Yesterday afternoon M and I went to visit our psychologist. We talked about the upcoming holidays, our plans, and hurdles we expect to encounter. It was a productive visit.
Our psychologist is employed by our hospital's Women's Health department, and she deals with people like us who have lost babies, and people with fertility problems. A pretty specialized area. She came to visit me in my hospital room a couple of days post-Charlotte, and we've seen her regularly ever since.
Yesterday, for the first time since we've started going, there was someone waiting when we came out. I had just made some black humour crack about going to Hall.mark to ask for a dead baby ornament so we left in giggles and dead baby smiles. A young woman, maybe 24 or 25, was sitting in the chair across from the office door. Dr N told her she'd be right back as she followed us down the hall to see us out.
I only looked at her for a moment, but she was obviously post-partum. Her face was tear-streaked, and her eyes had that look of glossy disbelief that was all too familiar.
I don't know her story, I have no idea really. The likelihood is that her baby just died. Here she is, at step one of this awful journey. I wanted to run over, ask about her baby, give her a hug.
She was alone. No boyfriend or husband in sight. I can't imagine going through this alone.
Again, way too many assumptions. Maybe her partner was working or ill, or maybe she wanted to come to therapy alone.
Everyday when I wake up I think that somewhere, sometimes even in my own city, someone is saying hello and goodbye to their baby. Step one. As horrible as my step one was, it was the aftermath that was worse: the days and weeks following when it really sunk in what had happened and my heart fell out.
Day after day it just breaks my heart that there are people everywhere taking their first steps into DeadBabyLand.
Welcome, friend. I wish you weren't here with us.
4 comments:
This brought tears to my eyes. ((HUGS))
I read this and thought, oh no, another of us. Step one is terrible. It's not easy now, but I'm glad I'm not there any more. My eyes well up, thinking of her there.
I blogged once about if I were to go back to any point in this dblife that it would be back to the immediate aftermath, before you know how hard it will actually get. There was an innocence to that particular time in my grief, before the reality of what having a dead child really means. I miss the innocence of that moment. I miss the innocence of before that moment.
My husband's therapist happened to call when we were in the hospital to reschedule an appointment. We met with her 4 days after we delivered, I think. I remember sitting, slouched in my coat next to C, barely able to speak. My father had driven us. I don't know how my legs worked in those early days.
Pain, awful pain, but still shock, the brunt of it not evident yet. Thinking of what she will be facing...
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