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“I see you” written for Stephen
Posted on Facebook by Claudia R. Parsons. November 6, 2017 [Original Post]
To the Nurse who held my face
There was a moment when I was left alone with a nurse. She grabbed the travel blanket [my mom made and gave me for that vacation] and made sure I was covered, comfortable. Of everyone we interacted with she felt the most human to me. [I was starving to connect with staff but the language barrier was in fact a large barrier for us.]
Her gesture evoked an immediate response in me. I remember feeling my body tensing, forcing my eyes shut, trying to control myself from falling apart in front of a stranger.
She must have sensed it. She put everything down, held my face in her hands and repeated the words ‘need to cry’ as she caressed my face.
That pain erupted from me in such an overpowering way. I kept trying to push it down. But I unraveled and fell apart at the seams to a complete stranger. She continued to hold me and repeated the words.
At that moment, I needed her to cradle my face and look into my eyes with love and compassion. She stands out vividly in my mind to this day. I wish I knew her name. I wish I could thank her and give her a hug of gratitude.
My body’s response to Saying Goodbye
Up until the creation of this site, I’ve shared the following experience with only 3 people.
When the hospital staff started the induction process we were told that we would probably deliver later that night and that my body might not need to go through the whole 5 pill series. However, by the second day when all the pills were administered, aside from steady contractions, nothing else was changing.
I was exhausted and starting to get frustrated mingled with the raw emotions of knowing I was still carrying my little girl. I could feel where her little body was positioned, I could cradle her in my hands just like I did when she was alive. I was pissed at my body’s response to the pills. I wanted to scream. I didn’t understand why this experience of carrying my deceased daughter was being dragged out.
As we were approaching our second night at the hospital, I was given permission to eat. Stephen quickly went to the cafeteria and came back with a plastic bag filled with foods and different juices. I ended up barely stomaching the food hospital staff ordered for me. But I did have some of the juice he bought just to see the sweet smile on his face as I sipped it.
After I ate, I told Stephen he needed to get some rest. I told him I would wake him up if I needed anything. He was exhausted.
We shut off most of the lights in the room and Stephen finally fell asleep.
I was wide awake, sitting up, thinking about everything, reflecting about my body’s resistance and thinking about how maybe I was mentally (and in turn, physically) holding myself back from giving birth. I thought about when I painfully said goodbye aloud to my grandmother in 2010 and how less than two hours later, I saw her take her last breaths. I thought about how prior to my vacation, I was reading a book about mindful birthing and how to prepare your mind for childbirth.
I took a deep breath, rested my hands on my belly, on my daughter, and whispered aloud my confession of sorts. I wept as I told her how much we loved her, how much we would miss her. I told her I was sorry. I didn’t specify it. I was just sorry. I said my goodbyes and repeated how much we loved her. After that, a calmness settled over me. My contractions picked up again. I got out of bed and started walking, breathing deeply. When the pain became too much to handle, I paged the nurses and Stephen woke up. It felt like I was in the labor and delivery room for less than 30 minutes.
When I delivered Florence, my heart shattered at the deafeningly silence that followed. It hit me that I wouldn’t hear the sound that I was instinctively listening for. People were asking me if I was okay. I was hysterical, nodding my head wordlessly. They quickly gave me something to “rest” and to “sleep”. When I saw Stephen, hovering above me, I remember holding his hand and telling him not to look down and to look at my face instead. Amidst the craziness, a laugh and a smile was shared at how silly I was trying to “preserve my dignity”.
Pictures & Writings
Stephen and I met one fluent English speaker at the hospital. She was a student there the first few hours when we checked in. She said she spoke English so well because she watched American television shows. We were certainly relieved to have her for those few hours.
Talking to everyone else after that was difficult and we didn’t have translators near by. The translator who was offered to us by phone barely spoke English.
I know we felt incredibly alone and so far away from everyone.
I’m not sure exactly why Stephen and I took pictures throughout our time at the hospital. Most times, we took pictures without the other person knowing they were being photographed. Maybe we both just felt the need capture what we could…
I had a lot of pain, regrets of not taking more pictures with Florence. I mourned not kissing her face, her hands, her little toes. By the time we held her, I had already been given something to sleep. I remember my legs starting to going numb while I was holding her and exhaustion creeping in.
I’ve had to make peace with myself since then. I know we did the best we could.
At home, we sought comfort in various ways. We listened to music and created a playlist for Florence together. One of the best ways we communicated was through writing. It started with me handing over my phone and asking Stephen if he wanted to read my journal entries.
On November 13, 2018, Stephen told me to check my email. Below are a few excerpts.
Subject: The best wife/mom
Written by Stephen L. Parsons. November 2-3, 2017
You're currently making a pit stop after being induced. I keep telling you you're strong. Partly because you have such a high pain tolerance that you're having trouble even mentioning that you have pain to the nurses/doctors. But mostly, it's because as soon as you see me start to break down, you put on a strong face and comfort me despite the incredible hurt you must have. We're crying together, and....you're back so I'll finish later.
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You've just gone into the labor room. I'm waiting to join you while you begin the more painful part of labor. It's been over 24 hours since they began inducing. We've been here about 38 hours. I feel alert, hoping I can help, but knowing you will be doing all the work. Thank you for being so amazing. I just thought about the soup and food you just had, like our little Florence wanted one more Italian meal before being ready for the world. She was so lucky to have us, and us her...
They're grabbing me to put on a gown.
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So your tolerances for pain was high enough that you were only in delivery for a few minutes before I was allowed in and you had already finished delivering. You appeared to have no type of pain reliever and still looked like you did great. I wish I could have been there, but, as you've proven many times, you're still strong without me.
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You're asleep now. Finally getting some rest. This has been such a marathon with every type of challenge, and I don't think anybody could have done better than you. I don't know if the hardest part is over yet, but I know we still have a lot of grieving to do. It's hard not to think about what could have been…