May 24, 2005

I sat in the car next to Damon. My hands were shaking, because I knew that day was going to be an important day in my life. I was more nervous than I had ever been in my 27 years. I could tell Damon was nervous as well. He turned off the engine and we just sat there. While it was just a few fleeting moments, it seemed like an eternity. He reached over and held my hand. And we sat there in silence. After a few minutes, I asked him to pray. Looking back his prayer was so appropriate. He prayed that God would put His hand on Mariah, and give us peace. When he finished, we quietly got out of the car and walked into the clinic. I checked in with the front desk, as I had done so many times before, and quietly found my place next to Damon in the waiting room. I suppose the anxiety of the day was written on our faces. One of the other moms-to-be asked me if I knew what I was having. I told her we were pretty sure it was a girl, and that we would likely be having her that day. The doctor noticed 2 days earlier that Mariah's growth had slowed considerably. The fluid levels were still low. If she were to have any chance at life, it would have to be outside of the womb. I kept to myself the uncertainty of what would happen once she was born. No one was able to make any certain diagnosis, and who was to say that she wasn't going to live. There was no need to scare a poor young mom. We waited for what seemed like forever. We watched through the window as women came and left the clinic. At one point Damon walked across the street to Burger King to get something to eat for lunch. I was most disgusted with him when he brought the bag into the waiting room. I was 8 months pregnant, with no food in my belly. But no worries, I expressed my humble opinion and he went into the hall to eat! Finally after about an hour and a half wait we were called back. I was first taken to the ultrasound room. The doctor had ordered a Biophysical Profile of Mariah. The tech took her time and looked at everything carefully. Mariah always scored well on everything but her fluid levels. They typically hovered in the .5cm -1.0 cm range. That day wasn't much different. The tech finished and left to get the doctor. Damon and I sat holding each other's clammy cold hands. Our nerves were beyond shot at this point. We knew that in the next few moments the doctor would tell us if today was the day our baby girl would be born. What would happen after her birth was so uncertain. Some doctor's speculated that my membranes had a small leak and that she would thrive outside of the womb. Others said that she had a congenital defect and would not survive. In a few moments the doctor came in and did her own evaluation. Mariah's growth had all but stopped. It was time.
We spent the next thirty minutes making arrangements for Courtney's care, all while waiting to be admitted into the hospital. My mom was in town, but I needed her by my side for moral support. By the time everything was settled Damon and I were in our holding cell, also known as a labor and delivery room. Damon had called a few friends to tell them today was the day and they began trickling in. He called his parents and they started on their journey to Louisiana. I called a friend I had known only through email, but who had helped me through all the uncertainties we were facing. Not too long afterward a small crowd had formed in the waiting room. One nurse commented that this baby must be loved because of all the people who were ready to meet her. Around 2:00PM I was wheeled back to the operating room. My doctor couldn't be the one to perform the c-section, but one of her colleagues who knew my case well was available. Being that we needed one of the top NICU's around, we were at a teaching hospital. I was asked if I would allow a 4th year resident to place my spinal block. I agreed and a gentleman entered the room. He had difficulty communicating with me, as English was not his first language. After the 8th failed attempt and about a half an hour of excruciating pain, his superior came in to take over. It was his opinion that I should be given a general anesthetic or "knocked out" for the surgery. That had to be my worst nightmare and I screamed "NO!" at him. The OB performing my surgery knew that there was a chance that Mariah would not live long and asked that he make one attempt at an epidural. On the first try everything was in place. I was put in position and belted to the table. Damon was brought into the room and given a chair by my head. The next 10 minutes went by so quickly. As soon as Mariah was born, she cried. It wasn't a cry like her sister's. It was small and weak. But she cried, and on her own. Damon wanted so badly to see her, but she was whisked into a separate room with the NICU staff. They worked on her and stabilized her. After just a few minutes they allowed Damon to see her. He called out to me that she had brown hair, and a lot of it. I lay there on the operating table, bawling. The doctor performing the c-section was one that had told us that without a doubt she would die within minutes of birth. And here we were a good 5-10 minutes later and things were looking good.
The NICU doctor in charge of her case took a quick look over her before she was transported upstairs. She was wheeled past me so that I could get a quick glance. Ironically they had her back to me, but my nurse made them turn the isolette so I could see her face. She was wheeled close to the waiting room and my mom and a few women from church were able to see her as the staff rushed her to the NICU. The doctor took Damon aside and told him that his first impressions were that this was not a congenital defect, known as Potter's Syndrome. She was too plump and didn't have many features that Potter's babies have. He was pretty sure her survival rate was good. Damon quickly passed the information on to me, and went to the waiting room. On the way out of the OR he encountered our regular Perinatologist. She had cleared her schedule for the afternoon, even canceling an appointment or two, so she could be there for the birth. For 6 months I had been in her office almost weekly, if not daily. She had become vested in Mariah's outcome. After sharing the news with her, he made his way to the waiting room. He was shocked at the number of people that had gathered there. Friends, coworkers, neighbors. He roughly estimated that about 50 people were there in all. When he gave the news from the doctor a prayer of thanksgiving was offered, and many people went back to their lives. A few close friends stayed behind. I was wheeled from the OR to my room where I called a few friends who couldn't be there. I called my sister and we cried tears of joy. About an hour after Mariah's birth, my mom and Damon went to the NICU to see her. When they walked up to the glass, they saw a small baby surrounded my several young students. An ultrasound machine was beside her, and there sat her NICU doctor showing these students an ultrasound of her abdomen. They watched not really understanding what was going on. I suppose he saw them and quickly finished up. He walked towards them and said "Mr. Blankinship, I need to speak to you in my office." I was on the phone with a dear friend giving her the good news when my mom and Damon entered the room. There aren't words to even begin to describe Damon's face. He was pale. And I think his face spoke a million words. I quickly got off the phone. Damon couldn't even speak. He simply fell in a chair beside my bed and buried his head in his hands. My mom told the doc she couldn't tell me, he would have to. The next few moments were like time standing still. I listened as this doctor that had given us such a wonderful report told me that my sweet baby girl did not have kidneys. Without kidneys there was no chance at life. There was nothing we could do, but let her go. I got that feeling, you know the one where something really bad is about to happen. And then I just started screaming and crying "NO, NO, not my baby. You have to be wrong." He place his hand on my leg, gave his condolences, and left.
I immediately told my nurse to get me up to that NICU to see my baby. If she didn't take me I was going to take myself. She left and came back in less than ten minutes. It was just enough time for me to call my sister back and give her the horrific news. I was wheeled up to the NICU in my bed. My epidural had been turned off, but I wasn't ready to walk. I was offered pain meds, but I refused them because I wanted to remember every detail of my time with my baby girl. We sat next to her in her isolette for a short time, but I wanted to hold her. The NICU staff quickly went to work and arranged a room where our friends and family could come in, but a staff member could still be there to manage her breathing tube. During this time, those friends that stayed behind started calling people back to tell them that things weren't as they has seemed. I held Mariah for about an hour. I sang to her. I kissed her. I examined her from head to toe. She had beautiful brown curly hair. It was so soft and thick. He fingers were long and her legs were muscular. She was perfect. Damon held her. He sat in a rocking chair and rocked her. He kissed her, and sang through his tears. The alarm kept going off on her breathing machine. And her heart rate kept dropping. Damon held her tight. And just four hours after she entered this world, she left the arms of her daddy to be with the Father.
The tube that connected her to the breathing machine was cut and the NICU staff left the room. We stayed in that room for a good two hours. My mom held her. Friends trickled in and out. Damon's parents arrived and his mom held her. Finally we asked that everyone give us a moment alone with our baby so we could say our goodbyes. A nurse came in and helped me wash her hair that was still bloody from the birth. Damon and I sat there holding each other, holding our baby, and crying. My heart was shattered into a million pieces. I didn't want to let go, but I knew I had to. We asked that her dress be given to a little girl who would be going home. And we handed her to the nurse, tears pouring from our eyes as she left the room. It was the last time I would see my sweet Mariah here on Earth.
The next few days were surreal. I remember many, many people came to see us. I was so numb to what had happened, even to the extent that we were able to laugh. We showed her pictures to just about anyone who would look at them. But the nights were torture. I was between two rooms. On one side a mother-to-be hooked up to a monitor. The chug-chugging of her baby's heartbeat was torturous. It was a sound I had become so accustomed to while carrying Mariah. On the other side, a new mother. A baby boy. I watched as her friends and family brought flowers and balloons. I listened as her baby cried at night. I heard the laughs and the joy, and I my heart crumbled just a little more. At night, I would just cry. I begged a nurse to have them bring me my baby. I didn't care if her body was cold and hard, I just wanted to hold her. Each night I was given something to make me sleep. Tears would stream down my face until my body gave way to the medication.
By day two I was more than ready to go home. I didn't want to be there the typical 4 days post-op. I begged my doctor to let me go home, and she did. Damon picked me up at the hospital entrance. I sat there in the wheelchair, empty handed, heartbroken. The drive home seemed longer than usual. I don't remember too much of it. I do remember turning into our driveway. I sat there, looking at our house. I couldn't move. I didn't want to go in. Last time I was there my baby was alive. So I sat in the car and cried. Finally, someone came out of the house to help me get out of the car and go in. I looked at our rose bush which to this point hadn't really even bloomed more than one bloom. It was filled with beautiful pink blooms and buds. I don't even remember how many, but there were many.
This had to be the darkest time in my life. It was the time I felt the most alone, like God had left me. I was angry. I was sad. I felt as if I would never be the person I was before...which was true. God was reshaping me. Sometimes when a potter is working with clay, he has to completely undo the work he has done to improve his end product. I think God was undoing a lot in me. To reshape me, to improve me, he had to take me down to nothing.

I actually wrote this over the course of this last week. I wanted to write it for posterity. One day I hope our girls will read this. I want them to know that there is hope beyond this world. Losing a child is likely one of the greatest and most tragic losses anyone can endure. There are no pretty words for it, it sucks!!! It was and still is one of my greatest struggles. Yet, it is with God that I have survived. It was in the moments I felt hopeless, when I wanted to hide in hopes of never being found, He picked me up and held me close. I honestly do not know how a parent can go through this without the Lord and still remain hopeful.

Happy Birthday, dear sweet Mariah. Mommy and Daddy love you and think about you often. Have fun playing with the angels today. We have many kisses waiting for you when we get there!