March 13th - Bittersweet birth day

Today is Avery's first birthday. But there are no presents. No streamers. No candles. No girly plates and napkins. No little friends to come and play. No gathering laughing extended family. Because a year ago today, Avery was stillborn, coming into this world but already gone.

Of course, I remember every part of this long, heart-branding day. And of course, I'm going to share it here. It was Saturday. I'd been in the hospital since 6:30pm the previous evening. I had slept off and on through the night but awoke groggily before dawn. The nurse came in to check on me and see how I was progressing. She told me I was almost there and pulled the covers back over me. Immediately, I felt something. Not to be too graphic, but I could feel something sliding out. I told the nurse and she seemed surprised since she had just checked me. Sure enough, there was my baby girl, being born right there, all by herself at 5:05 am. I felt no pain physically. My sweet girl didn't hurt me at all.

By the time she was out, the midwife on call from my doctor's office came in. Avery had been born in the amniotic sac. At first I was alarmed because it made her look deformed and abnormal. The midwife cut it off of her and then let Daniel cut the umbilical cord, my mom at my side taking pictures for us. They wrapped our baby in a towel and handed her to me. I was crying, seeing her for the first time. She was perfect. Perfectly formed. Perfectly developed. Just small. Her body was a reddish color because she hadn't developed enough body fat to keep her from looking somewhat translucent. She weighed only 8.2 ounces and was just 8 1/4 inches long. She was only half the size she should have been for her age. But all the right developments were there up to 25 weeks.

I had to hand her off to Daniel so I could deliver the placenta. My labor stopped and I had a hard time with it but finally it was done. I actually got to see it. The midwife showed me how bad it looked, holes in it. At this point we had no idea why things had gone so wrong.

After Daniel spent some alone time with Avery on the couch, he brought her back over to. We marveled at her. Devastated and delighted at the same time. She looked like Daniel. She had no hair. It didn't take long for her peach fuzz to fall out. She had the cutest little round nose and the sweetest little lips. I looked into her tiny mouth and saw her little tongue and her gums. She was so intricate. In a way, it hurt more that she was so perfect. Because she was gone. One of the nurses helped me wrap Avery in the blanket that one of the nurses had given me the night before. She brought in several preemie hats and even the smallest was too big and had to be folded a few times to fit her. It was pink.

It seemed like seconds later that the rest of my family and Daniel's family arrived. For a while, we passed Avery around, everyone taking a turn meeting her and holding her. She was so tiny in our brothers' and fathers' big hands. It amazed me how little she was.

Daniel and I took took turns taking pictures of her as we spent our time together. Hours passed but it didn't feel like it at all. Looking back on the day, it feels like minutes. A nurse came and took her out of the room for a little while to do her hand and foot prints and for her to get her hospital photos taken. They turned out awful, by the way. They did a wonderful job of making her look like a dead baby. I didn't appreciate that the nurse had written "Demise" on the order form to indicate that my photos would be free. Thanks. It was bad enough already. I am very disappointed in the hospital, that they didn't know to offer me the services of Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep, an organization who comes out to photograph babies who have passed. What makes me more mad is that I already knew about them but in my grief, they did not come to mind. I don't think that was my job. Oh well though. No use in regrets. At least we have photos of her.

I was alarmed when Avery was returned to us. She looked a lot different since she'd been with us last. Her body was starting to show the signs of death and deterioration. It was very heartbreaking. I took her back into my arms, savoring and memorizing her. I wished it could last forever. I played with her little hands and feet, kissing them. I kissed her cheeks and her little lips. The thing I remember most is how cold she was. Her body was so limp and clammy, almost sticky in my hands. My instincts were to warm her, even placing her against my bare chest when I peeled part of my gown away. But nothing could help her. Nothing could fix my baby. After all, she wasn't even with us, though we were with her.

Toward the end, everyone left the room, leaving Daniel and me alone with our daughter. We were crying again, looking her over and loving on her. I looked at Daniel and said, "What happened to our little girl?" He looked back at me silently, but saying so much with his teary eyes. We took a few more photos of her until we realized we could no longer. Her skin was starting to peel and her color had changed. She looked so terrible, so devastatingly gone. When the camera was put down, we knew it was time to say goodbye to her. It wouldn't be fair to keep her longer. Plus, we couldn't bear to see her get much worse.

Our families returned and we told them it was time. They each said their goodbyes to her and then Daniel pressed the call button for the nurse. I hated hearing him tell her that we were ready to have our baby taken. It was so awful. So sad. So painful. And then, by God's perfect timing, our pastor, who is so dear to hearts, just happened to walk in the door. Had he been just two minutes later, Avery would have been gone. Pastor John was very broken for us. He led us in a beautiful prayer for Avery and for our healing. I cannot tell you what he said. I was staring down at my baby for the last moments, taking her in the best I could. I dreaded the end of the prayer because then I knew the nurse beside me would be taking her away.

At the 'amen' Daniel and I gave Avery her last kisses and told her we loved her. With everything in me, I forced myself to hand my baby to the nurse, knowing I would never feel her again. Never see her face again. Not here. The nurse placed her in the bassinet cart and to my horror, pulled a sheet over her, treating her like a dead body instead of our beloved baby, while she wheeled her out of the room, out of sight. I didn't get to take one last look at her. Then she was gone and we just broke down. All that was left were the stains of her leaked body fluids on my hands and my gown, and the deep agonizing gashes in my heart.

We all stayed in the room for another hour or so. I felt so tired but I could not sleep. My favorite nurse, Daniele, came in and sat in my bed with me, looking through our camera at all the photos of Avery. My aunt and two cousins came to visit. Finally we decided it was time to leave. I was not obligated to stay though I'd given birth just hours before.

I changed out of my gown, which I stashed in my bag since it had Avery's fluids on it and it smelled like her. When it was time to go, the nurse who'd taken Avery away returned. She gave me a sheet of paper with instructions on how to take care of myself and my new baby. The only thing that applied to me was the bleeding. I was angry and pained to read the first line of the sheet: "Congratulations of the birth of your new baby!" Wow. Thanks a lot. Rub it in. Really. She was nice, but her sensitivity to this very delicate situation was replaced with ignorance.

It was time to go. It felt strange to leave my room and go back out to the real world. It felt so strange. We walked down the long hall to the lobby and all I could think about was how empty my arms were. I was that mother that no one wants to be, that horror story that people hear about. The one that leaves the hospital empty-handed. It hurt. It ached. To put it lightly.

We spent seven hours in that room with Avery. Just seven. Most people get to spend a lifetime with their children, watching them grow and learn. First smiles and steps. Kindergarten, birthday parties, toys in the house, kid tunes in the car, child-proofed house, bedtime stories... The list is endless. An entire life with a child is not long enough... and all we got was seven hours. Seven hours filled with devastation and holding the shell of your child. And constantly I am forced to be bitter by the parents around me who take their children for granted, or those who take something as simple as their child's shots to make a huge fuss over. I wish Avery's biggest pain was a prick in the thighs. I wish I could hear her cry. But my baby faced death and lost. She may have suffered. Her life was taken from her before she even got to live. I still feel like people don't understand the magnitude of what happened to us and our baby. It laces every part of who I am. It has changed the way I think and the quality of life. She will always be missing. I will always know my little girl is absent, and will always wonder if people even notice.

So today is Avery's birthday. I know if she were given the choice, she would never want to come back here. Heaven is that amazing and I believe it. We will go to the cemetery in about an hour with my family and Daniel's and we'll decorate her spot with fresh flowers and we'll release seven balloons. One balloon for each hour that we got to spend with her. Seven hours. Just seven.

Happy birthday, my precious girl. I miss you more than words can say and I love you so much. I always will. Wish you were here. <3