Broken Promises

Chapter 5 - You Die

The concerns began around 9 am when the nurses started the Pitocin and continued until you were born at 11:35 pm. That was over twelve hours of continued stress on your tiny, frail body. Each contraction crushed more life out of you. Did you scream with each? Did you wonder what you had done wrong? A nurse checked again to see if the cervix had dilated enough. She told us it still was not fully dilated, but she wanted your mom to push anyway. It was close enough. We had no clue what that meant or that this would be a fatal mistake. Again, they were doctors. They knew what they are doing.

Right before your mom started pushing was the first time we saw the midwife. Until now, the birthing nurse was our primary contact. This new midwife was the one we met during the first doctor visit. The one who told us how important we were. The one who told us they treat people like individuals and how important it was that we know and feel comfortable with their staff. The midwife who could not be bothered to see us all day or explain why the Caesarean had still not happened. The one who abandoned us, abandoned you. They said very few words. We were just told, "It is time to push."

I filmed the birth experience. We wanted to remember forever the most important day in our lives, the last time I was happy. March 9, 1999, shortly before 11:35 pm.

With the nurses in the way, there was no way to hold your mom's hand. In hindsight, that should have tipped me off something was really going wrong. I was a true spectator, and no one was really addressing us other than to give one-word orders. The midwife asked your mom to push. Your heart rate cratered. They kept trying. Push again. PUSH AGAIN. I cannot forget that moment when your mom pushed, and suddenly they lost your heartbeat. At that moment, you left us. You were dead. Gone. My universe ripped apart. A nurse yelled to stop the camcorder. I remember the staff rushing your mom for an emergency Caesarean. Nurses pushed the birthing bed out of the room with urgency, down a hall, a turn, another turn, into the surgical room. Every second delayed causing more and more damage. I knew the clock for this. There were minutes before you would suffer brain damage. I lied to myself that you would be okay.

I have wondered what your last thoughts were. I imagine they were, "Where are you?"

March 9, 1999, 11:35 pm

They finally got the bed to the emergency surgery. It was probably just a couple of minutes, but it seemed like an eternity. I still wonder with all the issues, why did they not have you in that room before asking your mom to push. Again, a patient, not a person. That delay took its toll. They had me put on a gown and gloves, although I have no recollection of doing so.

I prayed every prayer to God I had in me, made every oath, swore every promise, made every bargain that I could make. I pleaded with what appeared to be a deaf God to take me instead of you. I begged him to send me to Hell, but save you. No Hell could be worse than a world without you. Where was God when I needed him most? More importantly, where was He when you needed Him most?

I sat beside your mom as they cut you out. There was no beauty in this birth. They were cutting a dead child out and hoping things would not be as bad as we all knew they would be. The moment was not real. I could not even cry. Breathing was hard enough.

Unimportant thoughts intruded into my mind at that critical moment. I remember thinking, they won't let me cut your umbilical cord. They probably will not let me hold you right away. I have heard some Caesarean kids have more breathing issues because traditional births force fluid out of the lungs better. Still naive. Still believing.

When they cut lifted out of your mother, you were as white as a sheet of paper. The color along with your life ceased to be. No blue. No red. You were as white as the vernix that covered you. It was hard to tell where it ended, and you began.