Really For Real

One of the nicest, most empathetic things anyone has said to us came from a good friend. She told me, "MB, Calla was real to us."

I don't know if I can adequately explain why that means so much to me. Obviously, I was pregnant with a real baby. Obviously, Calla was alive inside me. Obviously, she was going to be born, eventually.

OK, that last one was optimistic. I get that now.

But a baby living inside her mother hasn't yet been formally introduced to the world. Everyone is curious to know her, meet her, kiss and hug and hold her--certainly. C described the difference between a mother's love and a father's love like this: a mother begins her bond at conception, has a 9 month head start on everyone else. That love gets galvanized in pain when the baby is born. A father's love truly begins with holding, and rocking, and physically BEING WITH the baby. While he loves the baby, of course, their bond begins after birth.

This little world Calla and I shared was quiet, inward, secret. No one knew her like I did. When I read and sang to E, she would wriggle and squiggle in response. She loved when I ate chocolate. She kept me company on miles and miles of runs. Calla was my little sidekick (no pun intended, I guess).

While I realize our loss is different from any other--different from a miscarriage, which has its own grief and pain, different from losing a child who'd been born alive, lived part of his or her life--it is still the loss of a child. Calla was here. She was alive and real, even if no one else really knew her. C and I, and E and our families and friends, loved her already. We'll remember her always.

Why do I even feel like I have to explain this? Maybe it's because I'm afraid that as time passes, and life eventually goes on its merry way, my memory will fade. I will begin to question whether it was real, whether I really had her. Maybe it's because I'm afraid people will judge me for still being sad, years and years later.

I'm afraid that when someday, you look at me and see me smile, you'll think, "Whew! Glad she got over all that!"

No one tells you how this is supposed to work. But knowing that Calla was real, and that people know it, acknowledge it, remember it, makes me feel a little more normal.

Nothing's Better Than Something, Right?

So here's the lowdown from MoTown:

Nothing.

C and I met with my doctor today. She was awesome--explained EVERYTHING that happened and could have happened and tests that happened to us, leaving no stone unturned. Answered all of our questions, offered guidance and support. Basically none of the tests--autopsy, genetic tests, pathology--have shown any reason for Calla to have died. There are still a few parts that have to come back--placenta pathology, for example (at least I think that's what she said)--that could reveal some answers. But overall, nada.

Huh.

So, if this mysterious NOTHING hadn't happened, then I'd be still pregnant, or holding my baby girl right now. Weird. It's amazing how in these modern times, we know so much but still know so little. The human body has a way of doing its thing, despite modern medicine.

I'm kind of oversimplifying things here. I'm not so great at remembering details and nitty-gritty. I was basically waiting to hear what I needed to hear, and then let C absorb all the rest.

It wasn't the bacon. It wasn't the anti-bacterial cream. It wasn't an infection or virus or undercooked meat. It wasn't the worry that I wouldn't, couldn't be a good mother to two children. It wasn't the worry of getting two kids into the car and around the grocery store. It wasn't the running. It wasn't any of these things that I control in my life. It was . . . out of my control.

So, moving forward, there appears to be no increased risk of this happening again. So far. Tell that to my already-neurotic-worrywort brain. When we're ready, we're ready. Barring any major issues from outstanding tests, it's an eventual green light.

But still I'm sad. How can nothing take away everything?

Four Words and Tomorrow

We're firming up our cemetery plans. Although we are not scattering Calla's ashes at Forest Lawn, we did purchase a plot and a marker in a beautiful spot. If you're familiar with Forest Lawn in Buffalo, you might know the spot. There's a hill towards the Main Street side, the highest spot in the cemetery. There's a white, abstract-ish statue of an angel pulling a person skyward at the top of the hill. That's where. On the hill, amid some young trees.

I like that spot--as much as I can like any spot there. We've spent countless hours running through the cemetery, training for race after race. We live practically across the street. Several times while walking through with Eliot, we've seen children playing on the hill. That makes me smile---to know there will be kids there, playing, keeping Calla company.

I know she's not really there. But it will be a place where I, we, can go and remember.

We chose a marker, and on it we could put four words. Four words--aside from Calla Valentina Scott, aside from her birthday. How can I sum up everything she means to us in four measly words? I can't scratch the surface of how much I love her, miss her, want her here with us. I can't begin to explain the hopes and dreams I held in my heart. Four words? May as well be zero.

In the end we chose these: "Beloved daughter, sister, friend." Not nearly enough--a metaphor for the time she was inside me, with me, living.

On a different note, we go to my doctor tomorrow. I'm awaiting this visit with equal parts excitement and dread. We may leave there tomorrow with no more resolution than we have today. But at least I can touch base with someone who was there, to remind me that, no, this wasn't all a dream--rather, it wasn't just a nightmare. It was, indeed, real.

I'm scared. When Calla was born, there were no apparent cord issues, no placenta issues. I'm scared it was something more--something genetic, something really, really bad--something that will make the doctor look at me and tell me what I fear most: don't even think of trying again, girl.

Because right now, that hope of moving forward, of--of what?! Certainly not a replacement, or a quick fix. But of a possible number Three--this one with a different outcome--that's what's keeping me going. I need that hope--you don't know how much I need it. And I'm really, really afraid of getting it yanked away yet again.

Calla Valentina

I knew on Friday morning something was wrong. I spent all day waiting for the baby inside me to start its usual dance routine, but after a full day of feeling next to nothing, deep down I knew.

We ended up going to the hospital at 11PM on the coldest night of the year. I brought along my measly-packed hospital bag just in case, but "in case" of what I had no idea. A nurse ran the Doppler over my swollen belly, searching for a heartbeat. At one point she took my pulse to see if the beats matched--and they did. After a sonogram by a junior resident, we knew for sure: our little baby was no longer alive inside me.

I screamed and sobbed,"This isn't real! This isn't real! What do I do now?" My husband beside me held me, rocked me, and let me know that it was, indeed, real. And really happening to US. The worst thing I could think of was now our immediate nightmare. What had I done? How did this happen? Why US? Why anyone, ever? We were given no answers, as there possibly could be none to give. While no one deserves this, it nevertheless happens.

My doctor arrived and told us I'd have to deliver this baby soon, so we decided to stay there and jump right into it. Little did I know what would happen over the next 36 hours. No one, not one woman, goes into her pregnancy thinking about her labor day entailing funeral homes and final resting places for her baby. We fear the physical pain, we decide where our babies will be born, we plan for life after delivery. We don't anticipate coming home from the hospital empty-armed with hearts broken.

Over the next 24 hours I was admitted, given IV fluids galore, pricked, prodded, and poked, and my body was encouraged to start labor. By the time I was induced at 2:15 on Saturday, it felt as though we'd been in that room for a lifetime. We were there through several shifts of nurses and doctors, all of whom were so incredibly kind and sympathetic I could hardly bear to look at them.

One by one my parents, inlaws, brother and sister-in-law, and pastor came to comfort us. The sadness in their faces matched mine, and I couldn't help but feel as though I'd caused their pain. They spent almost as much time in the hospital as we did. They were doing their best to support and care for us while nursing their own hurts and grief at the same time.

The anticipation of labor is a double-edged sword. On one side, the reality of the physical pain it produces makes me shudder, but the sweet joy of a brand-new baby on the other side of it is blissful. This time I would endure great physical pain, only to have our baby immediately taken from us. I could hold the baby, but could not take the baby home with us. She was already gone.

One of my blood tests revealed my platelet counts were low, and further tests showed the numbers dropping. This meant an epidural for pain management was a dangerous choice. A morphine drip offered my only comfort during round after excruciating round of back labor contractions. The final stages of labor were so intense I howled like a wild animal, sobbed, screamed and worked harder than I ever had in my life.

Our baby girl, Calla Valentina arrived at 10:15 on Saturday night. January 9th. Her birthday. 36 weeks into my pregnancy. From her black curly hair, to her rosebud mouth, to her tiny fingers and toes, she was perfect. She was big, 5 pounds and 4 ounces. She was beautiful. The cord and placenta were intact and perfect, too. The answers I so primally craved eluded me upon delivery. There was not one apparent reason she didn't make it.

While pregnant with Calla, I wondered how I could share my already-full heart with another child. I knew that night, instantly, how huge my heart could expand. And instantly all its pieces were shattered on the floor. All the times in my life that I thought had been sad were nothing compared to this. THIS was utter sadness and despair.

I held Calla, kissed her, examined her, talked to her. She looked like a little doll in my arms. I watched as our families and close friends sobbed, held her, and loved her too. I openly and loudly wept from the deepest part of my soul, feeling both empty and alone, and so incredibly blessed. I sobbed, "My little girl! I just want to keep her!"

Calla Valentina, our little girl. Instantly loved and missed. We might never have the answers to why she was taken from us. But she was with us. We love her. We miss her already. She is a part of our lives, a daughter and sister, a granddaughter and niece and friend we will never forget. She was my baby, if only for a short time.