Inconceivable

by Carolyn Savage

  Carolyn handed Logan to me. I cuddled him in my arms and sat in the rocking chair. I had a bottle for him, and I gently rocked him while he ate. As I was holding Logan, he was in and out of sleep. I was so relaxed and one with him, just as I had been with Drew, Ryan, and Mary Kate. Carolyn could barely move, because of the pain, but she pulled herself out of bed, and the nurse took dozens of pictures of Carolyn, Logan, and me. As I held him I watched the clock, knowing that our time with him was quickly coming to an end.

  Just then, Sue came in to ask us something she and the other nurses wanted to know.

  “Would you want me to do a bereavement box?” she said. “We do these for families who lose a child at or after birth.”

  Carolyn and I looked at each other, pained that this was the appropriate gesture to make for a baby who at that moment was resting so sweetly in my arms.

  “Yes,” I said softly.

  Moments later she came in with the box. She held one of Logan’s feet to make an imprint of it in clay. Next, she took our picture, hustled down the hall to get it printed, and then placed it in the box along with other personal items. When she brought the box back, she placed it on a shelf. As she shut the door she said, “I will leave you two alone with the baby for your remaining time.”

  I stared at the box, and then back at Logan, and then again at the box. I didn’t know what we would do with it, but I was thankful to Sue and her team for recognizing our loss.

  I wanted Carolyn to be the last to hold him. I helped her move the four feet from her bed to the rocker. She grimaced as she sat in the chair, but she wanted to rock Logan so badly. I handed Logan to her.

  “He is so beautiful and so alert,” I said.

  “It feels so good to have some time to simply focus on him and put everything else aside.”

  I took pictures from every angle. Next, I grabbed the video camera and recorded a brief moment. Carolyn smiled in a way that I had not seen her smile this year. She was captured by Logan.

  Sue rolled the isolette back in, and we knew what that meant: Paul and Shannon were coming to get Logan. It was time to say good-bye. We had done everything we could in forty-five minutes. As Carolyn placed him in the isolette, we held his hand and leaned in to kiss him on the forehead, saying, “I love you.”

  After Logan had left, I helped Carolyn back into bed, and Mary Smith arrived. She carried with her a thick stack of documents and her notary seal, the paperwork to officially turn custody of Logan over to the Morells.

  Mary had a pen for each of us. One by one, she handed us the documents, explaining the reason for each one. I heard her, but I did not listen. For the only time in my life, I signed legal documents that I didn’t read. I knew that the cold, dry wording on these papers could not reflect the love we were feeling for Logan. The papers had to say that we didn’t want to be his parents, and I just could not read such wording. Carolyn and I signed our names again and again and again. The few pictures we took of that moment when we signed away our formal connection to Logan reflect our reluctant surrender. We were fulfilling our commitment, and it felt like hell.

  Mary brought all of the signed documents to Shannon and Paul. After they signed off, she drove to the Lucas County courthouse, where a judge made the change of custody final. We officially lost Logan with the drop of a gavel at a courthouse just one mile from the hospital at 4:00 P.M. on September 25, 2009. From that moment, we knew we could never go back.

  The New York public relations person proved to be untrust-worthy. I had been clear in my messages to him that we did not want news of the birth to be released. He released the news anyway, and word spread quickly. Calls were coming in nonstop to me and family members as well as to our attorneys and the local PR firm. Carolyn and I terminated our relationship with the New York PR firm that day, deciding that we could get all the expertise we needed from our local firm. The media pressure grew to a frenzy as the day went on. We decided to put together a joint statement with the Morells, hoping that that would satisfy the media.

  As the day progressed I jotted down some thoughts, and the Morells had ideas about their statement. In the afternoon, we realized that it would be difficult for the two families to speak as one. Their experience was vastly different from ours. It was impossible to issue a joint statement that captured their celebration and our loss. We agreed to release separate statements once the Morells had left the hospital with Logan.

  The last step we would take before saying a final good-bye was to write notes for Logan. As I put pen to paper I chose my words carefully, knowing that Logan might not read this letter for many years.

  Carolyn and I wanted Logan to know that our choice to let him go was the highest form of love we could give. As a caterpillar comes out of his cocoon and becomes the butterfly, Logan was flying away from us, but our love, hopes, and dreams for him would remain within us forever. I prayed that someday he would read these letters that said, even though we were far away, we would always think of him and always love him.

  The nurse opened our door to say, “I understand the Morells are getting ready to leave. If you want to see them, I suggest that you head down to their room.”

  She must have received a call from a nurse in the NICU. It was about 6:45, just twenty-seven hours after delivery.

  “Sean, we need to say good-bye and give him the chest of gifts we bought,” Carolyn said.

  “Okay, let’s go!”

  I pushed Carolyn to the elevator in a wheelchair and then down the hall to the NICU into Paul and Shannon’s room. Paul held Logan as Shannon gathered up their things. They knew we were coming, but were understandably eager to leave.

  “Please sit down,” Shannon said.

  “We have some gifts for Logan and for you,” Carolyn said.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have. You don’t need to give us anything,” Shannon said.

  “We wanted him to have certain things,” I commented.

  Carolyn handed Shannon the treasure chest that we had filled with some gifts. We hoped Logan would someday cherish and understand the meaning behind each item we chose.

  Shannon sat in a chair across from Carolyn talking about the media inquiries that were pouring into her cell phone. Carolyn nodded as if she was listening, but I don’t think either of us was paying any attention. I could see Carolyn’s eyes drifting over to the corner of the room, where Paul stood with his back to us, holding Logan. We were both trying to steal our last glimpses of the baby.

  As the moments passed, things became awkward. Our presence in the room started to feel like an intrusion. Carolyn and I wished them well. I patted Logan on his head as we turned to exit. They would be on the road within minutes.

  We stepped out into the hallway. As the door to their room slammed behind us, we froze for a few seconds in silence. I pushed the wheelchair closer to Carolyn, and she sat. We made our way into our room at about 7:15. I had a cold feeling. What should we do now? Carolyn sat in her bed, and I sat next to her and put my arm around her, and we wept. As Paul and Shannon drove away with Logan in a car seat, we wept. As the world moved on, we wept.

  CHAPTER 21

  Good-byes and Grief

  CAROLYN

  THREE DAYS POSTDELIVERY, I was thrilled to be going home, but dreading how I would feel leaving the hospital with empty arms. During the pregnancy, our days had been so full. I had included the baby growing inside me in every thought. He helped me decide if I should lift something and when I needed to let the housework go. I’d always decided my social calendar with him in mind. He even showed me what to eat. Besides the ache in my heart and the scar across my belly, would his departure leave a lot of free space in my mind? I wouldn’t be dreaming about or fearing what it would be like at the birth or when we left him with his parents. That was all done now, and my images of it were strong. Only time would show me what those memories meant to me. Would they be good ones of a time when Sean and I rose to do the right thing on a unique occasion? Or would I always think of this exper
ience only as a loss?

  I knew that the gap would have more dimensions than just the absence of Logan. Sean and I had become so close in this crisis. I would always be grateful to him for the way he sheltered me and left nothing to chance. He’s not a man who is comfortable with emotion, but he walked right into the fire holding my hand. Yes, we fought, but it was always as two people who were completely committed, both to each other and to making the best of whatever life brought our way. During this crisis, we were on the phone to each other multiple times a day. As things settled, would I miss Sean too? There was no way of knowing what faced me at my house, which now somehow seemed filled with empty rooms.

  Dr. Read came to see me shortly before I left. She sat on my bed. I’d never seen that look on her face before. She had been my savior throughout this pregnancy, and she never lost her professional demeanor. As she looked into my eyes, her expression was gentle. I felt the compassion that came from her very core, the kindness in her heart that made her a healer.

  “I’m worried, Carolyn,” she said. “I’ve sent patients home from the hospital after tragedies before. But this is different. What can I do to help you?”

  “Remember in July when I told you I was afraid of postpartum depression? Well, I think it’s here. I didn’t sleep last night. I doubt I’ll sleep soundly for a very long time. I’m afraid of what the darkness and quiet of night will bring me.”

  Dr. Read took a pen and paper from the pocket of her doctor’s coat and wrote down the number of Linda Vanderpol, a therapist.

  “Call her. I’ll call her too. Bereavement after the loss of a newborn is her specialty. I’ll let her know that you need to be seen immediately,” she said. “If she thinks you need something to help you, then I’ll prescribe it.”

  She handed me the paper and grabbed my hands. “You did a wonderful thing. You know that, right? I’ve seen a lot of things in my career, but nothing as special as this. It was a privilege to be a part of this journey.”

  She was crying. I was crying and couldn’t find any words. I shook my head yes and looked back at the floor. I was so lucky she was my doctor.

  “Dr. Read, there is one thing you can do. Could you please do something about these?”

  I pointed at my swollen chest, and she laughed out of sympathy.

  “No. Not a thing I can do about that. When the milk comes in, do not express any, and you’ll dry out in a few days. In the meantime, wear two bras and take some ibuprofen.”

  After she left, I quickly packed my bags, and one of the nuns, who was also a nurse, helped me pile the dozens of gifts that had arrived at the hospital during my stay on a cart so that we could bring them down to the car. I asked her if she could distribute some of the flower arrangements I had received from the media and well-wishers I had never met to other patients. I couldn’t imagine taking them all home.

  The nun placed them on another cart and walked out of the room to start delivering them. A few seconds after she left, I realized that I had accidentally left a gift bag from the Reliable Girls on the cart. I bolted out of my room and sprinted down the hall. I saw her waiting at the elevator.

  “Wow, I didn’t know you could move that fast,” the nun said.

  “There it is,” I said, pointing to a bag on one of the lower shelves. I didn’t want to stretch my stitches by reaching down to pick it up.

  The nun grabbed the gift bag to hand it to me, and as she lifted it, out slid a super-size bottle of Ketel One.

  “Is this what you wanted?”

  I wrapped my hand around the neck of the bottle and said, “Yup. That’s what I want.”

  She looked me directly in the eye.

  “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t open it until I’m at home.”

  She giggled like a schoolgirl, and I turned on my heels and marched back to my room with a bottle of vodka in one hand and a bottle of Apple Pucker in the other. I doubted I’d be mixing an appletini that night, but I had been on the wagon for nine long months, and if any event warranted a cocktail, this was it.

  Soon after that, Sean and the kids arrived to take me home. My nurse brought me a wheelchair, and I gingerly put my feet on the footrests.

  Shouldn’t I be holding a baby? I thought to myself.

  It was the third time in my life I had left the hospital after delivery without an infant in my arms, and I was sad.

  If you want to hold a baby, then hold a baby!

  I turned around and motioned to Sean to give me Mary Kate. He handed her over, and she snuggled in my arms. Drew and Ryan walked beside me while Sean went ahead to bring the car around. As we walked out of my hospital room, I felt strong and courageous. I was lifted by the presence of my three children.

  As we rolled by the nurses’ station, I was surprised to find a crowd of a dozen nurses, Dr. Read, and a few other hospital employees. They handed me a card they had all signed that said how privileged they felt to have been part of this event. I thanked them. I couldn’t have chosen a better group of professionals to be involved in our care.

  That night, before I went to bed, I checked my e-mail, hoping for a message about Logan. I hadn’t heard from Shannon and Paul since they left the hospital and was desperate for updates about him. Indeed, there was a message, but it was just four sentences. Apparently, the Morells had slipped out of the hospital without any trouble. Shannon wrote that she was hoping to get her girls to preschool this week. The message had nothing about the baby.

  Was this the way it was going to be?

  I stared at the message for a while and then sent her a reply.

  Glad to hear everything went smoothly for you. I hope you are able to get back to normal as soon as possible. Give Logan a kiss from us.

  I could have told her I had been discharged, but I wasn’t sure if she cared. I could have asked her questions about Logan, but I wasn’t sure if she thought that was my business.

  Does she care? Is Logan my business?

  Maybe I wasn’t thinking clearly, I thought. I was feverish and in pain, and I was completely exhausted. Some of this had to be hormones. I couldn’t stop sobbing. My milk was coming in, and I had no baby to feed. I shook off the chilly message and went up to bed.

  I knew I needed sleep, but when I shut my eyes and started to drift off, I found myself in a dark and stormy sea. I had fallen overboard, and I could barely stay afloat. Just out of reach in the turbulent waters, I could see my baby, but I couldn’t get to him. He was sinking. I kicked and paddled desperately, but he disappeared under the water. I woke, panting and dripping with sweat. I was drowning. My baby was gone, and the terror was real. I felt like I had lost everything. That night I didn’t even feel God. I was empty.

  Perhaps this wasn’t about Logan. Maybe it was about the baby that Jennifer was carrying for us. I felt like something was wrong with my baby. I tried to shrug it off, but I was tossing around. I didn’t want to wake Sean. I went downstairs and checked my e-mail. There was another message from Shannon. This one was filled with details about Logan’s first moments with his sisters and tidbits about how much he was adored by his grandparents. I was thankful for the message. Whatever possessed Shannon to e-mail me a second time that night I don’t know, but thank goodness she did. I don’t know what I would have done without that message.

  Maybe you will get to be a part of his life.

  After I read that message and knew Logan was well, I wondered about my dream and became convinced that something had happened to my baby. I thought of the ultrasound of our baby we received while I was in the hospital, and it occurred to me that I didn’t know Jennifer was going for an appointment that day. I wondered if there was something wrong and no one wanted to tell me. I shot off an e-mail to her, asking if all was okay. The next morning she wrote back that the ultrasound was from a routine appointment and the baby looked great.

  I hung on to the hope of our unborn child, and it kept me going as I tried to accept my new reality. I thought about Logan no less than I thought about Drew, Ryan, a
nd MK. My new life included a perpetual state of wondering. What was Logan doing right then? Was he happy? Was he sick? Was he crying? Who was loving him this very moment? I didn’t wonder about Drew, Ryan, and MK like this because I knew the answers to these questions. For a mother to have to wonder…constantly…is not a great way to live. I guess I knew he was alive, and that was a gift…unless he was being mistreated. I was spooking myself, because there was no reason to think that he was being anything but loved and adored.

  At night before I fall asleep, I say my prayers and ask the angels to fly my love to my children. I’ve always imagined that my mom does the same for me—that her love comes to me at night and that it’s the one thing that will always be. It helps me sleep too. When I got home from the hospital, I added Logan to my nightly prayer. I prayed that the angels would carry my love to Drew, Ryan, MK, and Logan. I imagined that when my love reached him, he was warmed by it and could relax into a peaceful sleep. That connection I felt to him from our time together was still strong for me. I genuinely felt like he was my baby.

  Logan made me proud, gave me peace, caused me to grieve and to cry, sometimes all of it in the space of an hour. Buffeted between these strong bursts of feelings, I found it hard to navigate my way through the day. I hoped that the appointment I had scheduled at the end of the week with the counselor Dr. Read recommended could help me make sense of what I was feeling.

  When I arrived at Linda Vanderpol’s office, I was immediately comforted by her kind smile and complete understanding of the grief that was overwhelming me. Dr. Read had spoken with Linda since I made the appointment, so Linda knew the basics of my story. That meant that I couldn’t fill up the time with the chronology of our last nine months and then skip out the door. I could sense how close to the surface all my emotions were, and I didn’t want to parade them before a woman I barely knew. Yet all she had to do was ask a simple question and it all came tumbling out.