Here Comes Goodbye

Here comes goodbye, here comes the last time
Here comes the start of every sleepless night
The first of every tear I'm gonna cry
Here comes the pain, here comes me wishing things had never changed
And she was right here in my arms tonight, but here comes goodbye

--“Here Comes Goodbye,” Rascal Flatts

The ultrasound table looked the same as all my previous routine appointments, leather-clad for an easy wipe, with a simple clean white sheet draped over it that slipped as I situated myself on it. I went there today for my 20-week anatomy-scan ultrasound. With Tung, who took special time off after having just begun a job at a new company; he was dipping into a negative bucket of PTO days for having been sick the past week. With my mother-in-law, who had never seen a detailed ultrasound in the US, having had both of her children in Viet Nam. I wanted to see if the tech could gift us with some 3D pictures to take home.

What’s the worst that could happen? I had tested as a high-positive candidate for having a baby with Trisomy 21, Down Syndrome, through the California screening test, which included two blood draws and a Nuchal Translucency ultrasound. However, further free-cell DNA testing through Counsyl, a service that delves deep into the chromosome level, suggests the baby was healthy. We both felt strongly against amniocentesis, which would be the surest way to find out of the baby had Down or not. It came with a small risk for miscarriage, and we wouldn’t want to take that chance. She was our baby, conceived in love, arrived in surprise, and we would want to be her parents despite that challenge. Over the last week, I had made peace with that decision as I noticed individuals with Down Syndrome in my everyday life, joking with tourists at the CA Academy of Sciences where my work team had an outing, or hanging out at the mall, laughing with their friends. They still live such rich and fulfilling lives, and that’s all I would want for any of my children. I told my daughter not to worry about anything hurting her, that her mama would protect her. So what’s the worst that could happen? Maybe they find some soft markers indicating a higher presence of Down.

My baby flickered on the ultrasound screen in a curled-up position. She presented herself with head oddly arched backward at my 16-week scan, so I thought this was one of her many acrobatic feats.

“If I’m quiet, it doesn’t mean anything—just that I’m processing a lot of things through my head,” the ultrasound tech said. I asked about the 3D pictures, and she continued, “We’ll have to see what the baby gives us.” After just a brief bit, she announced, “I’m having trouble getting the baby to move,” and said that she was going to get the doctor.

A Maternal Fetal Medicine doctor whom I had never met then entered the room. “She was being stubborn before,” I told her, “but I think I felt her kick. Maybe she’ll cooperate more now.”

After a brief scan, the doctor asked some basic follow-up questions: “Have you been getting cramps? Have you been feeling the baby move?” I mentioned my anterior placenta, same as when I was pregnant with Luc, and said I probably couldn’t detect much movement because of it. And I had been moving and keeping so busy around the holiday season, so she was probably rocked to sleep most of the time.

“Daisy, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you. We couldn’t find a heartbeat.” 

I had barely heard the words. I didn’t know how to process them. When? How? Why? What do we do now? According to the measurements, it looks like the baby stopped gestation around 16 weeks, even though my OB check-in at that time went fine. A chill coursed through me, as if I had not realized how high I had soared in my happiness, only to be falling, plummeting swiftly and coldly down to impossible depths.

I opted to get induced and try for a vaginal delivery instead of a D&E (Dilation and Evacuation, a little different than the Dilation and Curettage, or D&C, that they offer for earlier-term losses). I wanted to secure a room in the hospital for Thursday, 12/28. Mostly, I’m in shock, feel tired and sleepy all the time, and am doing my best to cope with the idea of carrying around my dead little girl for the next few days and then deliver her—my sweet summer baby who will have to be born in the winter. Then having to figure out her funeral.

This is news that I had personal experience with since friends and family members have gone through similar stillborn cases. But it is news that I never fathomed I’d have to deal with and deliver myself. I always wondered where women get the strength to go through something this life-altering. Now, I have to find it in myself to do the same.

Today is Tuesday, December 26, 2017. One day after Christmas. A part of my life ended today. My heart goes out to any parent who’s ever had to bury their child.