So on Friday morning last week we went back to the midwife. Rachel couldn't feel him moving. The duty midwife tried to find his heart rate but could not. We went straight to the hospital and were admitted to a room for another ultrasound scan. The doctor who scanned told us that sadly, there was no heart beat and we had lost our baby. He was 39 weeks and 4 days gestational age when we were given the news.
We were told that the safest way to proceed was for Rachel to be induced to give birth naturally. A cesarian operation would lengthen the time needed for physical healing and the size of the baby complicated matters as well. We were transferred to the labour and delivery ward and Rachel was hooked up to various drips for the procedure. After about 10 hours of labour she gave birth. The time was 1:36am on Saturday morning, the 15th of February.
I was awake at the time, standing by Rachel at the head of her bed. The little form lay on the sheets at the bottom, perfectly tucked up in a baby curl we know so well. But silent and still. No joy of life for us at that time, no reward for the labour, no fulfilment for the 9 months of pregnancy. The sadness of that quiet moment reaches out to me even now - the perfect stillness of a tiny form with all the potential of life, but none of the true vitality of breath.
The nurse took him and placed him in the baby bed, and covered him with a sheet. He didn't need any medical attention. As the doctor and nurse looked over Rachel, taking care of her following the birth, I crossed the room and uncovered the body. He was as warm and soft as a baby should be. But his body was still, heavy, lifeless. The skin on his eyelids had torn off during his birth, giving his face an angry red stare. I lifted his eyelids to see his eyes - they were perfect, but he was gone.
It was the saddest day of my life, one week ago, one lifetime ago.
