The 10 Things I Hate About Labor And Delivery

A few things before we jump in. A) This post is extremely personal. If you’ve experienced the loss of a child this may not be for you. B) This post does not fit the vision of this site. It’s a 1-off and I do not have more of these planned. C) At the time of this writing, One Good List is still under construction and not quite finished. I needed an outlet for this post and here we are…

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“We’re not supposed to be here like this,” My wife said these words to me moments ago, right before I kissed my wife, held her hand, and told her I’d be here when she woke up. Then I was escorted down via elevator to sit and wait for a phone call. I have the first hour to myself that I’ve seen in months, but I didn’t want it like this. 

I can’t remember the last time I drank coffee at 10:45 pm, but today has been a unique day. Our 7-year-old (eldest) daughter summed it up well last night, “One day I’m at dance class and everything is fine and I’m so happy, but today I saw mommy walk through the door and I knew that everything had changed. It’s not fair dad. It’s not fair.”

The pregnancy had been a unique one from the start. We decided to have another baby in January, got pregnant in February, had her first miscarriage in April, tried again for months, and conceived again in August. 

There were complications early on; to the point that we were convinced of a miscarriage again at seven weeks. Tears were shed, hands were held, and thoughts of ‘what’s next?’ had filled our minds. Then we walked into the doctor’s office to confirm a miscarriage only to hear a strong, loud heartbeat. Hope filled our hearts and excitement filled our veins! We knew that this baby must be a fighter. 

From there, checkpoints passed and more ultrasound pictures than necessary were taken. Each doctor’s visit brought us a renewed promise of that Rainbow Baby we had heard so much about. Our family was alive and excited about the new addition in May. 

But here I sit; coffee nearly empty, gas fireplace to my right, and a host of nurses, doctors, and other patients’ loved ones passing by my left. I’m not supposed to be here. My wife is not supposed to be upstairs. Not like this…

Our unborn baby was 17 weeks along when my wife started having more serious complications. She scheduled another visit with her doctor yesterday. But this visit didn’t bring the news we prayed for.

And Here We Are

I hate the fact that the last time my wife and I looked at an ultrasound screen while she was pregnant we saw our motionless baby girl. 

I hate that we had to call a cemetery to set up burial arrangements for a daughter we never met and will never know in this world. 

I hate that other husbands were walking around labor and delivery triage with concerned, terrified, yet happy looks on their faces. Also, that one left to go get food, bring it back, and apparently eat it in front of his wife who was in labor and not able to eat. Act like you’ve been there before, guys – you’re the ones who give us husbands a lousy name. (And I do feel bad that I have these feelings, but here we are).

I hate that the two memories I have of the room I’m sitting in right now are from two of the best moments in my life. When our oldest daughter was born, I came down to tell our parents she was a girl (we didn’t find out) only to find our parents so excited waiting for the news. Then when Our second daughter was born coming to this room to tell our parents she, too was a girl (we didn’t find out for her either), and I found our parents and coworkers all sitting together waiting for the news. Pure joy in this room. Until today.

I hate that I, me, the strong guy who handles crises well and gets s__ done, called the ministry our priest recommended to guide us through this process and completely broke down on the phone in front of my wife. I totally lost it. Couldn’t even muster a few words that would resemble a sentence while this amazingly kind lady waited on the other end of the phone asking if I was OK, and my wife who actually had the physical burden of this process sat next to me.

I hate that our oldest daughter was so excited to have another sibling to care for and love, and now that’s taken away from her. 

I hate that every nurse we met in this hospital was so nice. I just wanted to be mad, but they made it difficult.

I hate that the doctor we just met today, who I just finished talking with seems like the most kind-hearted, competent doctor we could’ve had at this moment. My wife’s original doctor retired after our second daughter (she left that much of a mark on him…) and I’m frustrated we didn’t find this lady sooner.

I hate that I haven’t been more sympathetic to moms and dads who have gone through this process before. I had no idea of the weight a miscarriage can hold and the wave of grief and sadness it can bring. 

I hate the fact that when my wife and I leave this hospital in the middle of the night tonight, we will not be holding sweet Emma Marie in our arms. It kills me. 

It really kills me.

But life moves forward and so must we. 

Some people don’t have the blessings we do. For that, I am grateful.