The Beginning of the End

I have struggled to decide how much I want to share on the blog.  I don't want to turn our private tragedy into some kind of public spectacle.  I didn't get the time I wanted with Eliza, so I feel resistant about sharing her with the rest of the world.  But if she had lived, I would have written all about her.  Ad nauseum.  So I talked to David about it.  And he thought it was a good idea to tell her story.  All of it.

The only thing is, what do you say about a baby who never lived?  That she was born beautiful and perfect and not breathing?  That her heartbeat just disappeared?  That her parents fell in love with her only to get their hearts broken before she ever reached her due date?

Her name is Eliza Taylor Duckworth.

She was born Monday, December 6th at 8:42pm.

She weighed 3 pounds, 9 ounces.

There was nothing wrong with her.

Except she was dead.

All day, I felt fine.  Absolutely fine.  Better than fine.  Sure, I was definitely getting more tired.  And yes, my feet were definitely getting swollen by the end of the day.  Elephant feet, I called them.  Ugly and uncomfortable.  But Monday was a good day.  First day of my last week of classes.  I was so excited about the end of the semester.  Yes, I still had a batch of grading to get through, but I was so looking forward to washing baby clothes and sheets and organizing the nursery and the closet and finishing Christmas shopping.  I'd been talking about it for weeks.

My classes went well.  I was even feeling like a competent teacher.  In my last class of the day, I felt some tightening/movement sensations in my abdomen that made me feel like I had to go to the bathroom.  I got home and went and figured that was the end of it.  

I changed clothes to be ready to go to prenatal yoga.  Before I left, I made myself sit down with a stack of essays, thinking I’d get at least a couple of them out of the way.

As I was making comments, the tight feeling in my stomach happened again.  Only now it was low back pain and cramping.  I picked up one of my pregnancy reference books and read the part about pre-term labor.  It said that if you feel contractions (“a tightening of the abdomen”) that you should drink a big glass of water, lie down, and time them.

I followed those instructions about 5pm.  I was freaked out to discover that the feelings were coming about 6 minutes apart and pretty regular.  Also, they were getting increasingly painful and then I started feeling like I had to go to the bathroom again at the end of each one.  But when I’d go to the bathroom, nothing would happen.  I didn't actually have to go.  And there was no blood, no water breaking, nothing.

David got home around 5:30.  I’m not sure he thought I was serious at first.  I told him I thought I was having contractions but since the feelings I was experiencing didn’t match the description of pre-term labor contractions, I just wasn’t sure.  Looking back, we realize that I was experiencing the feelings of late first-stage labor—the feeling of having to go to the bathroom was actually my body almost getting ready to push.  All those books I read, and we were just clueless about what was happening.  Nothing had prepared us for this.

Still, we knew something was going on.  David called our Bradley instructor and she said we should get checked out.  David called the hospital exchange and our doula also.  My doctor called us back and recommended that we head up to the hospital to get checked out.

On the way to the hospital, David said, "You know everything is going to be ok, right?"

My contractions were pretty painful, but I smiled at him.  "Yeah, I know."

We joked about this being our "practice run" to the hospital.  Just so we'd be sure to know what we were doing next time--when it was for real.

We checked into the hospital at 7:39pm.  They had us sit down and wait a little bit.  My contractions at this point were agonizing.  I couldn’t talk during them at all.  We were sitting by the labor and delivery elevators, watching people walk out with “It’s a Girl” balloons.  One guy passed by us and smiled and said “Good luck!”  I was trying to relax and breathe through the contractions.

We got to the labor room and the nurse had me take off my pants and get under a blanket.  She put the Doppler thing on my belly to find the heartbeat.   

It wasn’t there.  

She called the doctor on staff to bring the ultrasound machine, telling us that the doctor would be able to find “good heart tones.”  All through this, I was continuing to have contractions that made it difficult to lie on my back.  The lower back pain was so intense I wanted to roll over on my side.  I kept thinking if I could just hold still, she would have been able to find the heartbeat.  

The doctor came in with the ultrasound machine.  She moved around the ultrasound thingy on my stomach and I moaned through another contraction.  They had hooked me up to an IV at this point.  I did not want an IV, but I was still thinking at this point that they were going to give me drugs to stop the contractions and that is what Baby Duck needed.  So I did not protest the IV.

I had to roll over in the middle of the ultrasound because of a contraction and I thought maybe I hadn’t given her enough time to find the heartbeat.  It didn't matter.

The doctor looked at us and said, “I can’t find a heartbeat.  I’m sorry to tell you this.  I don’t know when, but your baby died.”

Then I vomited off the side of the bed.

They did a cervical exam.  I was fully dilated.  I told the doctor I thought the baby was lying sideways across my stomach.  She said no, the head was presenting.

My biggest fear on the way to the hospital had been that I was going to have a c-section and a premature baby who would be in the NICU.

How quickly my "biggest fear" was replaced by my own personal hell.

My own doctor got there about that time.  He asked me when I had last felt the baby move.  It was Saturday night, when David’s grandparents were here—I had David’s grandma feel Baby Duck kicking me in the ribs after we left the store.  We were so busy Sunday and Monday was a work day, and I honestly hadn’t paid much attention.  What if I had noticed that she wasn't moving?


I was continuing to have severe contractions and I was yelling at David to put pressure on my low back.  He and the nurse both pushed on my back and it helped.  The nurse asked if I wanted an epidural.  She told me--or maybe told David--that sometimes relieving the physical pain helps with the mental pain.

That sounded like the most insane thing I had ever heard.  The physical pain--as intense as it was--was a distraction.  At the same time, it hurt so much and I couldn't see the point of not having an epidural.  I was so intent on a natural childbirth because I thought it would be the best thing for me and the baby.  And now?  What was the point?  I didn't care what happened to me and the baby was already dead.

David leaned down and asked me if I was sure.  And in the short pause between contractions, I thought about the strong possibility that it could slow down my labor.  I couldn't let this drag on longer than necessary.  Plus, I was already so helpless, already such a pawn, that I didn't want to lose further control.

So I refused the epidural.

It felt good to say no, to have a firm answer.
So I refused the anti-nausea medication.
I refused the narcotics.


I ended up on my hands and knees, which the nurse encouraged since my back was hurting so much.  I was crouching on the bed with the blanket over me and the nurse kept saying to listen to my body and do what it said.  So I started pushing.  It was the most agonizing moment of all.  I yelled out, “Oh my God, it hurts so much!” and then I groaned through two pushes and the baby was out.  I'd been at the hospital 63 minutes.

I saw her--gray, lifeless.  There was blood.  I was surprised there was blood.  I had torn just a little--it didn't require stitches.

It was so sudden, that moment when the physical pain was gone, and after the initial relief, I missed it.  It required all my focus and kept my mind off the realization that my daughter was dead.

The nurse had her over in the warmer.  It was such a parody of the way things were supposed to happen.  They wanted to know if I wanted to hold her.  They were saying she was beautiful when I’d already seen how horrible she’d looked.  I kept saying that this was a nightmare.  My doctor just kept nodding in agreement.

We weren't sure we wanted to name her.  The name we had chosen was for a live baby.  I wasn't sure I wanted to hold her.  It seemed too morbid, too horrible.  I wasn't sure we wanted pictures taken.  Who would ever want to look at them?

Thank God our nurse gently encouraged us to do all of those things.  I am so grateful to her.
It was still a terrible parody of the way things were supposed to be, but it was the best we could do at the time.


We held her, wrapped in the blankets, cold and strange looking.  Her poor little face was smushy and her head was full of fluid that her little heart never pumped around.  Her hands and feet were perfect though—so perfect.  Long, tapered fingers and long little toes, too.  They looked just like mine.

At first I didn’t want to look at her.  Watching David hold her and rock her made me feel crazy.  How could she be dead?  Why was he bothering to rock a dead baby?  From where I sat, you couldn’t see her, so it looked like any father rocking his newborn.  Except David was crying instead of the baby.

He looked up at me at one point and said, “I just want her to start crying.”

Instead, we both cried and she stayed silent.

There was all kinds of paperwork to fill out and they took a full medical history again.  Our nurse was so kind about everything.  It was hard to process.

Professional photographers came and took pictures of Eliza. I still wasn't sure, but I agreed.  The nurse promised me I didn't have to look at the photos if I didn't want to.

Later, after some of the shock had worn off, I did want to hold her.  I wanted her bassinet next to me in the bed.  I kept feeling her fine, papery, wrinkly skin.  It was so cold.  I kept touching her tiny, perfect fingers.  They were so cold and my hands felt so hot.  I kept thinking, if only I could warm her up.  If only I could warm up her fingers.

I wanted to memorize her.  Even the saddest of details.  Her head was misshapen (even in the tiny little hat) and sometimes blood would drip out of her nose.  I wiped it away as gently as I could.  Her lips were dark from lack of oxygen.  Her eyes were sunken and closed.  But as I held her and touched her ever so gently, her soft, papery, delicate skin, I saw only how absolutely beautiful she was.  How beautiful she would have been.  I kept telling her how sorry I was.  Sorry that I couldn’t keep her alive and safe.  Sorry that my body failed her somehow.  Sorry that she didn’t get a chance.

34 weeks is supposed to be the time you let out a sigh of relief.  Most babies born at 34 weeks have relatively few complications and maybe just spend a few days in the NICU.  Eliza never got a chance.

She had the tiniest bit of dark hair--baby fuzz, really--that the nurses said looked like the sort that would turn blond.  Both David and I were blond babies.

I held her and rocked her and told her how much we loved her.  I told her that if my love could have kept her alive, it would.  I told her that I wished it had been me instead of her.
David was kind of freaked out by that.  He was so scared that I wouldn’t be OK.  I remember him asking lots of question in an authoritative voice, during and after labor, questions about me and whether I would be all right.  He was very strong throughout the entire ordeal, but then it was dark and we were alone and there was nothing left to do except cling to each other and sob. 

I told Eliza that we had such big plans for her.  That we were supposed to have such great times together.  I kept telling her that we love her.

I assured her that I tried to do everything right.  I read every reference book!  I kept track of the grams of protein I was eating.  I exercised--walking the dog, prenatal yoga, prenatal pilates.  We practiced our relaxation exercises.  I cut out almost all processed foods and only ate organic produce.  No caffeine.  I was careful about shampoo, lotion, make up.  I bought ridiculously expensive body wash because it was “natural” and didn’t contain crazy chemicals.  I never ate out of microwaved plastic containers.  I watched my sodium intake.  I wanted to do every single thing I could to give her the best start possible.

And it still wasn’t enough.

They have no idea what went wrong.  We’re having an autopsy done and they drew all kinds of blood from me to run tests and try to get some answers.  The doctors said in cases like this, there often aren’t any answers.

The blood draw didn’t scare me.  I didn’t feel light headed or freaked out by the needle.  Why would I be afraid of something as stupid as a needle?  I don’t think I’ll ever be afraid of anything again.  Not when my greatest fear of all time was already realized.

Dr. Wasserman stopped by very early the next morning.  I told him we wanted to go home and he signed my discharge papers.  We’d been at the hospital less than 12 hours.  In less than 12 hours we had and lost our baby girl and got dressed and drove home.

It’s so profoundly fucking unfair.


As we sat on the sofa, numb, staring into space, waiting for my parents to get here, I told David that it sounded sick and morbid, but I wished we could have brought her with us.  I wanted to hold her lifeless little body.  I feel so empty. 

I want my baby.


I walked into the hospital with a baby in my belly and I left the hospital clutching a plastic bag of mementos.

You know what kind of mementos are left behind by  a baby who never lived?

A crocheted hat.
A couple of blankets that still smell like baby powder.
A stupid fake flower they might have used in some of the photographs.
Tiny little footprints and handprints.  So heartbreakingly perfect.
Black and white photographs of her heartbroken parents holding her tiny little body.
Pamphlets about grief.

That’s all.
It’s not nearly enough.