"Yesterday was my son's birthday"

by Cynthia Fritz

Cynthia Fritz is a certified bereavement counselor and mother of a stillborn son. After experiencing stillbirth herself, Cynthia reached out to other parents to offer support and hope. We were introduced to her through the videos "At a Loss for Words" and "Footprints On Our Hearts", which were reviewed in the last issue of WiSSPers.

In this issue and the next, Cynthia movingly shares with us both her immediate thoughts and feelings after the stillbirth of her son, London, on November 8, 1989, and, in our May/June issue, an article specifically about "Creating Memories".

I had been having good, strong, fairly regular contractions since about 2:30 a.m. They were strong but quite manageable. I was even able to sleep on and off. I got up in the morning and felt very good, very calm, and nearly positive that today would finally be the day, the long-awaited arrival of our son, London Robert. I calmly had my tea, breakfast, and made the necessary phone arrangements for car pool, etc. The kids were off to school, the contractions were still strong and frequent. Bill and I looked at an old picture album together from four years ago when Dana was two and Hana was the cutesy-tootsiest little baby. It was nice to walk down that road again, recall those joys. With eager anticipation we set off for the hospital declaring, ‘Let’s go have another one!’

I was going in possibly to simply be checked. If I were 2 cm or less we’d go back home and labor. If further, we’d stay. They first put the fetal heart monitor on to check the baby’s heart rate. Debbie was a young nurse who would be getting married on Sunday. She couldn’t locate the heartbeat. She said it was a highly sensitive machine and it sometimes took awhile. ‘Whenever I have a lot to do, it takes me forever.’ Well, forever it took. She tried another monitor. She called in a more experienced nurse who tried yet another ultra-sensitive monitor. The possibility of the grim reality that something was wrong seeped in like black ink absorbing into a white paper towel. We all quietly waited, straining our ears for that one faint beat that would assure us that the unacceptable probability was false. My beloved obstetrician was summoned. He arrived and shared in the concerned moments of listening, searching for any sign. It was now time for ultimate confirmation — a sonogram. That brought on the first tears. I knew. I didn’t believe it, but I knew. The ultrasound machine was wheeled in and we all watched in the tense silence, straining with prayerful eyes to see his heart beating away. The ultrasonographer shook her head quietly. Nothing. Our baby was dead.

Oh God. ‘Can you just knock me out and take him? I don’t want to be here at all.’ I really meant it. Then my sage doctor, whom I trust implicitly, calmly said that that’s not the way to do it. ‘You’re talking about major surgery which could and should be avoided. No, that’s not the way to do it.’

I almost had the feeling at that point that if I had absolutely insisted, he might have done it. But I understood that he was right and while I might be terrified now at the prospect of laboring and delivering a dead baby, it would be a short period of time as opposed to a much more serious and lasting effect of major surgery. I asked, ‘Can you wing me out on drugs?’ "Absolutely, since there’s no concern of harming the baby now, we can keep you in La-La-Land.’ I knew I had a choice now between becoming completely terrified and hysterical and having the most difficult, painful experience of my life - or - to accept the task I had ahead of me and be with the moment. I chose the latter. I happen to believe that childbirth is one of the most dramatic miracles in life, and, oddly, I felt that I had an opportunity to experience it again. The IV was hooked up, the pitocin started and slowly contractions got stronger. So slowly that they went from 12 drips per minute to 72 drips per minute (not all at one time, of course). La-La Land translated into "fuzzy edges" and mild drowsiness. I certainly felt the power of the contractions, but was able to handle them. My technique this time, which changes with every labor, was to visualize, at the beginning of the contraction, that I was a large black bird flying up above very tall pine trees, and the stronger the contraction got, the harder and faster I’d flap my wings - to get away, to remove myself. It worked. Then it was time to push. I found myself frightened to push - fear of the pain, fear of how long it might take, fear of the end result - I’m not sure. Well, pushing this child out was an experience completely without parallel in my life. It was so hard. I gave it all I had again and again and it almost wasn’t enough. When his head finally came out I could barely go on and giving it every last ounce of my strength, we got his shoulder and arm out. I yelled ‘pull him out!’ I know that my doctor was working right with me and Anna, a very loving, sensitive older nurse, was saying, ‘That’s great, Cynthia, you’re doing a great job, push, push, you can do it.’ I know Bill was encouraging me too, but it was Anna’s voice I heard most clearly. After a momentary panic of not being able to go on, with this child half in and half out and it HURT, I gave it one more all-stops-out, primal scream push with every single muscle in my body - he was out. I could breathe a sigh of relief, despite the horrible reality. I see in my mind very clearly the first moment that I saw our son. He was whole, perfect, a little pale, with his eyes closed, his head a bit tilted back with his mouth slightly open. He did not look alive. Yet he was beautiful. Anna held him while my doctor prepared the cord for Bill to cut. Bill has cut the cord for all of our children. With tears and sobs, Bill performed his personal, symbolic gesture with his fourth child. While we waited for the placenta to come out, Anna carefully took London and swaddled him as she would any baby. He was a cozy little bundle with his beautiful round face showing. She asked if we wanted to hold him. The answer easily came - Yes. Bill held him first. Gazing, loving. I was being stitched and dug my nails into Bill’s shoulder while I sang "Evergreen" and "Wind Beneath My Wings" - coping mechanism - or - music to stitch by.

And then I held him. He was still warm, heavy - and beautiful. I couldn’t get over how beautiful he was. His head was perfectly round. His face full and round. Skin pure and even. Lips red and highly defined. Medium brown hair on his head. He was gorgeous. And a Fritz. I fell in love with him. I kissed him. I cried. I told him I was so sorry, so very sorry.

We took turns holding him and we were alone with him for over an hour. Then his skin started to get cool and his face began to blotch. Bill asked me if he should take a picture. I wasn’t sure. At first I said no. Then I said yes. He really seemed to want to. Now I’m so glad we did.

And that ended the first stage of our mysterious nightmare. I was holding on, and still am, to the belief that there must be a reason for this. I may never know what it is, but I have faith that there is. The nurse came in to tell us what I had so often wondered. He was 9 lbs 2 1/2 ounces.

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