She Brings Joy

I recently decided to begin submitting Beatrix's story to writing venues which accept unsolicited offers. In order to prepare my submissions, I decided to write out our story anew- and surprisingly, I have had a difficult time writing this post. Even after five years there are low times, when the sadness leaks out and touches everything around me.

When my Beatrix died, I shared her story with every organization that I could. I share her now, as an introduction for you and a reminder for me. A reminder of how even with the low times that followed there was beauty in the storm.

I would love to know that anyone reading will see the human being my baby was, instead of just still images of a dead child or a political argument about abortion exceptions. There are so many important things I would like to share about our story. The journey we went through to have our baby is just as important as what happened after she was born. I sometimes forget about this- the life that she lived before she lived her life.

I knew I was pregnant almost immediately. I only took a test to confirm it. I saw my doctor who pronounced me a mom-to-be, and sent me home with a gift bag full of goodies for new moms. I was ecstatic. This was a long awaited for baby- for six years I had prayed, begged, and hoped. Here she was.

When it was time for my second appointment I brought my 16 year old step-daughter. I was hoping she would get to see her new baby sibling on an ultrasound screen. I knew I would be getting an ultrasound because I was spotting slightly. The doctor had mentioned casually that we would be taking a look to make sure everything was ok.

This was exciting because I had already had an ultrasound at 6 weeks. I was looking forward to having photos to show my baby of his/her very first weeks in my womb. Generally, there aren't that many images done this early in pregnancy. I didn't know then that these photos would be so very special to me, but for a different reason.


In the quiet ultrasound room as we waited for the tech to come in, my daughter and I talked about the baby. What a baby would be like in our house. All of our children were older- 18, 17, 16, & 6. My husband and I have a “yours, mine, and ours” household. Everyone got along well- a baby would be such a welcome addition to our family!

From the day I realized I was pregnant I knew that this baby would be a girl. I did not have a biological daughter, and my step-daughter was old enough now that she would be like a little mother for this baby (she thought the baby was a girl too). We had already chosen a name - it was she and I who wanted to call her Beatrix.

The ultrasound started with my daughter having a perfect view of the screen. I knew immediately something was wrong. My step-daughter was unaware of the friction, this being her first time seeing a pregnancy ultrasound. But I understood what it meant when the tech is too quiet and she almost seemed to be trying to sit between my daughter and the screen -- which was also turned completely away from me. I asked if the baby's heart was beating- it was, and I didn't worry too much after that. I was healthy and strong. My husband was healthy and strong. The only negative pregnancy issue I could imagine was miscarriage, and miscarried babies didn't have beating hearts.

After our ultrasound we returned to the waiting room, and after a short time the doctor called me into her office (alone). She explained that I was most likely going to miscarry very soon. The baby's skin was ballooned around her little body, the space between upper and lower layers of skin seemingly filled with fluid -- all of his/her visible organs were also swollen with fluid. His/her heart was beating very rapidly but very weakly. It was only a matter of time. This was a very sick baby -- and this was only at 9 weeks. The doctor thought I had been infected with some type of virus, Rubella maybe. She took numerous vials of blood and told me she would call with the results. She gave me instructions regarding what to do when I began to miscarry. I met my daughter in the waiting room and we walked out together.

I didn't miscarry. And this was the beginning of an almost endless number of ultrasounds and Drs. appointments. There was no virus, or any other measurable issue which explained my baby's problems.

At 12 weeks we went in for our much all fold translucency test. The swelling was completely gone, but there was a large amount of fluid in the baby's nuchal fold. The ultrasound technician also thought something may be wrong with the baby's legs, but the doctor didn't agree. The tentative diagnosis was a genetic disorder, most likely Down syndrome.

After that appointment my husband and I sat in the car and contemplated life with a child with Down syndrome. We agreed that no matter what, we would carry this baby for as long as she would stay. No matter what.

At 16 weeks we went for an early fetal anatomy scan. The thickened nuchal fold had turned into a cystic hygroma (I have since learned that cystic hygroma is not an actual medical term, but a common name for a cystic lymphangioma -- a pocket of fluid underneath a person's skin. Usually the result of trauma).

 It was also joined by a large omphalocele (abdominal wall defect located at the base of the umbilical cord) containing the baby's liver and intestines. With both problems together and my age (35 at the time), the chances for a genetic defect was almost 90%- and the genetic defect would most likely not be Down syndrome. This was the first time we heard the term "incompatible with life".

We had an appointment for an amnio that day- our doctor had made it clear that even if we weren't going to terminate, it would help the baby in terms of treatment after birth if we knew exactly what was wrong with him/her. After the amnio we spoke to a genetic counselor. It was horrible. She referred to my baby -- the baby we had just watched moving on an ultrasound screen -- as "the products of conception". Not once did she refer to our baby as a human being. The baby was diagnosed Trisomy 13 based on the results of the ultrasound. We were told our child would almost likely be miscarried, and if we did manage to carry to term he/she would go straight from the hospital to an institution.

When we got the rapid results of the amnio three days later, there were no genetic defects.

I also learned I was going to have my baby girl -- my sweet Beatrix.

I began to have hope.


Beatrix kept growing -- astounding the doctors who had insisted she would die before she was ever born. Every appointment was an emotional trial for us. The doctors allowed us no joy -- no hope in watching the magic of our daughter moving in the womb. Even though her prognosis was so grim we could have been supported in our choice. We would have appreciated being allowed to enjoy her while she was living.

At 20 weeks we were transferred to a specialist. He would be seeing to my care until I delivered, if I delivered.

He was fantastic! Unfortunately for us, he also detected new fetal anomalies. In addition to her omphalocele and cystic hygroma, he detected dolicocephaly (an abnormally shaped head), and a foot deformity. The new deformities were likely a result of the position of her body, not her syndrome (as yet unknown), which was why they hadn't been seen before. He told me our local hospital would not be equipped to care for Beatrix should she make it to term. He suggested Morgan Stanley Children's Hospital (part of Columbia Presbyterian Hospital- the #1 hospital for birth defects in NY State) in NYC.

He and the doctors there would co-manage my care as the hospital was over an hour away from my home. The hospital would do an evaluation at about 26 weeks (ultrasound and MRI), but other than that appointment, my specialist would be seeing me almost to the end. At 34 weeks my care would be transferred totally to the hospital.

At that 26 week ultrasound our world turned upside down. The list of things "wrong" with our baby grew significantly. Almost every part of her  lower body was malformed. In addition to all of the things the other doctors had found, the MRI showed a sacral agenesis (a spinal deformity which causes paralysis), kyphoscoliosis, bilateral clubfeet, and lungs which had herniated into her abdomen. She also had virtually no umbilical cord, which meant absolutely no vaginal delivery. She could get stuck in the birth canal and I would hemorrhage. I knew before they gave us the diagnosis what it was. I had read about this awful thing when I researched her defects -- Limb Body Wall Complex. My worst fears were confirmed and we were sent home to plan a funeral.

I continued with care. We asked them to try. We knew it was lethal, but try. We provided them with medical journal articles featuring anecdotal stories of survivors. One doctor laughed, patted my knee, and said "you are a tenacious one, aren't you." He was the same physician who brought medical students into my ultrasound exam room without asking permission, and who told me to stop talking during his presentation to them.

But, even though some of them were disdainful of our decision, a few of the physicians at Morgan Stanley were willing to try.

Beatrix's case of LBWC was most evident in the lower portion of her body. Her brain, heart and circulatory system were perfectly normal. Her arms moved, and we could see her perfect face in the ultrasounds. We saw her smile in one 3D ultrasound. The lethality of LBWC is most often due to the size of the omphalocele. It leaves no room for lung development, and baby can't breathe at birth. Because my daughter's anomalies were so low, and we had seen evidence of her practice breathing, we had hopes of her being capable of breathing at birth.

We wanted them to save our baby. We could not give up hope she would be the exception to the rule.

We found a perinatologist who was willing to work with us. She told us, "I like to see what the baby has to say when they are born." This was exactly what we were looking for. Someone who would not give us false expectations -- but who would it give up on our daughter because of her diagnosis.

We prepared ourselves for all of the attendant issues involved with a prolonged hospital NICU stay, and concurrently we prepared ourselves for the death of our unborn child.


At 34 weeks, on the evening of December 12, 2010, I went into labor. Beatrix was born via classical c-section at 2:03 a.m. on December 13, 2010. She was not breathing when she was born. She was resuscitated and given assistance. She still could not breathe. After 20 minutes the doctors came to tell us she was not going to make it. I was still being stitched up so my husband went to be with her. She wrapped her tiny hand around one of his fingers. He brought her to me and she died peacefully in my arms at around 3:50 a.m. She never cried. She never opened her eyes. She just lay sweet and still in my arms before she continued on to her journey home.


The doctors had prepared me for a monster. I could not visualize her deformities in my mind during the pregnancy. When I finally got to see her all I saw was a perfect little baby. My baby Bea. She had the most beautiful little rosebud lips and the longest eyelashes. Her tiny hands and feet were perfectly formed. She had long slender legs and a tiny hiney like my other babies had. I opened the swaddling blankets to look at her body. I wanted to see how awful it really was. I was gratified to see it was almost the same as any other baby. Her body was not monstrous and deformed. It looked like a baby's body with two differences. Obviously, she had an omphalocele and her legs were positioned slightly to the left of her spine, instead of straight up and down. But even with those outward issues -- she looked like my normal baby girl.

I thought I would be so frightened. How could anyone be frightened of such a sweet little baby girl?

I thought I wouldn't be able to let her go. But I was the one to ask them to come and get her when the time was right.

I thought that this would break me in two, and I wouldn't be the same person -- it has, and I'm not.

There are not many Limb Body Wall Complex babies born. Most of them are aborted.

This is a terrible thing to me --

Studies show that women who terminate their pregnancies with a poor prognosis do not do as well as women who continue their pregnancies.
I know that if I had to do it all again, knowing what I know now, I would. There is no question in my mind of the benefit of continuing our pregnancy. Giving my daughter every chance for life and a peaceful death was the one gift I could give to her. Giving myself the tools to heal and hold onto her memory was the one gift I could give to myself.

The time I had with our daughter was vital in terms of parenting.

I have loved Beatrix since the day I was born, it seems. I was made for loving my beautiful baby girl. My arms were made to hold her until she breathed her last. My lips to cover her face with kisses. I wonder if she knew I was the one who had carried her all that time, safe in her quiet place? I would like to think she did -- that when I kissed her and whispered in her ear so many times, "I love you", she recognized my voice and felt loved.

There is nothing I could ever regret in choosing to carry her. In fact, I thank God I didn't miscarry like they said I would. I cannot contemplate not knowing her here in this world any more than I can contemplate not knowing any of my other children.

I am so grateful I was able to hold her -- even if only for a short time.

There are so many things I treasure from the early morning when she was born. I treasure the way the world seemed to disappear -- there was no one but the three of us. I treasure the feeling of absolute peace which permeated everything around us. I treasure my memory of the morning. I can't tell you what the nurses looked like, and the physical pain of the surgery has faded away -- but I remember exactly what my daughter smelled like and how dense the weight of her in my arms was. I remember the looks which passed between my husband and I, each of us saying goodbye in our own ways.

How deep and quiet was the love I felt for this tiny little baby.

I was so frightened before she came. Now I realized it wasn't her who I had been afraid of, but love. I was afraid to love her. To love her and have to give her up. I know now in allowing her to grow and live -- even if it was only inside of my womb, she gave me such a gift. This gift will hold me over when I'm feeling sad or missing her. All the love I was afraid of feeling has overflowed in me and touches everything I do.

I entitled this story "She Brings Joy" for a reason. As I said in the beginning, my step-daughter and I had chosen the name Beatrix for her. What I did not mention was that we had actually chosen this name for a future baby girl before Beatrix was even conceived. It was #1 on our "list of names we would call a new baby if we ever had one". Beatrix (the name) has been almost like a prayer at times, and like a taunt at others. Beatrix literally means (in Latin) "she brings joy". It would seem an odd choice to anyone who didn't understand how much I love this sweet baby girl. People could ask how this situation brought me joy? During my pregnancy even I wondered, as most bereaved people do, what I had done to deserve this. How could I ever find joy when I was sometimes so sad?

How would I find joy when my baby was dying?

But I did. Those tiny moments with her, parenting her the way she needed to be patented, were a time of complete joy. It must have been part of God’s plan for me to find this type of joy in the midst of my sorrow.

I could never explain to anyone who hasn't gone through the same situation how simple it is to find joy in what Beatrix brought to me. Her middle name, Elizabeth, means "my oath to God". How easily I have kept this oath, that I find joy in Beatrix's life. Every last second, every movement, every heartbeat; the way my heart leapt with happy anticipation the first time I held her.

How could I not find joy in loving my little baby girl?

Other people may see me and think of sorrow. I can end this with an affirmation: Of all of the varied emotions I feel at having carried Beatrix to term knowing she had a lethal anomaly, the greatest has been the joy I feel at having carried her for as long as I did. The joy I felt when holding her tiny hand in mine. Looking at her small, sweet face for the first time.

She brought me so much joy.

Every day when I recall the way she felt when I held her, I will remember that joy.

With every passing year, I will sink further into the joy.

And in the end, when I am finishing my time here on this earth I will leave with joy, knowing I am going home where she is waiting for me.

This post is going to be a little off topic, but it's part of my grief experience, and it's important, so it's here. 


Bear with me. 


Dear holiday shopper,

I am one of the {probably numerous} retail store employees you came into contact with this week. I have been employed by my company for almost a decade and am very good at my job. So when you came into my store with your request I was more than capable of fulfilling it.

However, my efforts did not produce the desired results and you became annoyed. Your annoyance manifested in your insistence that I perform a task which was against my company policy. After my apology and acquiescence (because the customer is always right, even when going against company policy) to your request, you berated me for causing such a fuss. You addressed my "incompetence" by expressing your desire to be "helped by someone who can do their job", if I couldn't. 

There were profanities involved.

So, here's a note. From me, your retail store worker. 

It will not contain profanities.

I am a human being. It's shocking, but really -- I am a person with the same type of biological stuff inside which you have. Similarly to most people, including you -- I assume, I feel cold and heat, rough and soft, and an entire range of emotions based on my personal life experience. 

When I came into contact with you, the emotion which was manifesting itself was primarily sadness. This weekend will be my dead daughter's fifth birthday. When you and I crossed paths, it was my last shift before taking the weekend off to mourn her loss. It's difficult to help Christmas shoppers whose greatest problem is whether they find the right merchandise, when my mind is centered on those precious last moments, a few days off around the anniversary of her birth and death is helpful. I held my daughter in my arms as she silently slipped out of this world, and ever since then this season of lights and merry song has been a dark one for me. 





That being said; when helping you, I was {still} doing the very best I could for you. I amended the problem multiple times without a hint of my inner heartache, smiling and trying to make sure you left my store satisfied with your purchase. This was an impossibility, and when you left I must admit I felt relief. 

I don't know what troubles you have had to make you so surly. It may have been an event which happened recently or long ago. 

Maybe you lost a child too.

I do know treating people the way you treated me was wrong. 

In all of my grief over my lost daughter, my loss would never have been an acceptable reason to treat anyone the way you treated me. I have never felt the need to question someone's intelligence or to curse at someone because they can't deliver the appropriate response to my query.

People who behave like you seem to confuse "service worker" with "servant". Not that anyone should treat a servant the way you treated me, but there is a marked difference in those job descriptions which implies that one person is being paid to personally cater to the whims of another, while one person is being paid to sell something. 

I am no one's servant, and neither is any other service worker you may come into contact with this holiday season. We are paid to courteously sell you goods, period. We are not here to take your abuse. 

We all need to remember that each of us has struggled. Each of us is only human. We don't know what someone is dealing with when we are walking out into the world, and deciding their inability to perform according to our unreasonable desires is a mark of ignorance is wrong. 

They may have had a bad day. 

Their electric bill may have come in, and it's just more than they can afford to pay. 

Maybe they just fought with their significant other and they are worried about the stability of their relationship. 

Maybe they don't have money to purchase the toys which their child asked Santa for.

Or maybe they are going home to a home that is uncharacteristically dreary this time of year because there is one sweet girl-child missing from it.

We all have an obligation to be kind to one another. We are all travelers on this planet together, and in the grand scheme of things -- are Christmas purchases really important? Are they worth tossing aside someone else's humanity for?





Before ending this I would like to address a common misconception about service workers which will most likely be brought up if anyone ever reads this:

I am fully aware that I am not a soldier in the military fighting for freedom. I am also aware I am not an emergency room nurse, a firefighter, or a policeman. Nor am I a veteran or a schoolteacher.

I am not claiming to have a strenuous job, or even that I can't deal with a customer being feisty. This isn't about asking for more money than I already earn {although my retail position is most definitely not a low-skill job, and I am proud to say I could run a business with what I have learned}. 

Kindness shouldn’t be doled out to people based upon our perception of their “station” in life.

We just need to treat one another with decency. Especially this time of year. 

People are hurting. 

We have the ability to make one another's lives better, be it with a smile or a thank you. 





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I kept going with the challenge, but stopped posting my photos because I felt it would get a bit redundant. I'll share a few of my highlights, thus far, but I won't bore anyone with all of the details of my mental self-explorations.

Today's subject is Honor. I took this to mean-- what I've done to honor my daughter.

The temperature has begun to change, and once again memories of Beatrix's short life are set into motion in my mind. There's a repetition of the grieving season which is triggered when the first red hued leaves show up at the edges of the forest.

Over the past few weeks I have been horrified at the release of videos which show Planned Parenthood clinicians and executives partaking in what seems to be the sale of "fetal tissue". Whether you believe what they are doing is appropriate or not {I personally believe it's heinous}, their manner in carrying out their activities is disturbing,  to say the least.

On a personal level these videos, which I watched in long form and in edited versions, have opened a wound which I believed was healed long ago.

As I stated in my previous post, I ended a pregnancy when I was 19. For many years I stayed quiet on this subject. My abortion did have a bearing on my decision to continue my pregnancy with Beatrix, but rarely did I focus on it as a catalyst.

At this point I realize that the part my unborn child played in my decision to carry Beatrix until the bitter {sweet} end is one of the most important parts of the story.

I read a quote once by Ernest Hemmingway:

 "Write hard and clear about what hurts"

While I obviously could never come close to the power of Hemingway's writing, I do want to write clearly about what hurts. Because it's in those hurt places that the best portions of my life also reside.

I guess this is just a note to let the {few} people who read these little scribbles know how things will be going, as far as grief journaling, from here on out.

I've been pretty open regarding my pro-life persuasion and I've been contributing writing to a number of pro-life efforts for a short time now.

I always feel hesitant to share those writings here, because in the baby loss community speaking negatively about terminating a pregnancy -- especially if it has been for medical reasons -- is forbidden.

But my regret over my abortion is a part of my loss experience.

Just like other women feel the need to be open about their personal experiences terminating for medical reasons, I feel the need to be more open about my abortion and how it negatively impacted my life.

I have been working very hard on a project for siblings of babies lost to birth defects, and I was afraid to say anything incendiary about my own thoughts, because I didn't want my project to be disregarded by those who may have a different view on abortion than I do. After seeing what I've seen over the last few weeks -- I don't care. I don't want to be quiet about this because it's horrific. Whatever gain I receive for being silent, I lose in integrity.

From today on, I will be more liberally sharing all of my loss journey, not just the parts I think are safe for everyone's eyes and ears.

My story of loss began well before my Beatrix died. My story of loss began when I was a 19 year old girl. I grieved then, and I grieve now, over the child who should be here.



So tonight, I will clearly state:

I should be the mother of a 21 year old child. My eldest son lost a sibling, my family lost a grandchild... cousin...niece or nephew. There is someone missing from our house at Christmas time. And it's not o.k.

Tonight as I tap out this lonely message, sending these words out across the millions of miles of wires and airborne signals I just want to say one thing.

It wasn't just a choice. "It" was my child.

Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone.

Created in His most beautiful image.

Discarded by me.

My abortion hurt me, and it killed my child.

The least I can do for that child is openly mourn him/her as I do my sweet Bea.

I'll end this with another Hemingway quote.

"The world breaks everyone, and afterwords, some are strong in the broken places."

Part of me has been broken for a very long time. I can no longer claim ignorance of the reason for this brokenness.  My grief story began 21 years ago. Tonight is the first step towards finding strength in that broken place.

He stands at the stove with his shoulders shaking in sadness, as he recalls the few moments he spent with our sweet baby girl. 

"At least I was able to see her smile. Twice."

We've never spoken about what happened in those minutes between when she was born and when he brought our swaddled daughter back to me. I know that he was left alone to watch while doctors frantically worked to save our daughter's life. He was also alone when the decision to remove life-support had to be made. I would imagine that in those moments, he felt more alone than he ever did, or ever has since. 

Yet after they informed him that there was nothing more they could do -- an event which I did not have to experience -- he handed her to me with his own smiling face telling me only, "here's your daughter."

Most women respect the work and dedication which their men expend on behalf of the family. They love their men because of the reciprocal affection he shows to them every day. They view the kindnesses that their husband exhibits when dealing with their children and see an echo of the boy who was before he turned into their man.

I look at my husband and I see so many things. He is the man who smiled when smiling was the last thing he wanted to do. He is the man who set up a shield for me, keeping the world at bay while I descended into the abyss of grief. He is the man who tended to my physical wounds when there were complications from her delivery. 

In the grand scheme of things, my husband would be given an award, and some air time on local TV. Instead, he stands with his shoulders hunched, talking about the smile of a girl whose entire body fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. 

Sometimes, we forget that men have the ability to feel deeply. We see them portrayed as buffoons in slapstick comedy, and listen to their bravado in action films, and we imagine them without the emotional capacity to experience loss as the life-altering event it is for us.

We view stoicism as strength.

However, his strength lies not in how little emotion he shows, but how much gentleness he displays to others. What could convey gentleness more clearly than a man holding his newborn daughter? What could be stronger than handing your child over to someone else when you understood that her time was limited, and you may not have the opportunity to hold her living body again?

 

My husband may never earn a prize in this life. He may pass into his own death unrecognized by the world at large. However, the depth of his feelings for his small daughter will continue to inform the decisions he makes, in terms of strength and gentleness. The tremendous gift of his strength, exhibited through this gentleness, will continue to make waves far into the future, for as long as we are still counting time.


Some men make marks on famous documents, and some leave footprints on the moon-- mine handed me my little girl, smiling as he said, "here's your daughter."