Loving a Baby, 5.5 Inches Long
Grief hurt, a physical pain in my chest.
My first baby joined the world five days before his due date, at a healthy 7 pounds, 5 ounces, 19-and-a-half inches long. It was love at first sight, and my entry ticket to motherhood. Two-and-a-half years later, my second son arrived, eight days before his due date. Nearly identical in size to his brother, he was 7 pounds, 7 ounces, 19-and-three-quarters inches. My love expanded to envelop both of my children.
My third child, my daughter Nelle, weighed 4 ounces when she was born and was 5.5 inches long. She was stillborn, just over halfway through my pregnancy.
At my mid-pregnancy ultrasound we learned that she was growth restricted, measuring far smaller than she should have been at that point in pregnancy. I underwent an amniocentesis and bloodwork, trying to find the cause (Chromosomes? Virus? Umbilical Cord?). Everything came back normal. Ten days later, a routine prenatal appointment found that she had no heartbeat. Whatever outcome had crept into my nightmares since the day of my ultrasound, it had not included that my baby would die.
Like with her brothers, I endured labor — 26 hours of miserable torture. But instead of holding a beautiful, healthy baby, Nelle was born to my tears and anguish.
Grief hurt, a physical pain in my chest, a relentless, wrenching grip.
After a battery of tests, we had no explanation. We were told that, medically, there was no reason that we could not try for a baby again right away. Much as I was still devastated from losing my child, all I could think about was having another baby: that welcoming a baby would bring some light back into my life. I became pregnant, another girl. We named her Iris, the Greek word for rainbow. We announced the pregnancy with the words “After a storm, there is a rainbow. Our Rainbow Baby is due July 27, 2017.”
Then, inexplicably, at my 16-week prenatal appointment, she had no heartbeat.
I went through labor and delivery again. Iris weighed 2.3 ounces and was also 5.5 inches long. My heart broke a second time.
Both times I was gently given the opportunity to hold my babies and look at them. Both times I squeezed my eyes shut and refused. I had an image in my mind of what my baby should look like, and I knew at that gestational age they would not look like the babies for whom I had longed. I did not want that image burned into my memory.
Two years have passed. I joined a support group for parents that have experienced pregnancy and infant loss. Through the group, I learned that the hospital always takes photos of the babies that are born, and the photos are saved indefinitely — even if the parents refuse to see them. Knowing that the photos existed brought a new “decision” that I felt I needed to make: should I ask to see the photos? I never regretted not looking at them in the hospital, but sometimes my mind would wander to their features. As their faces were beginning to form, would I be able to make out my nose, or my husband’s ears? Could I have a photo of just a tiny hand, or foot?
The hospital had done footprints for me, as with any newborn, inked onto sturdy cardstock. I had them placed into tiny, silver frames but I was often nervous that the footprints were all I had. Irrationally, I wondered what would happen if my house burned down and I had no other photos of my girls. I decided that even if I could not look at them, I at least wanted the photos to be in my possession.
I reached out to the hospital’s bereavement coordinator. She found Iris’s photos easily, but thought that Nelle’s would have been moved to an archived backup since so much time had elapsed. A few days later, she sent me a message and asked if she could give me a call.
On the phone, she told me that there were no photos of Nelle. Because of the growth restriction, her body had not been forming properly. The bereavement coordinator gently told me that the staff had opted not to take photos, and in cases where that happens, there was a reason for it.
I broke down and began to cry. First finding out that there were no photos, when I had struggled so much to even decide that I wanted them. And then thinking of her body, in such a state that hospital staff chose not to capture her, knowing that the images would be too hard, even for the most willing of parents.
The bereavement coordinator told me that she had Iris’s photos, and she would send them to me — but warned me that her skin was very red, due to her gestational age, and she was very tiny. She was wrapped in a blanket. I wondered what nurse had taken such care, to lift my daughter’s minute body and give her a tender moment.
With my grief in my throat, I told the coordinator that I did not want Iris’s photos. How could I have one without the other? The two daughters I lost have always been — in my mind — inextricably linked. Two halves of a hole in my heart. I had gone for more than two years without the photos and had already made peace with the fact that they were not available to me. Knowing that Nelle’s photos did not exist made it easier to decide not to look at Iris. I could be content with their footprints.
I now have a living Rainbow Baby, Autumn. She is eight months old. From her knee to her foot measures 5.5 inches. Growing at a phenomenal rate, it is not lost on me that while today an element of her body measures the same length as her sisters, next month she will be bigger. Every part will continue to grow, while her sisters will never change.
Anna Burgess Yang
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