Ryan was here ...



My not-so-sweet nothings, mostly comprised of my feelings at losing my two-day-old son, Ryan David, to congenital heart defects, and to celebrate the arrival of Ryan's healthy little sister, Megan Elizabeth, and hopefully welcome another little miracle into our brood in July 2010.


Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Last time and next time ...

August is almost over; I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I'll just assume and hope it's not an oncoming train and instead is the start to a peaceful few months.

This year's August anniversaries have left me feeling vulnerable - especially after experiencing some rather vivid flashbacks to two years ago. Moments that had slipped from my memory suddenly returned and, unfortunately, some of the details that emerged weren't things I ever wanted to think about again. I didn't want reminders of how distraught both Mike and I were during those gruelling 54 hours of Ryan's struggle for life. I didn't want to relive any of the horror, but it found me anyway.

I've thought a lot about those things I wished I had done differently with Ryan. When you're in the middle of your unfolding tragedy, you can't expect to have lucid thoughts - especially when your mind is still unwilling to accept or believe that "this" is happening and that it's happening to you. Back then, it was like I was some wind-up toy that kept going and going. I *had* to keep going; there was no other choice.

I also realized the other day that if I lose another baby, I'll already know how the whole process works. I didn't know anything when Ryan died, because who the hell thinks through something as unimaginable as a baby dying. But, I'd be able to glide through the process the next time. I'd know what things to not waste my precious time on, and what things and moments to cherish. I'd know to call bereavement photographers to capture the fleeting last moments with our child. I wouldn't allow the nurses to keep me from visiting my baby. I'd insist that my angel be dressed in the clothes that were intended for his homecoming, instead of being wrapped in a generic blanket. I wouldn't allow the nursing staff to tape my baby's lock of hair to an index card, never to be stroked again. And, I wouldn't allow myself to feel rushed in saying my final goodbye to my angel and spend more time just gazing at his tiny face and stroking every little wrinkle and dimple.

I hate how rushed everything was back then. Or at least it felt that way because it seemed we never had a moment to sit down and take a deep breath. Every minute was spent in consultations with surgeons and doing our best to make sure that at least one of us was at Ryan's bedside. Even then, I feel I wasn't able to spend enough time with him due to being hounded by my nurse for stats. (I often forgot that I, too, was a patient of the hospital and needed care as well.)

I guess what I'm feeling is perfectly normal, but who the hell knows anymore? It's so confusing and frustrating and I wonder if I'll ever understand any of it.

Labels: , ,

7 Comments:

  • At August 30, 2007 8:21 AM, Blogger niobe said…

    I often feel exactly that way. I tell myself that at least when my next baby dies, I'll know exactly how to handle it.

     
  • At August 30, 2007 9:43 AM, Blogger Catherine said…

    "But, I'd be able to glide through the process the next time."

    I'll have to respectfully disagree. But I understand where you're coming from.

     
  • At August 30, 2007 12:42 PM, Blogger Sherry said…

    Catherine, I meant no disrespect whatsoever toward you or anyone else who's experienced multiple losses. I realize now that there was room for a different interpretation so I should've chosen my words more carefully.

    Sometimes my attempts at sarcasm backfire, as I certainly know I wouldn't be able to "glide" through another loss. I'd stumble and fall and mourn and rant just the way I did when I lost Ryan. There's no way to scoot past any of that pain, no matter how much "experience" you may have.

     
  • At August 31, 2007 2:53 AM, Blogger Rosepetal said…

    Oh, there are so many things I wish I'd done differently. I did do them differently when I lost A. I paid more attention to him, I looked at him (although I was frightened to do so at first - I did not know what a foetus at 16 weeks would look like), I went several times to visit his coffin in the funeral parlour, I took flowers for him.

    My psychiatrist seemed surprised that I had seen A. (I wasn't with her when V. died). But I told her that it absolutely was the right thing to do for me, and that I did not regret that at all.

     
  • At September 03, 2007 7:25 PM, Blogger Laura said…

    I think about this a lot, too. While we took hundreds of pictures, I wish that I had known about bereavement photographers. And I sure wouldn't stay up in my hospital room playing sudoku while my baby lay down in the NICU. I still don't know why I did that. I guess it's the only way I could process it?

     
  • At September 04, 2007 10:00 PM, Blogger Foggy Views said…

    Got here through Niobe.

    My oldest lived three weeks. As a physician I would have thought I could be rational and make rational decisions and choices in those precious three weeks. Not so. I look back 36 years and my pain is still there. Never goes away. Changes but stays.

    To this day the name Jennifer bring tears to my eyes.

    Please allow me to share your pain. I know the pain you feel even if I do not know you.

    The pain may go away some day; all I can say is it takes longer than 36 years.

    Grieving with you from SC.

     
  • At September 14, 2007 10:55 AM, Blogger Megan said…

    I just lost a baby at nine weeks – my first was stillborn at term – and while other women write birth plans, I'd already written a death plan so I woudn't forget all the things I've bitterly regretted not doing with Georgia. But then this baby died, too, and I didn't even remember to ask for a printout of the ultrasound...

     

Post a Comment

<< Home