Yesterday I had my follow up appointment with my ob.  She's an amazing woman - Jeff and I couldn't have made it through this without her.  I can't believe it's been over three weeks since Emma was born.  I keep reliving what happened when we went into the hospital, so I'm hoping that by "recapping" it here, I can get it out of my head for a while.

On Saturday I went to get a pedicure and have lunch with my friend Nicole.  She wanted to do a "Kim Day" where I would get to do things I wouldn't be able to do for a while once the baby came.  Then Jeff and I went to dinner.  He asked me how the baby was doing, and I realized that she hadn't been moving much that day.  I told him as much, and he asked if I was worried.  I said, "Let me put it this way, if I was worried, we wouldn't be sitting here right now."  Ask me how much that haunts me.  Afterwards we went out for gelato with his parents.  That night, I lay there with my hand on my stomach hoping she would move.  I was getting a little nervous, but I had been to the doctor the day before and everything was fine.  Plus, she had dropped and I knew that she would be less active.

Sunday morning I got up and had breakfast (after helping Jeff install the car seat).  When she didn't start wiggling around after I ate, I decided to call the hospital.  They said I could wait a while to see if she moved, or just come in.  I decided we should go in.  I still wasn't worried.  We were brought upstairs, and the nurse tried to strap on the heart monitor.  She couldn't find the heart beat.  I started to get worried, but was told that it could mean the baby was facing another way.  She brought in another nurse, who seemed to find it.

I was so relieved that I wasn't noticing a lot of the things that Jeff later told me.  He said that the first nurse came in with the ultrasound machine and was starting to break out in hives on her chest.  The doctor came in and started looking at the ultrasound.  She said that the heartbeat on the monitor was mine.  She kept patting my hand and saying, "It's okay, it's okay."  I still didn't get it.  Finally, she said, "If I could see anything, we'd be running back for an emergency c-section, but I'm not seeing anything."  I looked at Jeff in confusion, and he said incredulously, "Are you saying that the baby's dead?!"  The doctor nodded and said, "Yes, I'm afraid so."

From there it was a lot of crying, and Jeff was in and out of the room making phone calls.  I was told that I would have to deliver Emma, and I immediately asked for a c-section (I've found that this is very normal, as most women are eager to just get it over with).  I was informed that this wasn't an option, and was not ideal for later births.  I was wheeled into a delivery room and told that I would be induced.  I told the doctor, "I don't want to feel anything."  Again, from what I've read this is also common.  Because at that moment, you're feeling everything. Your whole body, your whole being, is one exposed, raw nerve, and the last thing you need is one more reminder of what you've lost.

At that point, things proceeded as if it was a normal induction.  I was dreading the birth, yet I had some shred of hope that I was holding onto - she was going to come out and cough and it was going to be a miracle!  She came out and there was silence.  The birth itself was not as terrible as I thought it would be.  And I've come to appreciate the fact that I wasn't given a c-section as requested.  I was able to spend time with my family and come to terms with what was happening, instead of having Emma ripped from my body.  It's sort of a metaphor for the grief process itself.  You can't speed through it, you have to go through the steps.  I'm going through them every day.