Decisions and goodbye (terminating my pregnancy)

I wrote this piece three years ago.

I birthed this baby three years ago today, on Tzom Gedalia. I have pictures of him and looked at them lovingly this morning. 

B’h-  EXACTLY a year after this ordeal, (same week, erev R”H) I gave birth to Ezra Rachamim, who turned two last week. 

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Should we get pregnant?

It was a discussion whether to go off birth control. There were things to think about, to consider, to weigh. I can’t even say that we made a decision but let’s just say, with time, we stopped preventing. And right away, and I see the blessing in that, we were pregnant. Those two red lines and all the doubt and unsureness inside me dissipated and I just smiled and smiled. I was overjoyed. They would be exactly two years apart. I was ecstatic.

Should we do the AFP test?

Ultrasounds? Definitely. Sugar test at 15 weeks because I was induced and on insulin shots from gestational diabetes last pregnancy? Yes. Blood tests? Of course. Amniocentesis? No thank you. Alpha-fetoprotein screening (AFP)? Well, I had to think. It’s more than the basic testing I ever did. It costs a little money. But it’s just a blood test. Ok, I guess I will do it.

And just two days later, I got a call from my doctor. In true Miss Clavel style, I heard the words: “Something is not right.” Don’t worry, I was told. It’s probably nothing, I was assured. So I decided not to worry. In fact, I was excited to get an “emergency” detailed ultrasound because maybe they would finally see if it was a boy or girl!

Should I be angry at G-d?

Within seconds, I could read the face of the doctor. Something was indeed not right. We threw questions at him, but his answers were aloof. Is something wrong? Is it a boy or a girl? Why can’t you tell? I am already 18 weeks! He told me to walk around outside and move and come back in 5 minutes. We came back, and after a few minutes he told us the news. There is no amniotic fluid. Zero. Due to a rare syndrome called Potter Syndrome (Potter sequence). The baby’s kidneys don’t produce urine, which was why there was no amniotic fluid, and there was zero percent chance of this baby living.

The news didn’t sink in right away. I was not sure I heard him right. But then the tears came. Then the anger. And suddenly I felt furious at G-d. I needed this like a bullet to the head. I couldn’t believe how cruel G-d was, how unfair, how unjust. I needed this baby. 

Go to 9 months?

That night was torture. The next morning, we went to the hospital first thing in the morning to meet my own doctor, and a specialist. They confirmed everything the doctor had said the night before. This wasn’t a case of 80% chance, nor 50%, not even 1% chance. This wasn’t a case of a child that might have special needs. This was a case of 0% chance. Even with a heartbeat, which it did have, there were questions if the baby could survive until 40 weeks or if it would survive the birth process, but then there was no question, it wouldn’t survive more than a few minutes in this world due to all the problems of development that would occur. I was told, without a shadow of a doubt, that this was not a baby that should be carried to 9 months and that I would need to terminate the pregnancy.

Surgical abortion or delivery?

The doctors gave me the choices. I could have a surgical abortion, but the hospital I was in would not do it, so I would need to go to a different city, or I could birth the baby. I didn’t need to think about this: I wanted to be put to sleep and wake up with it all over and behind me. I did not want to birth without having a baby to take home afterwards. I was clear. But a (very famous) doctor gave me some wise words and said: Stop for a minute and think about it. She told me to take a few hours and do some research, talk to some people, and think, because, she told me, most women choose to deliver, and that is her recommendation.

I went out to the gardens of the hospital, and I noticed it was a beautiful day, except for the fact that it wasn’t. My husband and I cried bitter tears and then started making calls. We made so many calls! It was like shopping, “purchasing” wisdom, advice, opinions, halacha, information, facts, past experiences, well-earned knowledge. After many hours of listening and collecting pieces of empowerment, I realized that as hard as a delivery would be, the pros significantly outweighed the cons.

(If you find yourself, heaven forbid, in a position where you need to make this decision, please reach out, and I am happy to explain both sides and why I made, and most people make, the decision to deliver.)

I couldn’t believe I changed my mind, but it was clear. This baby had to be delivered and buried whole, and I would have to go through the difficult experience.

Push off travels?

The next hard decision was a difficult one.

My 34-year-old special needs sister had been sick since May. Without going into the details, I had needed to go to NY to visit and help make some difficult decisions since June, but due to logistical reasons, I was unable to travel until the kids were back in school.

Now it was Thursday, and I was hearing this news, but I was meant to finally fly the following Sunday night. I felt strongly I couldn’t push off my trip, which would have to wait until after Sukkot if I didn’t go as planned, but how could I travel? How could I walk around with my protruding belly in everyone’s faces while knowing- them and I- that this baby was never going to survive? How could I see friends and neighbors and answer their exclamations of “Bisha Tova! I’m so excited for you” and answer their questions, “When are you due? Do you know what you are having?”

I spoke to more people. I got medical advice, spiritual guidance and therapeutic assistance to make my decision. Weighing all the many complicated details, this was not a trip that could be pushed off. The baby was alive, and it didn’t “hurt” me or him to continue carrying him for another week. With the blessing and support of my beloved husband, he agreed that our “situation” had to be pushed off a week for the sake of this highly anticipated trip around my sister’s health.

Think about it or push it aside?

I told my family my decision and explained that it would be hard for everyone, but this was the reality. I discussed with professionals whether or not to tell my special-needs sister and was advised not to, due to her difficult circumstances. I flew to NY with my swelling belly and 19-month-old and landed in New York with the clear decision that although I wouldn’t ignore my reality (I journaled every night about it), I would also put it “aside” for a week to address the mission for which I had come.

I spent the next seven days drenched in meetings with my sister’s staff and doctors, collecting information, and seeing the situation up close and personal. I spent hours with my sister and 94-year-old grandmother, and by the time Friday came, I felt really good about my decision to have flown to New York.

With the exception of seeing Hamilton (a miracle story on its own!) the trip was a focused, “tachles oriented” week filled with emotion around my sister’s health.

However,  Friday night, when I lit candles, I did fall apart (on my mother) at the thought that by this time next week, I would not be carrying this baby any longer. She placed her hand on my stomach and sent it love, as did I.

Now what?

I got back Tuesday morning. I needed to be at the hospital Wednesday morning. But due to jet lag, severe fatigue, and good old-fashioned nerves, we got to the hospital very late, 1p.m. to be exact, with my bag in hand, preparing myself for one of the hardest days of my life. My doctor confirmed there was still a heartbeat and then proceeded to explain what needed to happen before the procedures began. First, I needed to get the medical committee to agree to the termination. However, by the time I was told this, it was too late to start that process for the day. I was told to go home and come back the next day at 8am.

However, I was so mentally prepared and the day had been so anxiety ridden with high anticipation that I felt if I left, I would never come back. I decided I wanted to check myself in, like it was some beautiful hotel suite, and be at the committee by 8a.m. with a bracelet around my wrist showing that I would not leave the hospital until this was done. But after a few hours in the ER and speaking to yet another gynecologist, I was told they would not admit me, and I needed to go home and come back the next day. After eight hours in the hospital, emotionally spent, my husband and I crashed at my mother-in-law’s house, which was nearb,y while she was at my house with our kids, and we slept the day off (but barely) only to be woken by a 6:45a.m. alarm.

Fight or accept?

Again, with a heavy heart and the need for mental strength for what the day would bring, we left for the hospital and were in the office at 8a.m. However, the secretary didn’t show up until 9a.m. And when she did, she told me to sit and wait for my name to be called. The only way to describe the next few hours is to say that it was psychological torture. First, I needed to fill out a million forms with the nurse. Then I needed to wait to see the doctor. Then I had to sign forms. Then I had to wait to see the social worker. Then I had to sign forms. Then I had to wait until three doctors from the committee signed off on the termination. By the time this was all done, it was 3p.m., and I was told that not only could I not start the process of delivery that day, but because it was Thursday, and the following Sunday was Rosh Hashanah, I would need to come back the following Wednesday after the holidays.

No more choices 

At this point, I decided that until now I had been trying to make decisions, taking control, and trying to take a situation that was completely out of my hands and dominate every aspect of it that I could. But at this moment I realized clearly that none of this, not even the when, was in my hands and that G-d was going to decide when this baby was going to come out and how. I suddenly understood the words Bishaa Tova, and honestly, during Rosh Hashana davening, I felt strongly that my baby was meant to be “in this world” for Rosh Hashanah. Once I let go, everything became so much easier. We went home, had a nice Shabbat and Rosh Hashanah (which included a few breakdowns along the way), and Wednesday morning, we made our way to the hospital yet again. 

We checked in, got our room, and we waited for the anesthesiologist to give me an epidural. I was grateful that I didn’t need to make that decision;  they told me the amount of Pitocin (or whatever it is they used to induce labor) was so tremendous that I really would need an epidural to survive the pain. As scared as I was, I agreed. After waiting for someone to arrive, which took a few hours, the process didn’t go very well. After two failed attempts and a lot of pain, she left, and we waited another few hours for another anesthesiologist to arrive. This time, the doctor had magical hands, and it went smoothly. As soon as the catheter was set up and I was lying in bed, starting to feel the tingle of numbness, I thought: from the belly down, my body represents everything I feel right now. I am not in control at all. I can’t stand on my own two feet any longer, and I am completely in the hands of others and G-d completely.

Over the next few hours, I was induced a few times but luckily, the epidural worked very well and all I felt was pressure from the contractions and discomfort, but no severe pain. It took seven hours. After seven hours of throwing up, stomach issues which we will not discuss, chills and chattering of teeth from feeling frozen, to boiling hot with fever, and severe cramping pains, I delivered a baby boy. A baby boy who wouldn’t even breathe one day in this world. 

The hardest decision of all

They had told me to think about two things before we got to the hospital: do we want to do genetic testing from the baby and do I want to hold the baby? I had not made a decision about either one when I saw the nurse take the baby away to wash it off and wrap it up. I heard wailing and screaming and crying and knew it was me making those noises, but it was such an out-of-body experience. They asked me if I wanted to hold or see the baby and all I could say was “I don’t know…I don’t know…”. My husband, the love of my life and my rock, decided he did want to hold the baby. So behind the curtain, he held our baby, caressed its skin, and only when I felt a tremendous pain of jealousy did I yell, “I want to see my baby!” I held him on my stomach, and as I  breathed, it looked like he was breathing. He was so small, so purple, so similar to the face of my 20-month-old at home. He looked like he was sleeping, but his eyes would never open. He had been growing for 22 weeks. For 40 minutes we sat there with our baby… crying, talking to him and memorizing his every crease. When they finally told us it was time to take the baby, I felt it was a good idea …before I became even more attached to this baby I would never bring home. We said goodbye and then just stared into space with an eerie silence. 

Minutes later I was told I was being taken down into the operating room for a D&C. That was its own traumatic experience because I had never been in an OR before. When I entered the room, drunk from tears and profound exhaustion, I told the doctor that I felt like I was being held in a place that was a cross between the setting on the Truman Show and NASA. When I started crying again, even though I felt nothing, he told me to focus on this teeny tiny square of a beach that was hanging on the wall. “Just look at the water,” he told me. Dear Doctor: with the equipment, clanking, talking and scary machines and enormous umbrella lights over my head, no, I can’t focus on that tiny square of beach you have plastered on the wall a few feet away. 

A few hours later, when I got back to my room, I eventually got all my feeling back in my legs. 

I drifted in and out of sleep, and when I awok,e they told me if my blood test came back ok, if I could pee on my own, walk on my own, and had a talk with the social worker, I could go home. 

Blood was good, I peed, I walked, and SHOWERED, and then I told the social worker to please sign the papers so I can leave because I had a wonderful therapist who would take it from here, thank you very much. 

She chuckled, and my husband and I walked out of the hospital 16 hours after I delivered my baby that never lived. 

Decisions, Decisions, Decisions….

Let’s face it. It was not my decision to nest a baby for 22 weeks and then let it go. It was not my decision that this baby would be buried and would never see the light of day. It was not my decision to terminate this pregnancy. But I did have to make some decisions in the process, and I have zero regrets about any of them. As I am home now recovering, I keep thinking about this pure little neshama, and his face, and with my tears and my pain I know at the end of days he will be mine again.

I am still drowning in sadness. But with that sadness, I still see so much chesed. There were many small cheseds along the way and some very big ones. Even in the hardship, we saw the hand of God very clearly again and again and again. I am also so grateful to have the most incredible friends and family who were an amazing support system. I am grateful for the beyond incredible staff at the hospital who were so wonderful and loving.  It is also comforting to know that I am not alone and that so many people have gone through similar and even more difficult experiences than this- there is no lack of company when it comes to pain around children and losing children. I also feel some comfort in knowing that my baby was buried in one piece, and in Eretz Yisrael, and that I was able to do that chesed for him, even though I was robbed of the privilege of doing a lifetime of chesed for him as his mother. 

I walk away from this experience feeling proud that I did something I never thought I could do, happy that I walked through the process every step of the way, thankful to my incredible husband who is my everything and more than that, and excited to (please God) be given the opportunity to have another healthy child, who we can hold and cherish and love forever. In the meantime, this baby will live on in my memory, my writing, my mother’s painting that she drew in honor of the baby, the additional candle I will light every week before Shabbat, and in our minds and hearts. He will live forever in our souls. 

*I want to thank every single person who helped me on this journey. There are a lot of you, and I won’t mention you by name — but you know who you are. Thank you.

Last, if you need support around losing a pregnancy or baby, reach out to Nechama Comfort and I was supposed to have a baby.