can unexpectedly happen at the last minute after a normal pregnancy.
One of the things we had tried to imagine before she was born was whose ears she would have. My earlobes are detached and my husband's are attached. When I was 37 weeks pregnant and my sisters were in town visiting, we all talked about whose ears she would have. We also wondered if she would have my husband's dimples and my long second toe.
About an hour after we had gone to my hospital room, we were told the photographer had arrived. I don't remember if I walked downstairs or was wheeled there, since I was one day out from a C-section, but we somehow arrived at the NICU.
A small room with a bed is outside the NICU and the photographs were done there. The photographer introduced himself and said he was so sorry for our loss. Then we got to hold Isabella again.
Holding her felt amazing. My dad and one of the nurses had bathed her. One of the NICU nurses had bought Isabella a pink bow which was on her head. She was still discolored from the chest compressions and death, but she was ours. We looked at her hands, her feet, her back. At the time, it was too hard for me to look at her face. She had been intubated since shortly after birth and her lip was somewhat curled up. Since she had had several transfusions, she was swollen and attempts at resuscitation are hard on a body.
Her feet and hands were beautiful. Perfectly formed fingers and toes, long feet, a longer second toe (which tickled me to see), and sharp heels that I remember getting lodged beneath my ribs. Her ears were detached. By angling the blanket so her face was partially covered, I could focus on her limbs and get to know the familiar body, but now on the outside of me.
The photographer captured my husband wiping her feet with a washcloth, her small hands nestled in ours, the shape of her toes, her face somewhat marred in attempts at saving her life, and her physical features. Even more than her features, he captured the pain, heartache, and love that marked that day in our lives. Forever we will mark time as before and after Isabella.
When we received the link about a month after she died, we sat on a couch and together walked back through the worst day in our lives. Isabella died twelve weeks ago today and I looked back at the photos last night.
As I mentioned earlier, my niece has long and beautiful fingers. I imagine most parents spend hours looking at their children. We spent has many as we could looking at Isabella, but they were much shorter than the years we thought we would have. While looking at my niece's fingers, I wanted to know how if they were similar to my daughter's. They are. We will never know if she had my husband's dimples, whether her hair would have stayed dark or turned blond like her eyelashes, or what color her eyes would have been.
Although the photos are hard sometimes to see, I will value them because they are the first family photos we had taken. We will never have the opportunity to take more photos of her. My sister and I bought matching blocks with numbers and weeks/months/years to take photos with. My niece has used those blocks, but we never will with Isabella.
I'm thankful we had an opportunity to hold our daughter again, have photographs taken, and spend time memorizing her features. After the photographer left, we held her for several more hours. In the twelve weeks following her death, our arms have felt empty every single day.
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