His Eyes Are in My Heart by Stacey Atwell
“Still, no beat, beat, heartbeat”
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The ultrasound technician looked at the black and white screen, then briefly at Erik and I, hurrying out of the room. I began to weep and wail, the word no on constant repeat in my stunned mouth. A doctor came into the room, and confirmed my worst fears. Our baby had died.
This was not my first pregnancy. But it was a riskier one; I was over 40. My first two babies were born when I was in my twenties. I lived in a different city now, having moved across the country five years prior. I had made a new life for myself. I had a wonderful man in my life, we were in love, but not prepared for this.
The day I took the pregnancy test, my whole body shook as the blue “+” appeared. Despite being unsure, we decided to bring a baby into our lives. Erik moved into my small house as we searched for a bigger one. I fell in love immediately with my little zygote, knowing he was a boy and that his name would be George Henry, hours after the test confirmed his existence.
I suffered horrible nausea. I was exhausted. But I was not worried that my son would be alright. I possess very strong intuition, and despite two bouts of light bleeding, my gut said he was healthy and strong. Erik worried, constantly stressed about what could go wrong. I agreed to get genetic testing done, an amniocentesis. A week before the test I read a firsthand account of a woman over 40 whose baby had died as a result of the procedure. My gut said, Don’t do it. Trust your inner wisdom. Trust your body. But we were a couple, he was afraid, I reluctantly agreed.
My breaths were slow and steady as I lay back on the table, awaiting the amnio. Erik watched our son bounce around on the ultrasound screen, his fingers curling and uncurling. The doctor showed us where the needle would go in, how it would stay away from his tiny body. The pain was immediately excruciating. I began swearing, loudly. Something was not right, it was not supposed to hurt so much. The needle finally found its way in. I sobbed afterward, the trauma lingered over my body for hours to come.
Later, after he had died, we realized that our perinatologist was not the one who performed the amnio. It was an intern. I do not remember her name. I will not remember her name. Ever.
I spent the next few days in bed, taking it slow. On Monday, I drove to Salem for work. I got lost, going down a one-way street. This never, ever happened to me. The next night, the baby was not kicking after I ate some chocolate. In hindsight, these things were indicators that something was wrong, but in that moment, I did not know.
Wednesday morning we went to see our midwives for a regular checkup. I was happy. Erik was excited. We spoke about classes, about birth tubs. About our baby. Towards the end of the visit, the younger midwife placed the Doppler on my belly but could not find a heartbeat, she called in the more senior Certified Nurse Midwife. Still, no beat, beat, heartbeat. They sent us to the ultrasound room.
I wept the whole way home, and through most of the night. Erik and I held each other, unable to understand why our little sweetie had been taken from us. The next day at noon, they began to induce labor. I requested Ativan so that I would not remember it all, so that this most wretched of memories would be muted. The medication for the induction caused me to shake uncontrollably, my body felt as though it was revolting against what was about to happen. I spiked a high fever, became delirious. They gave me antibiotics. The day wore into night.
My contractions hurt, but nothing like the birth of my other two children, both born without any drugs, one at home. In the early morning, I felt like I had to pee. I stood up, walked towards the bathroom and realized I felt pressure in my bottom. "I think it's the baby!" I yelled out. My hand reached down between my legs to keep him from slipping onto the floor. I felt his tiny head in my hand. Nurses and doctors rushed in, guiding me onto the bed. My left hand was bright red, covered in his dead baby blood. Later, a nurse wiped it away. I wish she hadn’t. He was born quickly, the placenta came soon after. They took him away. I was crying, crying, crying.
They brought him back, wrapped in a blanket, clothed in a tiny, flannel dressing gown and hat. His right eye was open, though they had assured me beforehand, they’d be sealed shut. I looked at him, confirming what I already knew, he had blue eyes. I touched his extraordinarily fragile feet and hands. He was almost 20 weeks old. I curled up around my baby in the hospital bed. Weeping, talking to him. Comforting his soul as he passed onto the next world. Apologizing to him. I had heard him before the labor came. He spoke. "Mama, mama," he said. What else could he say? He was so little. I don't know when we left. I don't recall. Days later we received the amnio results, he was a perfectly healthy boy.
What follows then. Grief. Blackness. Sorrow. An empty belly. Waking to sobbing, and sleep only coming when I medicated myself. Erik returned to work right away. I tried, and fell apart within an hour of arriving at my first day in the office. We traveled to Pennsylvania for his grandfather’s funeral. He introduced me as his partner to his parents, Aunts, Uncles. I sobbed quietly during the service, the words the Rector spoke felt like they were for our son, too. I lingered alone in the church for a long time, wishing I had that sort of faith to help me, asking my own beloved grandparents to watch over him.
Autumn came. We took some of his ashes to the Oregon coast. Laid them in at low tide, wrote his initials in the sand and let the cold Pacific waters wash them away. Soon after, Erik told me he was not sure things would work out between us. I was already a fractured mess without my baby in my arms. I asked him to please not talk about it, I simply could NOT handle it. But he did, over and over, his words shoving me deeper into despair. My grief had taken me over, I bemoaned that I had not died with George Henry. I joked about jumping off the Fremont Bridge. I was not joking. I fantasized about ways to take myself out of this world and into my son's.
Thanksgiving. Erik’s parents came. He put on a false front for them. He wanted to leave, he turned away from me in every way possible. Christmas that year was the darkest time I’ve ever had. George Henry was due then. Our tears left us wrung out, frayed remnants of our normal selves. He went to Asia on a work trip. I knew he would not really be back. I was alone. He could barely bring himself to be with me, even as he told me how much he loved me. I was a reminder of sorrow, death, loss. He moved out in February, then broke up with me days before my birthday a few months later. I missed him terribly, as he felt like the remaining link I had left to my son. He was the only other person who “knew” George Henry.
I gradually made peace with the fact that the amnio is what caused my son to die. It took a long time, but Erik finally realized that his fear and pressuring me to get the test may have contributed to the death of our son. This brutal truth lingered while Erik’s presence faded. He made no room in his heart for the mother of his lost boy. I saw him a year and half after our son died, at a literary event. He walked past me as though he did not know me, like he’d never laid his hand across my belly, never felt our boy wiggling under his touch. In my heart, I asked George Henry to love his father, regardless of the way he treated me.
Not long ago, I stood in the middle of my family room. I stood there with a man. He put his hand on my belly. My soft, thrice pregnant belly. He told me that it was precious because it had brought three (yes, he said three) beautiful lives into this world. All that occurred had not been a parallel life. It was mine. It had been George Henry’s. He is always with me. His ashes are on my dresser. Mix them in with mine and throw them off Cape Perpetua when I die. His cells are in my brain. His eyes are in my heart.
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Stacey Atwell has lived in Portland, Oregon since 2006. A Yankee (as in New England) at heart, she’s an amateur photographer, music junkie and geek. She’s done time as a board member for PDX POP Now! and is currently dreaming about the desert. Find her on on Twitter here, or read more of her work here.