Sarah's Story

Well, I made it through today. Actually, I'm pretty impressed with myself. This is the first time in 7 years that I have worked on Oct. 17.

Today was Sarah's 6th birthday. Sarah is my youngest daughter...Emily's twin. Sarah's story is nowhere near as horrible as Emily's, but Sarah's death is the one that has plagued me with guilt for the longest.

I know that Sarah's death was technically not my fault, but between my body not functioning correctly (at least in my eyes) and decisions I (and my husband) made I can't completely shake my guilt.

After Emily was born, the doctor's warned me that the two placenta's had been fused together so I was unable to deliver Emily's placenta. Because of this, I was at a very high risk for developing infection. Of course, after they told me this, they tried to send me home. Needless to say, I was not budging. I worked at it really hard, but I was able to convince them to keep me in the hospital until I gave birth or that if I were to go into labor the baby would not be in danger (was looking forward to...not really...spending a couple of months in the hospital).

Unfortunately, the doctors were right. I did develop an infection (although it took longer than they thought). I don't remember is medicine was used to help me fight it, but I do remember that there came a point when the doctor's were saying that they were going to have to induce labor. Again, I fought for more time. I was doing o.k. Unfortunately, it got to the point where the infection apparentenly was putting my life in danger (so said the docs.). I was told that they were going to induce labor...I tried to refuse but my parents and husband went nuts.

Once they decided they were going to induce labor, they told me that I had to decide if I wanted to put the baby on machines to keep it alive. My personal stance has always been that if I were dying, I would not want to be kept alive by machines. I remember my grandmother having stroke after stroke and machines being used to help her and all she did when she was awake was beg everyone to let her die. I also spent some of my early teaching career with severely disabled students. Students who where unable to communicate, take care of themselves, move, and appeared to have diminished mental capacity. The doctors also shared the researched (that I already knew) that the chance of Sarah surviving were less than .28%. The likely hood of her surviving and leading a normal (and normal included most likely learning and physical handicaps) were even less.I decided (with my husband's and family support) that we would not use machines. We would let her do what she could on her own.

I'll skip the whole "giving birth" section of the story...even if it is the funniest part of this whole ordeal. So, the doctor's induced labor (not pleasant).

Sarah was born weighing a smidge over a pound. She never cried. However, her little heart was pumping away. I was heavily drugged or I would have changed my mine most likely at this point. But I didn't.

We held Sarah for the hour (or a bit more) that she fought for her life. When I think of her I think of her heart...beating...and beating...and beating. And this is where my guilt comes in. What if...

What if is a horrible game that we play with ourselves. What if...I had refused to induce labor? What if...I said I wanted to try to keep her alive? What if...?

One of the first I clearly remember after coming home from the hospital was watching an episode of "ER". The main patient in the story was a woman that gave birth to a baby that was just as early as my daughters. The baby died...then came back to life. I about blew a nut. I remember sobbing and being so angry...at the writers and at myself. More what if's. I do believe that the baby eventually died at the end of the story. The worst part? It was how happy and relieved I felt when the baby died...a new all time low for me.

Well, I have survived. Adopting my son has made it somewhat easier. It has also brought me new issues of guilt. When I go to visit the grave on their birthdays, I always feel bad for missing them so much. If they would have lived, I wouldn't have my beautiful, wonderful son. Wishing that they would have lived makes me feel like I'm betraying my son.

I work through my guilt and grief on an almost daily basis...which is a step up from and hourly and minutely basis. It is an ongoing process. I don't tell myself that one day I will be free of the guilt because I doubt it's true. However, I do everything I can think of to try to squash the feelings of guilt. I do okay most of the time.

Thank you for letting me share my story with you. Talking/writing about what happened has done the most for me. People are not always comfortable with me sharing, but I've gotten to the point where I think, "too bad." Maybe one day I'll be able to answer "How many children do you have?" without hesitating...torn between wanting to say "three" and saying "one."

Until next time...