The morning I found out my son had no heartbeat anymore, I was at my OB’s office, alone. Still in complete denial something was wrong, I drove myself there while having conversations with my husband and friend that it was just a routine thing and I’m sure I’d be fine. After my doctor said the words “I’m sorry….” and then I became hysterical for a few minutes, I called back both my husband and friend who both came to the office.
Those moments where I waited were very bizarre as I called my mom (to drop everything and come to me, which she did) and my boss (to inform her I wouldn’t be back at work that day, and why). When my husband and friend showed up within minutes of each other, we sat and cried and then my husband went home about 15 minutes ahead of me to do the three things I needed him to do- take the framed ultrasound picture off of the coffee table in the living room, take the adorable snowsuit with bear ears on the hood out of the hall closet, and close the door to the nursery. By the time my friend drove me home, these things had been done.
We talked about that closed door to the nursery for a few days after I came home from the hospital. My husband was gently adamant that we open it at some point; he didn’t want it to become a place of darkness. I wanted to call a contractor and have him demolish that entire room off of the side of my house, leaving an empty, ugly, gaping hole to match my heart.
See, the day before I went to see my OB because my son had stopped moving inside of me was the day of my baby shower. That Sunday night, on a high of love and gifts, I put everything away in that nursery. I unpacked and puttered and folded and shelved books. The thought crossed my mind that I may be packing up this room sooner than expected, because at this point I thought something may be wrong, but I continued to convince myself that he was just sleeping, he was big and slowing down in movements, he was just being a normal almost full term baby.
About a week after I came home from the hospital, we opened that door. I wanted everything out of there, immediately. Looking at it was immensely painful. So, I shoved the high chair, the stroller, the car seat, everything up into the attic. I drove to Home Depot, got ten 30-gallon Rubbermaid storage bins, and in an hour had put an entire baby’s room worth of stuff into them. I left them stacked up in the now empty room and after I asked my husband (rather matter-of-factly) that night to disassemble the crib, we put the rest of the bins away. I was a robot in my actions as I did all of this, militant and fast. I was angry, I was overwhelmingly sad, I was disappointed in myself, and I was physically in pain from doing so much twisting and bending and lifting a few days after a c-section. I didn’t care if my insides ripped open. What did it matter? My son was dead and now I had to put all of his clothes and books and bedding into storage as I tried desperately to tell my breasts that there was no baby and my mind that I wasn’t crazy. An hour later, it was over.
As I was standing in the upstairs hallway, staring at the attic steps, I remember my husband telling me that we should look at it as just being really prepared for another baby. I had a hard time believing that those bins would ever come out of the attic again. We don’t have babies, I told him. We have miscarriages and stillborns.
One of the first things I thought about when I became pregnant again were those bins. I thought for a while that I wouldn’t set up a nursery again. Why bother? The odds of bringing a baby home from the hospital weren’t in my favor. I thought that maybe I’d wait until I brought my baby home and then get it all out. All I’d need in the beginning would be a few things anyway.
I read somewhere, probably on some PAL (pregnant after loss) message board, something that has stuck with me during this pregnancy. I’m only going to be pregnant with THIS baby once. I can’t deny or pretend anymore it’s not happening, and I’m realizing every day that this experience, however long it may be, will be the only one I have with this baby. This is a different baby and a different pregnancy. No matter what ending I get, this time is precious.
So, with that in mind, the bins came out of the attic last week. They haven’t been unpacked yet, but I’m making progress. The thought of opening them and looking inside at what wasn’t brings back so many emotions, mostly of how I felt when I packed them.
I told a few close friends that I needed help opening these up. I can’t do them alone. I know I’ll be sad, and I don’t want to be sad. I want to remember without tears and I want to celebrate what never was with a light heart and look forward to new possibilities with a clear mind. I still have time to unpack them, and I’ll do it at my pace. If I don’t ever feel like opening them, I know my friends will gladly spare me these emotions and do it for me. But my PAL advice comes back and I know that washing and folding everything will be an experience I will have once with THIS baby, and I don’t want to deny myself of that.
Different pregnancy, different baby. Same bins, same nursery. Different emotions, hopefully different outcome.
Copyright 2014 Anne Mathay