Happy Birthday Alison
It's not an easy topic of conversation. Even now, twenty-eight years later. Sometimes I can talk about it, other times I get that old lump in the throat, tears well up, lips tremble. I have to stop myself, take a deep breath, regain control. It will always be with me. She will always be with me. A part of who I am. Who I've become.
Arleen and I were living in Queens, NY. Married for seven years by then, Trying to get pregnant for the last two. Numerous false starts and promises. Then, finally, we made it past the first trimester, the second, and into the third. It was to be a girl. Alison Blythe would be her name.
Under Arleen's guidance, I stripped the grasscloth wallpaper down, removed the chair rail, and painted the den white. We decorated in shades of pink, bought a crib and comforter, a purple teddy bear with white tutu, and a car seat to bring our child home from the hospital.
That night ended like any other. Except that, less than two hours later, I was awake again. In the dark, Arleen could feel her water break. I turned on the light to see what time it was and she flipped down the covers to reveal a stain of bright red on the sheet. She grabbed the phone and called the doctor, told him about the blood.
"Is it less than a teaspoon"? She asked me.
"I guess."
She told him it was. He was reassuring and said to meet him at the hospital. I took a quick shower to wake myself up, and got dressed. Arleen called for a towel to stuff between her legs so she wouldn't drip on the carpet. Somehow we made it downstairs and into the car, keeping the rise of hysteria only slightly at bay. The Long Island Expressway was deserted at that hour- one a.m. on a Friday. We made it through the Midtown tunnel and into the city in less than twenty minutes. There was a lone guard seated at the emergency entrance to the NYU Medical Center. He brought a wheel chair to the passenger side door and, somehow, we got Arleen into it. The nurses transferred her from the wheel chair onto a gurney and removed the towel, now soaked with blood and starting to cake, from between her legs. They wheeled her into a side room to wait.
And wait.
"What time is it?" She asked at one point. I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was broken. Not a good sign.
And wait.
The nurses came in every half hour or so to check Arleen's condition. But they didn't seem overly concerned so why were we? They were the professionals. Maybe this was normal? We had no way of knowing. We were not prepared for this stage of the pregnancy. Our Lamaze classes only taught us how to breathe. And relax. But it's difficult to relax when you are bleeding and there's no sign of it letting up. Finally, about three hours after we had first arrived, our doctor appeared looking cool and casual. When he saw Arleen, his demeanor altered. He yelled at the nurses and they switched into high gear. I was told I would not be permitted into the delivery room as they wheeled my wife down the corridor.
It was another hour of waiting.
When he came out, draped in a white doctor's coat, he looked gaunt, wasted, exhausted. He put an arm around my shoulder as if to say "walk with me".
"We almost lost her," I remember him saying. But I didn't ask if he meant my wife, or my child.
"There will be some brain damage, the extent of which we can't be sure. Your baby was without oxygen for several hours." Later we were told the term was placenta abruptio, which occurs in about 1 out of every 150 deliveries. The severe form, which results in fetal death, occurs only in about 1 out of 500 to 750 deliveries. "If she lives, your daughter could be mildly retarded. Or severely, in which case death might be the preferred alternative."
I didn't hear anything more. Arleen was given a bed on the maternity floor. Alison was given a crib in neo-natal ICU. I shuffled between the two. Arleen was bedraggled, looking wet and limp, sedated to sleep. Alison was looking battered and bruised. Pale. Her extremities were ashen. Thick tufts of dark black hair, a round face, fat cheeks.
There is more. A lot more. But for now this will suffice. Except for one other detail. Arleen never got to see her own daughter and has to live with that the rest of her life. Alison died in my arms and I have to live with that.
Arleen and I were living in Queens, NY. Married for seven years by then, Trying to get pregnant for the last two. Numerous false starts and promises. Then, finally, we made it past the first trimester, the second, and into the third. It was to be a girl. Alison Blythe would be her name.
Under Arleen's guidance, I stripped the grasscloth wallpaper down, removed the chair rail, and painted the den white. We decorated in shades of pink, bought a crib and comforter, a purple teddy bear with white tutu, and a car seat to bring our child home from the hospital.
That night ended like any other. Except that, less than two hours later, I was awake again. In the dark, Arleen could feel her water break. I turned on the light to see what time it was and she flipped down the covers to reveal a stain of bright red on the sheet. She grabbed the phone and called the doctor, told him about the blood.
"Is it less than a teaspoon"? She asked me.
"I guess."
She told him it was. He was reassuring and said to meet him at the hospital. I took a quick shower to wake myself up, and got dressed. Arleen called for a towel to stuff between her legs so she wouldn't drip on the carpet. Somehow we made it downstairs and into the car, keeping the rise of hysteria only slightly at bay. The Long Island Expressway was deserted at that hour- one a.m. on a Friday. We made it through the Midtown tunnel and into the city in less than twenty minutes. There was a lone guard seated at the emergency entrance to the NYU Medical Center. He brought a wheel chair to the passenger side door and, somehow, we got Arleen into it. The nurses transferred her from the wheel chair onto a gurney and removed the towel, now soaked with blood and starting to cake, from between her legs. They wheeled her into a side room to wait.
And wait.
"What time is it?" She asked at one point. I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was broken. Not a good sign.
And wait.
The nurses came in every half hour or so to check Arleen's condition. But they didn't seem overly concerned so why were we? They were the professionals. Maybe this was normal? We had no way of knowing. We were not prepared for this stage of the pregnancy. Our Lamaze classes only taught us how to breathe. And relax. But it's difficult to relax when you are bleeding and there's no sign of it letting up. Finally, about three hours after we had first arrived, our doctor appeared looking cool and casual. When he saw Arleen, his demeanor altered. He yelled at the nurses and they switched into high gear. I was told I would not be permitted into the delivery room as they wheeled my wife down the corridor.
It was another hour of waiting.
When he came out, draped in a white doctor's coat, he looked gaunt, wasted, exhausted. He put an arm around my shoulder as if to say "walk with me".
"We almost lost her," I remember him saying. But I didn't ask if he meant my wife, or my child.
"There will be some brain damage, the extent of which we can't be sure. Your baby was without oxygen for several hours." Later we were told the term was placenta abruptio, which occurs in about 1 out of every 150 deliveries. The severe form, which results in fetal death, occurs only in about 1 out of 500 to 750 deliveries. "If she lives, your daughter could be mildly retarded. Or severely, in which case death might be the preferred alternative."
I didn't hear anything more. Arleen was given a bed on the maternity floor. Alison was given a crib in neo-natal ICU. I shuffled between the two. Arleen was bedraggled, looking wet and limp, sedated to sleep. Alison was looking battered and bruised. Pale. Her extremities were ashen. Thick tufts of dark black hair, a round face, fat cheeks.
There is more. A lot more. But for now this will suffice. Except for one other detail. Arleen never got to see her own daughter and has to live with that the rest of her life. Alison died in my arms and I have to live with that.
Alison Blythe
Born July 23, 1982 5:10 am
Died July 23, 1982 12:22 pm
So hard to read, much less live through. In such a little time, she warmed your heart, and lights your life still.
ReplyDeleteThere is that hole there since, nothing else will ever fill. How deeply love can hurt...
I wish you could believe that someday you will again hold your little girl in your arms. How sweetly love can heal.
I am sorry for your 28 year and counting ache. I know what a tender father she would have known on her earthly journey. But for now, she is your angel. Ever she is your love.
Happy birthday, little one!