Halia Hope

 Gentle Spirit, 8.15.10

My parents arrived at our home early that summer solstice morning, bleary-eyed, shocked, and very sad. My lasting memory of their arrival was how eager I was to show them our baby there in the pot. I felt so much pride, and I wanted to show off. "Look, you can see a little ear!" I said, and there it was, a tiny ear visible through the semi-transparent amniotic sac. 

I find this memory almost unbelievable now, but I'm also grateful that I did not censor myself in that moment, that I allowed myself to feel all that pride. Before long, I was overcome with feelings of disappointment and guilt, an overwhelming sense of having failed Halia and my whole family, but for that moment I gloried in what James and I had created.

We quickly departed for the hospital, where we were first seen in the emergency room, back in the same room where I first came a month before. They took the pot from James, and the nurse gently told us what was going on with the body. When she learned that we did not know if it was a boy or a girl, she went to find out, and returned with the news, "It's a beautiful baby girl!" And with that news, I finally dissolved into tears.

Once they had her cleaned up, the nurse asked if we would like to see her, and I refused. The memory of holding her in my hands was still very fresh and pure, and I did not want some sanitized, hospital version clouding that memory. The nurse was very concerned by this response. She had clearly been trained that the best thing for the parents was to spend time with the body, and she did not want us to miss that opportunity. I was equally adamant that it was not the right thing for me right then. We agreed to wait and see.

Before long, we were admitted to the hospital and transferred, cruelly, to labor and delivery. They put us in a back room, where we would have the least chance of hearing any live births. It was quiet and peaceful in the room, a much calmer setting than the ER. All sorts of people came to talk to us, in and out, in and out, through a shift change, all urging us to be with the body. It was hard for me to find my own needs in all the hubbub, but eventually I had a quiet moment in the bathroom when I found that I was ready to see our baby girl. 

They brought her to us, wrapped in a wee hand-knit blanket, with a tiny hat on her head. Her skin was transparent, her eyes shut with lids that looked like they didn't yet open. She didn't really look like a baby. She was still a fetus, but she had ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes, and two sweet arms, and two sweet legs, and tiny ears and a nose and a mouth. She was fully formed and beautiful. She weighed just 12 ounces and was so light in my arms, lighter than a doll. 

I held her, James held her, we cried, and we talked. We called our house and invited my parents and son to come see her too. We laid her in the bassinet when we had held her enough, and then we held her again.  

When I recall our time with her, I wish I had spent more time taking in her every detail, more time touching her. But it was hard. She seemed so fragile and almost unreal. A big part of me felt like I shouldn't be seeing her or touching her, not like this. I was used to having my hand on her, feeling her body through my flesh, but it just didn't seem right for me to hold her directly. Her unfolded body seemed all wrong to me. I kept thinking she should be curled up in the fetal position. And then, worst of all, she was cold, almost plastic-like. How could I take in what that meant? How could I allow myself to feel how terrible it was that these were the only glimpses I would ever get of her? So I did what I could.

And then, at some point, I knew that it was time for her to go. And the nurse took her away. We were given a beautiful memory box, as we reluctantly let her go into the realm of memory.

Meanwhile, we were informed that since the pregnancy had passed the 20 week mark, this was considered a stillbirth, not a miscarriage, and we were responsible for her body. We were told that we would have to find a funeral home to handle the arrangements. As soon as it was late enough in the morning, we called our rabbi, who had never handled a situation like this before. She told us she would do some research and get back to us. 

She called back a little while later and told us that she recommended that we give her a name and a burial. I hadn't realized it, but I had already been thinking about a name. I knew for certain that I did not want to give this baby the name that we had been planning for a girl. That name was for a living child, but since this child was to remain forever a fetus, I thought we could use her fetal name, Eagle, in some form.

When we were choosing the fetal name, "Halia" and "Leuco" had entered the conversation as derivitives of the latin haliaeetus leucocephalus  (bald eagle). Halia for a girl, leuco for a boy, we had thought. So now here we were with our Halia. I liked the sound of it.

Before she was born, through all the trouble, I had thought often about "Hope" as a name for her, but I wasn't sure about how Halia went with Hope. I said the two together out loud to the rabbi, "Halia Hope." She replied, "I think it sounds beautiful." James agreed, and so did I. Halia Hope.

When we arrived home from the hospital, we discovered that a baby name book had arrived in the mail that very morning. I quickly looked up "Halia" to find that it is a Hawaiian name meaning "in loving memory." What a marvel.

Rabbi Elyse came to our home that evening to talk about the arrangements, and we spent time giving Halia a Hebrew name. We told the rabbi the whole story about Eagle and Halia, and she told us that the Hebrew word for eagle is "Naysher." She suggested the feminine "Nashira," which also means "We shall sing." And again, I was stunned by a beautiful connection. Singing is such a powerful conduit for my spiritual life that I had long thought about giving a daughter the Hebrew name of "Shira" for song.  We completed her Hebrew name with a middle name of "Tikvah," the Hebrew word for hope.

Names in the sand by my friend Jane and her daughter Clare

As this long, hard day came to a close, I was struck again by the beauty and wholeness of our experience. I had only just begun to understand the depth of our loss, but I also felt so supported and loved, filled with amazement at how so many details worked out with a perfection beyond anything we could have orchestrated.

Day 24 of 31, 20 Cheshvan 5774 

Getting Real

The third week of bleeding set in, with no improvement. I did not feel better, the bleeding didn't slow, nothing. I saw my OB again. She leveled with me: now that problems with my cervix had been ruled out, the only possible causes for all this bleeding were bad news for the pregnancy. In her experience, cases like mine end with loss. If I made it to 24 weeks, I would need to be hospitalized for the remainder of the pregnancy. 

All I could do with this news was wait. Carry on and make through one day at a time. 24 weeks was still a month away, which seemed like an eternity. I knew that viability at 24 weeks was pretty iffy, so I really wanted to make it at least to 28 weeks. But for right now, I was in the 20th week, the baby was kicking regularly to reassure me, and I focused on the end of the school year, on a visit from out-of-town friends, and on resting as much as possible. 

Toilet, 8.13.10

The nights were the worst. I would wake up and need to use the bathroom. Blood would pour out of me into the toilet, where I sat helpless. I would return to bed, too upset to sleep. I would pray when I could get calm enough, and once and a while it was as if the room filled with tiny angels, a palpable presence of many soft-winged beings, all there simply to be with me.

Day 21 of 31, 18 Cheshvan 5774 

Premonition

During the second week of bleeding, I was eventually diagnosed with a bacterial infection, and a course of antibiotics were prescribed as treatment. I was also told that they had ruled out cancer. I thought all of this was quite good news: a clear diagnosis and treatment plan, a much worse diagnosis ruled out. I figured that as soon as the antibiotics worked their magic, I'd start feeling better and the bleeding would stop. Things were looking up. 

Still, the antibiotics made me nauseous and I was worn down by all the bleeding. By the time the weekend rolled around, I was in need of rest. As a bonus, a dear cousin came to visit, and we spent a lovely day at my parents' farm. In the late afternoon, we went to the barn/yoga studio to make some art. I was ready to pour out the emotions of the last few weeks. I figured I would do a lot of angry scribbling in red, but what came out was a lot gentler than what I expected.

Premonition, 6.5.10

It started with some rather subdued red scribbles, softened by water, and then found its way into even more gentle swirls, a fair distance from the anxiety of the bleeding. These calmer lines held the hint of the baby safely within the sac, secure in the womb. As I traveled down the page, I was able to take a deep breath again, and feel a deep sense of calm. Everyone kept telling me, the baby is fine, the baby is healthy, and I too could feel her well being. 

This drawing would also turn out to be a sort of premonition, but more about that later... 

Please excuse the quality of the scan of the drawing. The paper got creased, did not fit on the scanner, and provided other challenges. I think that I can probably address all the problems in photoshop, but that would take far more patience than I have today! 

 Day 20 of 31, 17 Cheshvan 5774

Trust

We hoped that the bleeding would clear up, that it was an episode that we could put behind us, but it didn't. Instead, I continued to bleed, sometimes just spotting but more often a real flow, especially at night. I had many appointments with no definite answers for anything. The midwives turned over my case to the ob/gyns, and they all puzzled over case. Unbeknownst to me, they were concerned that it was cancer.

 Untitled, 11.26.10

All the bleeding was heartbreaking, exhausting, and terrifying.   I reached the end of a week of bleeding, and found myself totally drained. I lay on the couch in my living room, filled with anxiety, unease, discomfort, and dread. Relaxation seemed out of the question. And then, as if by magic, a wave of peace entered, and the word TRUST  suffused the room. It washed over me. I relaxed and released. Nothing to do, nothing to control, just trust. All is well, all will be well.

Monument Rock, Caratunk Audubon Refuge.

And from then on, as heartbreaking, terrifying, and difficult as it continued to be, I was able to return to that feeling of trust. It carried me through the pain, the fear, the anger, the uncertainty, and ultimately the loss, and the grief. It still carries me. Even in my bitterest moments, I can feel that trust. I do not understand it, but I know that at some level, beyond my comprehension, all is well.

Day 19 of 31, 16 Cheshvan 5774 

Shattering

 Shattered, 8.17.10

On Thursday, May 20, at exactly 17 weeks, I went to work as usual. Mid-morning I passed a big blood clot, an alarming mass that filled me with dread. I called James in a bit of a panic and then called one of the midwives (there were five in the practice). She calmly told me not to worry, and so I tried to go on with my day as if nothing had happened. 

Suddenly, around 2pm, the floodgates opened, and I started bleeding pretty heavily. I was alone in my office, I had no other clothing, no sanitary napkins, nothing. Nevertheless, I was calm. I called James, and I called the midwife. She told me to go to the Emergency Room. James was at work in Boston so I called my friend Laura and asked her to meet me at the ER. I lay on the floor in the office as I made these calls, trying somehow to stem the bleeding.

In my memory at this point, it was almost as if my body separated and I no longer had any awareness of anything below my ribs. I was afraid to know what was going on in my womb. All my attention was in my upper chest. An almost icy calm had taken over. I felt removed, scarcely breathing, yet hyper aware.

I didn't hesitate about driving myself to the ER, which was close by, and on the drive I began to breathe again. I remember sitting at a stoplight on the way there, feeling Halia kick. Her kicks were just beginning to be identifiable, and I wasn't always sure what I was feeling, but these kicks right against the seatbelt were as clear as could be. She was doing her best to reassure me and to help me find my body again.

By the time I got to the hospital the bleeding had slowed, and Laura and I spent a while waiting. A resident came into our room with a portable ultrasound, and, as I already knew from the kicks, Halia was alive and well inside. The placenta also looked good. Once again, they didn't see any cause for the bleeding other than my "friable" cervix so I was told to go home, take it easy, see the midwife again soon to check in, and not to worry too much. 

Bottom line: the baby is healthy and that's what matters. That's what they told me loud and clear, that's what I told everyone else, that's what I told myself over and over again. That's what I wanted to believe. That's what I wanted to will to be true.

But the truth was, everything changed for me that day.  I hoped with all my heart that we would make it through, but I also knew that disaster had struck. Any sense of safety had shattered.

Day 18 of 31, 15 Cheshvan 5774