The first night after hearing the devastating news about our baby girl was horrific. How do you quiet your mind enough to sleep after hearing what we had heard that day? I had unfortunately gotten into a habit of watching a TV show as I fall asleep every night. I tried to do that, hoping having something to listen to would keep my thoughts occupied. What it really did was make me incredibly frustrated at the meaninglessness of Netflix and every show it offers. How could I waste so much time watching it? Why were all of the shows so meaningless? So many things in life suddenly became meaningless. And it didn't prevent me from hearing those horrible words, over, and over, and over, and over.
"I have some really bad news about your baby girl."
It's all I could hear. I just kept replaying what the doctor said to us, over and over. I gave up watching a show and laid in bed, still hearing the same words over and over. Then I was hungry. I continued to lay in bed for a while, trying to will the hunger away, but eventually got out of bed and heated up some pizza left over from that night. I was trying to be as quiet as possible, but eventually Nathan wandered out of the bedroom, to find me at the table, eating pizza, with tears streaming down my face. He held me, sat with me, and eventually we both went back to bed. At some point I did fall asleep for a few hours, but was wide awake at an ungodly hour of the morning, and I just accepted the fact that sleep was no longer attainable at that point. When Nathan woke up that morning, he found me sitting upright in bed, reading about Anencephaly, with tears running down my face (at least this time I wasn't eating pizza?). He gently suggested I read it another time, and pulled me close to him.
Nathan and I took the week off of work, in attempt to further process the news, and try to get a handle on the new turn our lives had taken. We went to the gym, and walked around the track that surrounds the basketball court the morning . It was nice to be moving, and it got us talking. We talked mostly about Ayden, what the upcoming months were going to look like, how we were feeling, questions we should ask at our upcoming appointment. Neither of us were angry. We were both hurting more than we'd ever hurt before. We were confused. But we were talking. That walk started the first of many trips to the gym where we would walk, and talk about Ayden. It became a source of comfort, a way to process, and a way to intentionally keep us talking to each other, to keep us connected.
During that walk, I timidly brought up organ donation, asking what he thought of it. He had been thinking about organ donation as well, he just hadn't wanted to bring it up because he wasn't sure how I would react to it. We had both been reading about it. Remember that prayer I said, on our drive to the beach, begging God for Nathan and I to be on the same page throughout every decision? This would be the first of many decisions, where Nathan and I were on exactly the same page. We decided if organ donation was a possibility, we wanted to pursue it. If there was any chance our baby girl's inevitable fate would be able to prevent other parents from having to go through what we were going through, we were on board. It felt like a glimpse of redemption for our horrific situation. Though we were both on board, even just talking about it was agonizing. It just isn't a conversation that any expecting parents should ever have to have. It isn't something anyone wants to think about. It isn't something anyone should every have to think about. It is something that simply should not be. And yet it is. And there we were, having that conversation.
Nathan's mom came and visited us that afternoon for a few hours. It was nice to talk. My brother and his wife (who are expecting a little boy, due two weeks before Ayden) came over, as did our friends Blake and Sam. I had kept it together most of the afternoon while Nathan's mom was over, but when Sam walked in the door, she ruined that for me. She gave me a hug, the kind that communicates more than you can really say with words. She told me that she was so sorry, and she grabbed my face in her hands, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, "you know I'm here for you, right?" It has been interesting how different people handled the news about our little Ayden, especially in person. The most common reaction has been for people to give us "the look" - you know, the sad face, the head tilt, the "I don't know what to say, so I'm going to look at you like this" look. Other people pretend nothing has happened, and try to keep things as normal as possible. I don't think there is a right or wrong way to react...I didn't know how I wanted to people to act around me. I guess I just wanted people to just be normal, and be real. Sam was real. Sam cut straight to the chase. Sam knew I was in agony, and she wasn't going to ignore it. She was going to be in agony with me, and make sure I knew she was there. I still tear up every time I think about that moment, how much it meant to me, and how simultaneously painful it was, because it forced me to also recognize my own pain. It's easier to ignore the facts of life, than to hold their face in your hands and stare them straight in the eye.
After everyone left, it was time to attempt sleep again. And again, sleep evaded me. I just kept hearing those words, over and over and over.
"I have some really bad news about your baby girl."
Again, I eventually wandered out into the kitchen to find food. I heated up some of the soup Emily had made the night before. Nathan found me again in the kitchen, eating, with tears running down my face. I again eventually fell asleep, but only for a few hours. When Nathan woke up the next morning, he again found me reading stories about parents who had children with Anencephaly with more tears running down my face, and he again gently suggested I read it another time, and he again pulled me very close.
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