Baby Michael

3-30-2007

I worked in Mother/Baby yesterday.  Normally I love working mother/baby.  It means my day is not so busy, that I can relax and sit back at the nurse's station on my downtime, between taking vitals and bringing and picking up food trays.  Most mothers are preoccupied with their new babies and family and do not feel the need to bug the nurses and nurse aide for much.  Besides, it is nice to give the new mothers and their babies as much privacy as possible at this time.

For the vast majority of families, the birth of a baby is a joyous occasion, one of the happiest moments of the mother's life.  But every so often, things do not work out as planned.  The long awaited baby and new addition to the family is stillborn or dies shortly after birth.  This happened to one of my patients yesterday and it was an experience I will never forget.

There were a couple C-sections planned for the morning, and after passing the breakfast trays, I was sitting at the nurses's station when I came across a pamphlet entitled, "When Hello Means Goodbye."  I started to flip through it and it was full of poems from the parents' perspective, dealing with the loss of their child, as well as advice to parents on how to make the most of their baby's short life.  It talked about how to provide a sense of closure, and also had financial advice on burial, cremation, etc.  Reading this booklet made me feel like crying as I thought what a tragedy it would be to lose your own child.

Shortly thereafter, the nurses received word that the first C-section baby was not doing well.  Meanwhile, the baby's family is in our waiting room, and as they receive more word, some become hysterical.  The grandmother is crying and calling other friends and family.  More family and friends arrive and eventually they commandeer the waiting room, closing off the doors to only family and friends of the affected family.  Eventually, they get word that the baby has died, that the doctors did all that they could, but it was to no avail.  Words such as "skeletal fractures","skeletal eclampsia", and an "unexpected abnormality" are offered to the griefstricken family.

Then the baby's mother is wheeled into her hospital room, the room I prepared for her earlier that morning.  I help the nurses transfer her from the stretcher onto her bed.  The mother's eyes are blank, emotionless.  I wonder if she is still in shock over everything or too drugged up on painkillers to feel much of anything.  Probably a combination of both.  As soon as she is settled into her hospital bed, her sister brings in the dead baby.  Normally the mothers do not get to see their babies until a couple hours after they are born because the nurses have to make sure the babies are stable, do mandatory testing, and clean up the babies.  But of course, none of this applies to a dead baby.

The mother holds her baby up to her chest.  He is all swaddled up and I cannot see his face, though I am not too sure I want to look at him anyways.  The baby has an older brother, a two year old who is held by his dad.  The two year old cannot understand death.  He does not understand why everyone around him is so sad, why he cannot play with his baby brother.  As the nurse hooks up the mother's IV, she avoids mentioning the dead baby, instead focusing on the two year old, asking his name, how old he is, and so on.  It almost makes me angry, how she does not even acknowledge the baby on the mother's chest, as if he is not the reason for the mother being in the hospital in the first place.  To tell the truth, I was not any better.  I came in and took the mother's temperature and blood pressure, brought in her food tray, and that was it.  I did not try to comfort her; I did not say anything except what had to be said to get the job done.  She was surrounded by family, more family and friends than I have ever seen in a hospital room, and so I let the comforting fall to them.

On one of my trips to her room, they were filling out the birth certificate.  When asked the baby's name, the mother replied that it be "Michael, like it is spelled in the Bible."  The family was not sure how the name "Michael" is spelled in the Bible, and so they got one out and started looking through it.  I knew how the name was spelled, but I did not want to butt into their converation.  I glanced at the mother and my eyes fell towards her baby across her chest.  His blanket was down some and I saw his face.  His head was abnormally large, but what shocked me most was his color, purplish blue.  I guess it should not have shocked me so much, the baby obviously was not breathing and you always hear about a person who is not breathing turning blue.  But still, I will never forget looking at baby Michael.

It is not easy to sum up what this experience has taught me.  No one but God knows why baby Michael was taken so soon.  I do believe there is a purpose to everything that happens in life though.  I will not ever forget this mother who held and kept her dead baby with her, who got a chance to bathe and dress him, and take pictures of him before she must bury him.  I will not forget the sadness of those around her and the pain she must have felt, the heartbreak, the loss that will dwell within her for the rest of her life.

I woke up this morning thinking about her and baby Michael.  I could not stop thinking about yesterday and realized that the only way I could stop thinking about them was to write about them.  And so I did.  And so I have.