I Wasn't Always This Strong - part 5

In my years as a post partum nurse at Cedars Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles I was what the other nurses referred to as “the dead baby nurse”.   I know this sounds very crass but the one thing I have learned over the years is that gallows humor is very prolific in the medical industry.  Joking in the face of tragedy — snarky, sarcastic, a little jolt of insanity can take the edge off a terrible situation.  It is how we manage our feelings day to day experiencing some of  the saddest and most troublesome moments humanity has to offer.   And having a baby die at birth rates right at the top for most health professionals. 

My job was to go down to the morgue after a baby had died and clean the little newborn up, wrap him in a baby blanket and bring him to his parents to see before they left the hospital.  Over the years as health professionals we have learned that if the parents get a chance to say their good byes they are better able to process their grief.  Sometimes the parents picture their little babies as having some kind of deformity.   That is rarely the case.  And in the few cases when the baby was deformed in some way the moms and dads looked right past the obvious and focused on their babies faces and exhibited the same love and loss as parents with babies with no outward deformities. 

My first experience with this task was a little baby whose parents had named him Teddy.  He was full term but was stillborn due to a cord accident.  He had no physical defects, was perfect in every way.  My fellow nurse and friend, Patsy, was training me to take over the chores of the “dead baby nurse”.  She had had enough and wanted a break.  Together we went down to the morgue and retrieved the small body that had been placed there.  I didn’t know what to expect and stood back, afraid to look as Patsy unwrapped the tiny body.  He was beautiful, perfect in every way.  We gently warmed and wrapped him in a baby blanket we had brought from the nursery and headed up to the Post Partum floor.  This was always a tricky thing to do because people would see our bundle and want to see the “new little baby”.  We would pull the baby close and explain that we didn’t want to expose him to anyone at such a young age.  Gratefully this always worked.  Patsy took Teddy into the room where his mother sat on the bed in shock and grief at the loss of her firstborn son.  I followed her into the room not knowing what to expect and feeling extremely awkward, uncomfortable and deeply sad.  Patsy gently uncovered Teddy’s head and handed the bundle to his Mom.  Her entire face changed and was consumed with love for this little baby.  She unwrapped his blanket so she could look at him from head to toe and stroked his cheek.  The tears flowed and she began to sing a lullaby.  And then I noticed that as she held Teddy to her she started to move her arms in a way that moved him in rhythm with the lullaby. For just a moment my eyes played a trick on me and it looked like he was a living, breathing baby just because of the way she was moving him.  I stood silently by and watched this mother say goodby to her beautiful, perfect baby.  I noticed that Patsy and I moved toward each other, lightly touching, seeking comfort as we watched this drama unfold.  We were both silently witnessing raw grief and it pierced our hearts.  When she handed Teddy back over to Patsy the Mom seemed just a little bit closer to peace.  

I had many experiences like this in my role with these parents.  Mothers would close their eyes as we handed them their babies, afraid of what they would see.  Even as they verbalized not wanting to see their deceased newborns, they reached out their arms to take them.  I never once had a Mom who refused to hold her baby.   As difficult as the visits were this was one of the most rewarding jobs in my nursing career.