George, gone from us one year today

It's so fitting that I woke up in the wee hours today, the anniversary of our baby's birth and death. His stillbirth.

This time last year I was up labouring in the wee hours, peacefully and happily working through the rushes of contractions. I baked Groaning Cake (recipe mentioned in The Birth House by Ami McKay), prepared lunches for the older boys for school, tidied the house, and did some last minute things on the computer and Facebook. I showered, watching my babe move within me, and telling him we'd meet soon and I was so glad.

I had no idea, of course, that when my midwife came early to labour with me and hang out (she could avoid bridge traffic if she came early) she wouldn't find a heartbeat. My rushes of contractions were still a bit irregular and ranging from 20 to 15 to 10 minutes apart. I knew they were strong though and I felt very dilated.

So when the midwife on call that day of the three midwives, all of whom I adore, got to our duplex where we used to live I was relaxed and resting while Philip took the older childre to school and the younger two to a friend's house. It was just after 8:00 a.m. The first thing she did after we talked was try to get a heartbeat. I wasn't worried at first - then I sensed her concern. She said it might be her doppler but she wasn't getting a heartbeat. Philip was back and we grabbed a few things and rushed the few blocks up to hospital.

I waddled up to the ward while Philip parked, fear pouring down over me as I prodded and poked my belly and my son no longer moved. On the labour and delivery ward my midwife was waiting with two nurses and the heartrate monitor. We could hear a whisper of something and normally they said it is just silent with a stillbirth.

I sobbed and prayed desperately, willing a miracle. We waited and waited for the obstetrician on call to arrive and the ultrasound cart. They arrived finally and nothing. No heartbeat. He was gone.

That moment of realization is impossible to adequately articulate. Shock doesn't touch on the feeling I had as the world crashed and imploded and yet my heart kept beating while his did not. I could not believe I would birth a dead baby. I didn't believe I'd have the strength to birth him still. To keep going.

Oddly, although I arrived at hospital already 8 cm dilated, when I got that horrible news my body stalled. I still had rushes of contractions, but I wasn't progressing. My body stayed frozen and gave my mind time to attempt to catch up. I should have delievered my son within the hour and yet it was hours later that I almost consciously decided, "I have to do this" and things started to progress. I had two of my midwives with me, A and G, and I will forever remember saying, "I can't. I can't. I can't do this." I didn't want to push him out and not hear him cry. G threw her body across mine and said quietly in my ear, "It will be hard. It will be the hardest thing you ever do, but you can do this for your son."

And I did. No miracle for us; our child was still and silent. Beautiful, plump, rosy - but dead.

My cousin Deborah, who is an OB-gyn in another province, has called me or emailed me regularly - sometimes every few days and other times every week - since George died. When we spoke recently she said she thought about that moment when I learned the news my baby had died and then getting through the birth with my husband. We talked a bit and she said, "Just think how you thought you'd never be able to cope. How impossible one hour felt. But you did it and you gave birth to him. You made it through the first night, then the first week. I bet you never thought you would make it a few weeks, let alone this long."

She is so right. It seemed impossible. It's been agony, excruciating to keep going when that moment stole so much I can't regain in this lifetime. But I have kept on keeping on, even when it seemed more than I could do. And now here I am, a full year later, still breathing and crying and remembering.

It's because of the love and support of family members like my cousin Deborah and my younger sister Lisa, who has likewise kept calling me every day without fail. There are many other family members, some third and even more distant cousins, who have been there constantly to love and listen. Friends, many from years past - including many friends from military bases or the civilian school where I grew up that I haven't seen in decades. Decades. But they've been there.

And then there are the other babylost mothers. The women to whom I'm related who have shared their own stories of loss. My grandmothers, only one of whom now living, who themselves were babylost mothers and kept the memories of their lost babies alive in our family lore. Grandma Murphy still speaks of her baby Dan, who died of pneumonia in hospital just days old; George's death was hard for her and she has cried with me on the phone, truly understanding. My Grandma Jones lost her baby daughter through negligent doctors (her arm came down the birth canal), my Great-Grandma Beal lost a son at 22 weeks to SIDS, and my Great-Grandma Murphy lost her toddler Mary when she choked on a banana. My Great-Auntie lost a son hours after birth and some of my father's cousins also lost babies. I know George will be remembered because we do remember them. Out loud.

And babylost mothers in blogland and now from our little infant loss group where we live now. You have kept me going through the darkest hours by sharing your stories of loss and coping with grief and listening to mine - and some of you also on Facebook where your own supportive comments have helped many of my friends know what to say. I love you all, holding you and your babies close in my heart.

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Just days before George's angel day today I was able to share a bit about him on national radio. My friend Iris is a producer and asked if I would share something I blogged about on a show about conversation for Definitely Not the Opera on CBC Radio. I drove in to downtown Vancouver to the CBC studios to record my segment, joined by the magic of telecommunications by Iris who is in Winnipeg. My bit is the very last one on the May 15, 2010 podcast, which you can link to here. George's name was broadcast from coast to coast, in all 10 provinces and all three territories a year after his short life. Gone but not forgotten. Thank you, Iris, for inviting me to say his name out loud across the country and share a bit of this journey.