Nightmare

I haven't been sleeping well lately. I have had a tremendous brick wall of writers block. Sure, there are many stresses that are being juggled right now in Weaselville, but I know that they are not the root cause. I know what the cause is and I hate to look it in it's ugly face. Gnawing at my brain like a termite is a nightmare. The kind that you can't wake up from. Wreaking havoc in my head, preventing the flow of coherent thought and peaceful sleep, is what Mr. Weasel and I have come to refer to as the videotape.

I can't hit stop or pause. It just plays in a torturous unending loop and eats away at any attempt to live life as I used to know it. I am hoping that by writing about it and putting it out in front of myself that it will stop playing for the time being.

I have written about it some before, here and here, but never in complete detail. For some things are just too awful to say out loud. Today, I hope by acknowledging the gory, I can put them to rest for a while and find peace, at least for the short time.

The video that plays uncontrollably in my head is that of the night that our daughter Claire died (July 2nd, 2002).

Weaselville had been the happiest place on earth since we brought our newest baby girl home from the hospital. She brought joy to the entire family and was a very easy baby to care for. All of the Weasels loved their newest, best toy ever and helping to care for her. The Mr. and I were happy to have her home after a tumultuous first week of life that was spent in the hospital filled with worries about her health, that all turned out to right themselves, or so we thought. She was healthy, she was ours and she was home.

One week later, all the kids were tucked in their beds fast asleep. Mr. Weasel and I were in bed watching T.V. as I nursed Claire. When she was done, I was tired. Claire was wide eyed and wanting to cuddle and play (as much as a newborn can). Mr. Weasel took her to hold and love, so that I may get some sleep. He eventually fell asleep sitting up in bed with her tucked away in his arms.

At 3:23 am, I awoke abruptly to Mr. Weasel screaming in panic that she was not breathing. I assuming that he must be mistaken.  I calmly but quickly checked for myself. In that instant the world stopped turning. Mr. Weasel started CPR and told me to call 911. I froze in fear and disbelief. He told me to take over CPR and he called. I went into automatic. I couldn't think, I just had to do. I continued CPR as we waited for help. It wasn't working. I felt I must be doing it wrong. It was taking forever for help to get there. Mr. Weasel called 911 again to ask "WHERE THE F&$% ARE YOU?" It felt like hours. In reality it was less than 3 minutes. When the paramedics arrived they said they were taking her to the ambulance. All that ran through my head was "don't waste time telling me, just do it, Fast!".

They took her outside as we threw on some clothes. There were police, fireman and paramedics everywhere. Eldest had woken up, but we shooed her back to her room. For we did not know what to do or what was happening. Mr. Weasel went to calm her as I went outside to stand in the open doors behind the ambulance hoping for some hope. I was sure that this was not happening. I was sure that they would save her. Mr. W came out to join me and to hold me.

They closed the back doors and were heading for the ER. I would go to the hospital and Mr. Weasel would stay with the other children. The police told me to drive myself to the hospital. I was not fit in any way to be driving. There is no doubt that my guardian angel was doing that part. I called a friend on my way. She would rush to the house and stay with the kids so that he could come to the hospital.

Once at the ER, they put me in a claustrophobic little room with a couch to wait. All they would say is "we're working on her". I couldn't sit still and there was no room to walk. Every time I stood at the doorway a very large security guard was in front of me to make sure I didn't enter the curtain area. I was asked, "Is someone coming? Can we call someone?" every few minutes. I continually answered "Yes. My husband is coming. I don't know why he's not here yet.", as I grew angry and frustrated that he wasn't there and they wouldn't tell me what was happening with my baby. I cursed under my breath at my husband when he wasn't answering his phone and wasn't arriving at the hospital. Anger mounted inside of me. "This is no time to bother with the paperwork" was my only thought. He must be filling out paperwork. Why isn't he here instead? He should be here. Where the hell is he.

I asked for a priest. I needed to have my daughter baptised. They sent some greasy long haired, hippy freak of about 20 years old. I asked for a priest. Again and again I asked for a priest. I asked for an update on my daughter, "we're working on her". It was an endless circle. "where the hell is he???????"

"We're ready for you now" was all that was said as a nurse appeared briefly from behind the curtain. I hurried to see my baby girl. I pushed past the curtain prepared for wires and monitors and machines. I saw none of that. There was none of that. Just my baby girl, swaddled in blankets, laying on a gurney much to large for her little body. No beeps, no humming, no noise. Once again I froze. I had to ask the nurse "Is she breathing?". A simple "no" was muttered. I leaned my body over my baby girl like a blanket. The nurse sat me on a stool and placed her lifeless body in my arms saying "hold her", before exiting.

I sat and held her little self, rocking her gently, sure that she would start breathing again any second. This was not happening. It couldn't be. It all had to be a mistake. It. Had. To. Be. I prayed. Prayed like I had never prayed before. I was sure that she would breath again. She had to. I needed a miracle and I knew God would provide it. I cursed again that my husband wasn't here. Where are you. I need you. Where the F%$@ are you?. I sat and rocked and cried in disbelief. Eventually, a doctor walked in and sat beside me. I couldn't speak. All she said was "I'm sorry". I couldn't make eye contact. All I could do was rock my baby and cry. She left. I held my baby. I begged her to breath. I begged God that this be all a mistake.

Soon, a policeman came in. He would need me to come make a statement at the police station. "Is that where my husband is?" 'Yes" was replied. "Does he know?". "I think so" was all that was said. I needed to be with my husband. I didn't want to leave my baby girl. I made sure that they wouldn't move her until after we could come back together. I could be with him just as soon as I gave my statement. I asked if I could drive myself to the station and was told "you're in no condition to drive". I rode in the front seat of the cruiser. Everything seemed surreal. I sat in the squad room and the officer ran to go buy me a cup of coffee after apologizing that none was made. I answered some simple questions. All was in order and I asked to see my husband. I was brought to him. He had been locked in a cell. This is why he never came. This is why he couldn't answer his phone.

When our friend arrived at the house to care for the children, he went to the car so he could join me at the hospital. The senior officer asked him "where do you think you're going?". "To the hospital with my baby and my wife". At that point he was cuffed and stuffed into the back of a cruiser. He was arrested and locked in a cell. Without cause.

Once locked up and not understanding why or what was happening, he screamed and yelled for them to allow him to go to the hospital and was ignored. He continually hit the call button and was told to stop because he was being "annoying". He screamed that he needed to see his wife and daughter. The officer that had him arrested came to the door and stated coldly "Your daughter is dead" and then slammed the door shut again. It wasn't opened again until after he collapsed from a panic attack.

He was only released after I gave my statement.

We were driven back to the hospital together and for the first time to be together with our lifeless baby girl. A priest still not had been called. We baptized her ourselves in the little sink in the curtained room. We held her, but also knew that we must soon go home. Our other children would be awake soon and would need us. We didn't want someone else telling them that their beloved baby sister was gone.

When we arrived home the police were still there. The kids had remained asleep, with the exception of Eldest who never went back to sleep. As the kids awoke, we told them all individually about the death of their sister. None of them believed us. They all had the same reaction. Each went immediately to her empty bassinet to look for her as our hearts broke again and again each time we had to crush our children, their reality and their feelings of safety and security.

I went to the back porch to sit. My best friend and her mother were sitting and waiting, just wanting to help. They poured me some coffee and asked what they could do. I sat like a zombie and told them that I was sure that any minute I was going to wake up. I was certain of it. This had to be a nightmare. It was a nightmare, for this was far worse than anything life could throw at us.

I never woke up. In fact, I never actually slept again. At least not how normal people expect to sleep.

Later that day, after not knowing what happened or why. After fretting and fearing about why our precious baby had died, we heard from the coroner. It was her heart. A congenital heart defect, that usually does not interfere with any aspect of life, blew wide open and her heart stopped pumping correctly. All of her blood flooding into her tiny lungs and it was over immediately. It was a one in a million thing and the only lottery we have ever held the ticket for.

Welcome to all of you arriving from Dad-Blogs Fatherhood Friday. Thanks for taking the time to read this. If you got this far, you might as well leave a comment.