The Invisible Man
We had a beautiful wedding, storybook really. I was just glad to be a part of it, and wanted to do everything I could to make sure my bride would have an amazing day. That means she definitely didn’t need to know about the issues with the photographer the day of the wedding, especially because it all worked out.
One year later, we were already pregnant with our oldest daughter. Yes, I say “we” instead of “she” though I have the utmost respect and admiration that she did all the real work.
We couldn’t wait to welcome her to the world, and we did in quite the chaotic whirlwind.
The night before she was born, I fell asleep on the couch, as I had taken to doing, so that my wife could be more comfortable in the bed. She also didn’t need to hear my snoring. And if I’m being totally honest? I couldn’t sleep in the bed anymore without being woken up by her every 10 min. It was a lose-lose situation with both of us in the bed, so it was better to be there for her without being in the room with her.
Around 2 AM on a Sunday morning, she woke me up with a gentle tap on the shoulder, so sweet and gentle to make sure she didn’t startle me.
When I woke up she said, “It’s time!”
To which I responded, “Are you kidding?!?!?!”
“We don’t joke about things like that,” she said with a smile.
I sat up and sprang into action. Get the bag. Get the coats. Her pocket book. Start the car. Wait, help her down the stairs. Carefully… slowly… but c’mon! We gotta go! We got in the car and headed into the city.
Why somewhere in the heart of the city, and about 35 minutes away with NO traffic (it could be up to 1.5 hours if it was rush hour)? Because it was the closest Level 3 NICU in the event anything went wrong. It had been decided when we first found out we were pregnant. I'm so thankful she went into labor at 2 AM!
There was absolutely no traffic on the way into the city, but in the city there’s always construction, road closures, etc. So I called 911, and told them we’re in labor and we're fine, but we’re on our way in. I just wanted to make sure there was nothing that could get in our way. The dispatcher said it was all clear, and wished us luck.
We get to the hospital. The contractions are regular. And what do you know, the water breaks during exam. The contractions are painful but she’s doing an amazing job breathing. It’s finally time to move us to a room. We get to the room and she decides she wants the epidural. Things are going ok for a while until all of a sudden they're not.
The baby’s heartbeat is slowing, fast. At about 50 bpm, the OB says they need to do an emergency C-section. The nurses come in, the bed rails go up, and she’s whisked out of the room screaming to me to not let anything happen to the baby. All I can do is yell back “You’re going to be ok! You’re both going to be ok!”
In the blink of an eye, she’s gone.
There I am, standing there in this empty room that felt so big without a bed in it anymore. I felt so small.
What was I supposed to do? Where was I supposed to go? It seemed like an eternity, but really it was probably about a minute before a nurse came in, tossed me some scrubs, said, “Here, put these on over your clothes, and don’t forget the shoe covers,” and left.
So that’s what I did, and when I was done I waited…and waited…and waited again for what seemed like forever. Really probably only another 60-90 seconds later, a nurse walked in and said, “Come with me.”
I walked into the OR, and the first thing I saw was my wife’s insides. My whole body went cold and clammy, and I almost passed out.
Then I heard the cry, the most beautiful cry in the world. I looked to my right, and there was my gorgeous pink little girl all wrapped up in the blue, pink, and white blanket every hospital seems to have. They helped me walk over to my wife’s head, behind the surgical curtain they put up at her chest so she can’t see what’s happening.
The moment I was able to hold our daughter and introduce her to her mom was amazing. We were both overjoyed.
The thing is that I felt so alone that day. So helpless for all of about 2 minutes, but it seemed like a lifetime. It couldn’t have been more than that because what I found out later was that from the time they wheeled my wife out of the room to the time they got my daughter out of distress and out of my wife, it was only about 90 seconds.
When people came to visit they would ask, "How's mom and baby?" Nobody ever asked if I was ok.
I'll say this, though... If we have another kid, this hospital is where we’re coming.
Two and a half years later, our family is growing again. We were pregnant with our second child, and it was our anniversary. Time to celebrate “us” for the third time since we were married.
We went out to dinner to celebrate our anniversary. We went home and pretended we were newlyweds, and we eventually fell asleep.
When we woke the next day, she didn’t feel right.
We made an emergency appointment to see her OBGYN to make sure everything was ok. Of course I was trying to say and do everything I could all day to reassure my wife it was going to be fine. Only it wasn’t.
They couldn’t find a heartbeat, and then said out loud what we had feared silently all day. We lost the baby. The “pregnancy had terminated.” We could either have a D&C, or wait until it happened naturally. We both knew we just needed to have this be over as soon as possible, so she opted for the D&C.
The next few months were hard. She was depressed. I was depressed. She thought it was her fault. I thought it was my fault. I did my best to console someone who was unconsolable.
But here’s the thing… Who stops to comfort the dad? No one.
Again, I was alone.
Why is it that only the mom is allowed to have feelings about it when there’s a miscarriage? Because she carried the baby? That doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings? That doesn’t mean I don’t feel loss of what was and what could have been. It was OUR baby. Acknowledging my loss doesn’t diminish hers.
For weeks we barely spoke to each other, and when we did it was often tense.
Then one day, about 3 weeks later, we got invited to a party. The conversation went something like:
“Are we ready?”
“I don’t know if I am, what do you think?”
“I don’t know either, but we have to go out at some point?”
“Yeah, I guess that’s true. But everyone will be looking at us and whispering.”
We looked at each other.
“We’ll do this together. If one of us feels uncomfortable, we leave. No questions asked. Ok?”
“Ok.”
The ride over was filled with nerves, trying to figure out what to say and not say to people? Our close friends knew, and it’s likely word had spread.
“It’ll be fine. We’re fine. Deep breaths.”
We got out of the car, and walked up to their front door. The husband answers the door, and welcomes us into their house. The first words out of his mouth?
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
On. The. Way. In.
What the ever-living f—? Did that just really happen?
I’m sure he meant it to be a nice thing, but the irony was gut wrenching. It was my biggest fear come true.
That is literally the only thing I remember about that party. His insensitive question was like the first time you get a scratch on a new car. As much as it stings, you know it was bound to happen anyway. The weird part is that it became a bonding moment for my wife and I; the thing that we bitched about to each other until we could joke about it. That is when I knew we were on our way back to normalcy.
A little over a year later, our Rainbow Baby was born and she was one of the most beautiful babies on the face of the Earth; my poquita chavita. But that’s a whole other story unto itself.
We have friends who have miscarried, some more than once. We have friends who tried IVF because they couldn’t conceive, some more than once. Was our experience comparable to theirs? Better? Certainly not worse, but how can you say it was "better"?
We had one miscarriage and then got pregnant not long after with our second daughter. We were blessed in many ways, but our pain was and is still real.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, if we constantly compare our experiences to those of others to decide how we should feel, then we negate our own right to exist.
So many traumatic things in my life have happened on or around milestones that I think I shut this one out for a few years. Yet every year I would see the sadness creep back into my wife’s eyes.
To this day we don’t talk much about it.
She grieves her way, I grieve mine.
But I think she knows that I’m here for her if and when she needs me.
Always.