Bravery

Sometimes I need to be reminded that I’ve done some hard things. I have survived. I am brave. I am brave because….

I hung up the phone, the news of a Down Syndrome diagnosis for my baby still ringing fresh in my ears. I took a deep breath, basked in a moment of acceptance and relief, and then continued on my day, keeping my personal life and professional life separate. I continued seeing my patients that day, all pregnant with healthy babies, all while holding my news secret.

I said yes.  Yes to a baby with special needs.

I walked into the CT Down Syndrome Congress annual conference, scared but trying to keep an open mind to learn all I could about what life is like parenting a child with Down Syndrome.

I left the hospital with a likely life limiting diagnosis for my baby, choosing minimal fetal monitoring until the baby had any hope of survival, knowing that I was choosing to preserve my fertility over heroic measures for a baby that would likely die, knowing that I might forever struggle with guilt if she was stillborn before the set date we were willing to intervene.

I told the doctors to take out the vent and held my baby as she died.

I held my lifeless baby.

I handed my baby to the nurse, never to hold her again.

I left the hospital empty handed.

I continued to live life.

I went to my first support group, though I cried tears of fear in the hallway before going in.

I went back to work and told hundreds of people, “my baby died,” and continued to care for them with a smile.

I chose a new career path.

I talk about my baby to strangers, to try to break the silence.

I try to ask for what I need.

I had had another baby despite crippling anxiety that I might lose him too.

I’ve been to baby showers.

I’ve held babies.

I write about my feelings here, for all to see.

Why are you brave?

A rogue wave

As a midwife, my colleagues and I usually meet once a month to discuss protocols, clinical issues and patient care.  I enjoy these meetings because it’s rare that we actually see each other in person.  I’m in an office with maybe one or two other midwives or docs on any given day, but even then we are all busy seeing patients, often working through our lunch hour.  It’s a pleasure to spend some time face to face with my coworkers- even if it’s entirely work focused.

Recently our monthly meeting has been cancelled or rescheduled for all sorts of logistical reasons, so when we had our first one in several months earlier this week, I was looking forward to it…even though it’s at 7am.  The hour long meeting flew by and I was leaving the hospital, where our meeting is held, in a good mood.

Until I walked out the main entrance.

Sitting there as I was leaving was a woman with a newborn carrier waiting for her ride home.  My heart clenched and I was thrown backward in time. Here I was, leaving the hospital, empty handed once again.

So much has happened since that first time I left the hospital without my baby.  I returned many times- for meetings, to visit staff and friends. I even finally had the chance to leave the hospital with an actual living breathing newborn. But it had been a while since I’d been back at the hospital and it’s amazing how even though it’s been two and a half years since I said goodbye to my Mabel, like a rogue wave in a quiet sea, the grief can still hit hard out of nowhere.

I don’t spend much time actively grieving these days. I often feel that my other job- working for Hope After Loss, the non profit that supports the pregnancy and infant loss community, is my way of grieving. I get to speak of my daughter often and empathize deeply when I’m speaking new a new loss mom or dad.  What I realized earlier this week at the hospital is that though I may be honoring Mabel in my role at Hope, I still compartmentalize my feelings.  It’s protective.  Grief is hard work.

Seeing this mom and her newborn, I was reminded I still have work to do.

I miss her, my baby Mabel.

Will my baby live?

When I got that news that Mabel had low fluid, I truly understood that the prognosis was bad, but it was hard to really wrap my head around the idea that she might actually die. Part of the difficulty was that no one would actually say she was going to die. Obstetrics would hint, very strongly at it, but couldn’t tell me with certainty. Pediatric specialists wouldn’t comment at all- they all simply said we’d have to see when she came out.

At one point we met with a neonatologist that was finally a bit helpful in that respect. I had been getting weekly ultrasounds for several weeks when we saw him- had had one that day even, which at that point had shown anhydramnios, or no fluid at all. When he heard that, his expression became very serious. He too couldn’t tell us for sure our baby would die, but he was able to get across the point that he was not optimistic for our child. It’s possible he told me nothing new, and after several weeks I was finally able to really hear someone tell me bad news. But I think it was also helpful that he dealt with babies like Mabel. Before him, those giving me the dire prognosis were in OB- they didn’t deal with the baby when she came out, so I didn’t give them as much credit as I should have.

Despite my better understanding of her poor chances, I still remained hopeful. Perhaps it would have been easier if someone could have just told me she would die- her condition was incompatible with life. Then I might have reframed my pregnancy differently.

Later, when I was hospitalized, my midwives came by daily to check in on me. I had many visitors, and everyone tried to remain upbeat. I was pretty positive myself, finally feeling “safe” on continuous monitoring. But I had my moments too- I often just wished I knew what was going to happen (so I could prepare- I thought.)

One day when one of my midwives was visiting, we were having a more serious conversation- about the what ifs. Of all my care team, I talked to her most about the what ifs- what if my baby died? How do I be a midwife? How do I answer when asked if I have kids? She had given me the book “An Exact Replica of a Figment of my Imagination” that just felt so powerful and helpful at the time. For some reason, I could talk to her most easily about the hard stuff. Maybe because others would say- “don’t think like that!” or “no! Miracles happen! Babies surprise us!” or “you don’t know what’s going to happen, why plan for the worst?” But she wouldn’t. I suppose she was the perfect example of empathy. She would stop and really think about what it must be like to be facing such an unknown reality. On one of our visits in the hospital, I asked her “Can I ask you something honestly? Do you think my baby is going to live?”

“No,” she said softly.

And at that time, it was helpful. Partly because I had been asking- not simply being told. Partly because it was her- she wasn’t trying to get me to understand, she was simply imagining it for herself.

I recently saw her for a concern of mine- one that got me super nervous.   Leading up to my appointment I was calm, pushing away bad thoughts- but once I got there, I couldn’t hold back the tears. At the end of the visit, one she basically spent reassuring me, I stopped her and said,

“When I was pregnant with Mabel, I asked you if you thought she would live. You were honest with me. That was really important to me. Today, what do you think- will I be ok??”

“Yes,” she said softly, in that same tone of voice she used with Mabel.

And I believe her.

Do you have someone you trust to tell you the truth? Someone you can hear the truth from? Is there someone you look to for reassurance that everything will be ok?

The hospital

The hospital. Saying the words, envisioning the building puts my stomach in knots.

 

My practice has a Monday morning meeting at the hospital. It used to be every week, but in the past few months it’s morphed into a once a month affair. We gather as a group of docs and midwives and talk about protocols and patients, ensuring we are all on the same page. Aside from the 7am start time, I have traditionally enjoyed the meetings. I like having clinical conversations with my colleagues- we sometimes debate and I almost always learn something. I also think it’s good care for our patients- getting fresh eyes on complicated cases, allows everyone to give suggestions on how best to care for our patients. And on top of it all, I enjoy the company. My practice has four offices in different towns and the hospital on top of them, and we are spread among each location- so I am lucky if I interact with one of my colleagues on a daily basis. Even when we are in the same office, our schedules are quite crammed so there is not much time for catch up or small talk. So Monday morning meeting is a chance for us to see each other and catch up for a minute.

The meeting takes place on one of the maternity floors in the hospital, in a spare conference room. It’s the floor on which I spent two weeks while pregnant with Mabel. During my hospitalization I was allowed about an hour off the monitor a day and one Monday I decided to use that hour to go to Monday morning meeting. I popped in wearing my “nicer” hospital clothes (yoga pants instead of pjs) and sat as my colleagues discussed work. It was good to see them- I had seen many of them while I was there- if they were working they would often stop by my room for a quick snack and a chat, but it was comforting to see them altogether.

The meeting holds new meaning for me. It takes place in the building where my daughter died. It’s on the floor where I spent the last good moments of pregnancy and where I returned to my room empty handed. After Mabel died.

We had a Monday morning meeting this week. I went once before- in September. I felt I needed to, as we had just hired a new doc and midwife. But I skipped October- I didn’t want to go. The thought of the place causes a painful physical response and frankly, I was not up to the task. But this week, I needed to go- there was a clinical issue I needed to discuss (how to care for pregnant patients on methadone). So I skipped my usual Monday morning exercise class and headed in. I parked on the street because my usual hospital parking is in accessible- my ID doesn’t work for the parking garage and I haven’t gotten around to fixing it. As I walked closer to the door, my heartrate sped up and I felt that familiar pain in my chest and stomach. I regulated my breathing and made sure to look at the funny rabbit and carrot decoration that sits in the revolving door to the children’s hospital. The carrot gave me some comfort. But when I hit the doors to the maternity floor, I could feel the tears coming. Before heading into the conference room for the meeting, I had to hide in the bathroom for a few minutes to have a good cry.

I wouldn’t call it a panic attack- I know enough about them to know that’s not it. I simply identified my response as grief, simple grief. This place is so sad for me now. It also represents mountain I need to climb. The hospital represents birth- normal birth for most people, a usual happy occasion, and if I ever want to be a full scope midwife I will eventually nee to climb that mountain and welcome normal birth again. I am far far from that place.

My doctor called my response- a reaction to trauma. The term didn’t quite sit well with me at first. People have trauma when they go through sudden, unexpected events- emergency c-sections, stillbirth, prematurity. My daughter’s death was in some way expected. I should have been prepared. I often feel I don’t have the same right to claim trauma like those who were totally caught off guard do. My doctor encouraged me to accept her definition of trauma- that it doesn’t have to be sudden; it can be long and drawn out. Death, a life-changing event, whether expected or not can be traumatic. So I’m working on accepting that- apparently it’s necessary to do in order to move forward in my grief.

 

How do you view the hospital/doctor’s office? Are they traumatic for you at all?

Day 13: Season

It was a very snowy winter.  We had bought a snow blower in preparation and got good use out of it.  It seemed like the snow came pouring down every time I was admitted to the hospital.

We had bought a king sized bed- my dream!  I had always wanted one and when we moved into our house with big bedrooms and were expecting a new little person to share time in bed with us, the expense suddenly seemed less frivolous.  I had passed the two major ultrasounds, in my mind, the anatomy scan and the heart ultrasound, so I figured we were safe.  The king sized bed was one our first major baby purchases (from which we would benefit as well).  It was due to be delivered on sunday.  The thursday before I had my ultrasound which showed low fluid and i was hastily admitted to the hospital.  We spent that weekend safely tucked into the hospital room as the snow piled up on the roads.  We had to ask a friend to pull out our snow blower and plow our driveway so the bed delivery truck could make it in.

In the time off my work had graciously given me to adjust to Mabel’s devastatingly poor prognosis, I visited my family for the holidays.  My parents and brothers were up at our family ski house in New Hampshire.  While the Chris and the boys hit the slopes, I waddled around on snowshoes with my mother.  As the snow fell around me, I listened to the babble of the stream beside the trail and took some deep breaths.  It was the first time in those first treacherous weeks that I could really breathe.

Snowshoeing around Christmas.

Snowshoeing in New Hampshire.

When I was admitted again in February, the snow storms continued.  A major one hit on my birthday.  My parents had come down for the day and we were celebrating by getting some lunch from the carts.  In front of our hospital, dozens of food carts from local restaurants set up to cater to the hospital and university staff that seek them out ravenously every lunch time.  They make a killing selling $5 meals of every different kind of ethnic food- chinese, thai, ethiopian, italian, vietnamese, gourmet cheese, sushi, salads, bengali, mediterranean.  I was excited to bypass the hospital menu to get some good eats.  Chris and my dad went down in the heavy snow to seek out which carts braved the weather.  We had two choices- thai and thai.

The next day I used the 45 minutes I was allotted of the monitor to get some fresh, but frigid, air in the Healing Garden at our hospital- an our door space for admitted patients and visitors to step outside.  I never bought a maternity coat- just shoved my bump into the jackets I had.

A quick trip to the Healing Garden to take in all the snow.

A quick trip to the Healing Garden to take in all the snow.

When labor started, it had snowed recently and since Chris was spending his nights with me, our house upkeep was totally neglected.  I asked Chris to stop at home on his way from work to get the special blanket we had ordered for Mabel.  We hadn’t plowed the driveway from the most recent storms and so Chris had to wade through thigh deep snow up to our house to get it.  Mabel was born on a cold winter morning the next day.  Before being discharged, we had to ask our friends to snow blow our driveway again, so we could get home easily.

The snow remained on the ground during the next week as we planned her serviced.  We buried Mabel under a blanket of snow, white and pure.

THe Cemetery: We buried her under a blanker of snow.

The Cemetery: We buried her under a blanker of snow.

What season do I associate with my child?

Winter. Snowy snowy winter.
#CaptureYourGrief

 

A Birth and A Baby

I didn’t change into scrubs. I wanted my role to be clear- I was there for support, a visitor. My hospital badge was the only tell of my other identity. I stood there in my skirt and ankle boots, making soothing sounds, giving suggestions and just simply being there for her.

This was her rainbow. I had been there to welcome her first born into the world six years ago. A few years later I welcomed her second, born sleeping, into the same hands that caught her brother. She knew her baby was going to die; an extra chromosome diagnosed midway through pregnancy foretold the outcome, but her the hurt and pain was no less than had her loss been a surprise. Now years later she was laboring hard for the rainbow child she nervously awaited. She had asked me to be with her at the birth, knowing my story and thus knowing what she was asking. I said yes, because that’s what you do for another babyloss mom.

Originally, when I figured I’d be ready for call by September, the plan was to induce her on my call day, but that plan had to revised when I came to terms with my inability to attend birth at this time. I gave her my cell phone and would come if I could. All day I saw patients and all day her induction poked along, her uterus waiting for my arrival before really kicking in. On my way to the hospital, I was on the phone with my fellow midwife.

“How are you feeling about this?” she asked, probing.

“Honestly? I’m trying not to think about it until I get there.”

Live in the now. The only way to survive. I knew this would be a test of sorts, to see how ready I was for birth. It was also a good faith show of effort. “See? I’m trying!” my actions shouted.

While she labored, I felt detached. I tried not to think about how just a few rooms away I had done the same for my baby; I tried not to think about what would come next. I was mostly successful- my feelings disconnected from my words and motions. I felt empty, like a robot, doing what I knew I was supposed to be doing. It didn’t feel good. I have spent many long nights, with laboring patients, feeling somewhat aloof- I hadn’t bonded despite my efforts- but I now felt disconnected on a whole new level.

After the telltale “I can’t do it anymore!” she started bearing down and I knew birth was imminent. I helped hold her leg, watching the glistening dark hair of a baby make its way down the birth canal. Baby tumbled out and the midwife brought him right up to her belly. After a tense moment of silence, the cry of a newborn pierced the quiet room. I slowly put down her leg and backed away into the corner, where I found a chair to support me. Tears rolled down my face and snot clogged my nose. I tried to sniffle quietly, embarrassed by my tears. I didn’t want to take any of the attention away from this mom and her rainbow but I sat there sniveling, thinking of my poor baby, who took her last breaths down the hall. Thinking how unfair it was that I have to live life without her, that her absence weighs so heavy on everything I do. Thinking how sad and angry this birth made me, when it should have been nothing but beautiful. Thinking how this scenario of a rainbow baby, of finding joy again in the delivery room, seems so unattainable. Feeling selfish and ruined.

Birth lost its magic.

Reading my thoughts, she said through tears of her own, “Meghan, it’ll happen to you. I promise. You’ll get one too.”

The baby went to the warmer to be weighed and as the nurse helped mom get into a dry gown in preparation for some skin to skin. I walked to the warmer and picked up the little warm, squirmy being. I held him in my two hands a few inches away from my body, walking to her and presenting him like a freshly baked apple pie. No cuddling, no warm body against my chest- those were things I did with Mabel and I want no other baby to taint those memories. I quickly delivered him to his mother, proud that I could say at least I held a baby. I tried.

I didn’t stay long. My work was done- her baby arrived safe and alive. I said my goodbyes, not wanting to talk about the experience with anyone. In a way I was glad some of my colleagues witnessed my raw reaction. I can usually hold it together in the office quite well, wearing the mask of normalcy that babyloss moms are all too familiar with, which is good for functioning but bad for letting people know how I really am. There is something more telling in watching my tender breakdown than hearing me say “I’m struggling.”

I went home to Chris, too spent to even debrief with him. All I wanted to do was hold my puppy. She’s not as docile as a baby, but she’s warm and fuzzy, and she loves me back.

Have you do something hard since your loss? What did the experience tell you?

photo (26)

Parallel Lives

She was telling me about a problem she’s had since her baby was born. To get a better sense of the duration of her symptoms, I asked when she had the baby.

February 15, 2014.

As I typed the date into my note, I my fingers began to freeze. They understood the significance of that day. For the woman in front of me, it was the best day of her life. For me it was the worst. We were in the same hospital, on the same labor floor at the same time. We both held our first borns that very day, changing our lives forever.

My family came to meet my lifeless child, while hers came with balloons and teddy bears.

While she changed diapers in the middle of the night, I slept in an ambien-induced haze.

She woke to the sound of a crying baby; I woke to the sound of my cell phone, a call from my credit card company to inform me of some fraud that happened while I was listening to the nurse ask us if we wanted to call the chaplain.

A day later, I was leaving the hospital empty armed and she stayed learning how to nurse her child.

Her milk came in, as did mine, but she had an outlet for her brimming breasts.

While I planned a funeral, she learned to care for a baby.

I sat on my couch, staring mindlessly at the tv; she longed for the free time she had pre-baby to catch up on her shows.

She watched her baby grow into an infant, learning to smile and respond; I placed photos of my dead baby around the house, knowing that I would never see her smile.

She raised a baby while I got a puppy.

She is a mom and I am the shadow of one.

She lived the life I was supposed to have.

At the end of her visit, I slipped into the bathroom and cried.

 

Have you come across someone living the life you were supposed to have?

I visited the hospital

“I’m going to get three dozen,” I said to Chris as we drove to our favorite donut place. “It’s going to be a little pricey, but it’s for the people who took care of our baby.” He nodded in agreement.

We were on our way to the hospital, my first time back since Mabel. Each month after her death I had something big to do. March I had to be home by myself. April I was supposed to go back to work (I didn’t). May was mother’s day and the birth of two new babies in my family. June I actually went back to work. July I started seeing prenatal patients and saw my newly born nephew for the first time. Now it was August and my plan was to go to the hospital, to simply be there. To sit in each of the rooms I was with her- the room I was pregnant in, the room I labored in, the room I birthed her in, the room she lived in and the room she died in. Step one for getting back to being a full scope midwife.

I told Chris on the ride in that I was nervous. He patted my thigh, as he usually does when he’s trying to reassure me. “I’m nervous about how I’ll feel- sad, angry. But I’m also nervous that I won’t cry.” I felt like I was setting the stage for how things were supposed to be. I’m supposed to go to the hospital and feel all sad, have a good cry and then the scariness of the building would melt away and all would be well. But I’ve learned that there is no set way to grieve, so I didn’t know how I would react. I was afraid that if I didn’t cry people would think I’m better- I’m over her.

As we approached the hospital, I felt shaky, as the familiar tightness in my chest that I have come to know as anxiety, took hold. Slow breaths and Chris’s warm hand on mine, helped calm me. My ID wouldn’t let me into my normal parking garage, so I had to ask the car behind me to back up so I could do the same. The embarrassment acted as a little distraction as I found a spot on the street. We entered the children’s hospital through a large revolving door and I noticed a decoration at the center- a bunny made out of grass and two carrots laying next to it. Had I been able to park in my normal garage, we would have missed this display all together, going in a separate entrance. I took this as a good sign.

The Carrots in the revolving door

The Carrots in the revolving door

When the elevator doors opened on the fourth floor, I stepped into the hallway. I froze, unable to go forward and so I surrendered myself to my tears. When I finally was ready to go on, we passed professional photos on the wall of smiling children- all successful graduates of the NICU. Under their faces, was listed their gestational age and reason for needing intensive care. Brian- 27 weeks- omphalocele. Mara, Jenna and Samuel- 32 weeks- triplets. There was no photo of Mabel- 36 weeks- Down Syndrome, dysplastic kidneys and pulmonary hypoplasia.

I swiped into the Labor & Birth unit and passed more photos, this time of pregnant women and smiling babies. I remembered sitting in the charting room when I was 24 weeks pregnant. Another doctor was commenting to me about those photos, which were a new addition to the floor. “You know, we are a high risk hospital and many of our babies end up in the NICU. It’s not a good representation of our population, all these healthy, normal looking babies.” I was nodding in agreement, when her face froze, realizing what she had done. “Oh, I am so sorry. I wasn’t even thinking of you.” She knew my baby had Down Syndrome. I appreciated her honesty.

I walked by the photos, thinking again how Mabel’s face was absent. There wasn’t even a face like hers. As I approached the front desk, I was greeted with smiles from some of the nurses. One gave me a big hug and said “It’s going to be ok. It’s going to be good.” More tears found there way out. I embraced another nurse and thanked her for the cards she had sent. I had received countless cards after Mabel died, but she had been one of the few people to send a card when Mabel was diagnosed with low fluid. Once hugs were exchanged, I said “I brought donuts,” which brought laughter to the group.

After relinquishing one of the dozens of donuts, we headed to 469- my labor room. We closed the door and I burst into tears. The last time I had been in this room, Mabel was alive. I cried looking at the bed I knelt on through my contractions. I cried looking at the shower I tried in an attempt to ease the pains of labor. I looked at the infant warmer and imagined all the babies I had placed on it in the past. I tried to imagine doing it again- being a midwife in this room, hearing the satisfying cries of new life, helping a couple become a family. I cried at the thought of holding babies and being part of these happy moments. I cried at the thought of helping people have what I didn’t. “I hate it here,” I said to Chris. I pulled up the youtube video I had made and we started watching it on my phone. I wanted to remember some of the good things. As we watched, my tears dried up and we heard knocks on the door. One of the midwives I work with, one of my labor nurses for Mabel and one of my midwives joined us. They gathered around me and watched the rest of the video. I could hear sniffles and soon a box of tissues was found. I remained dry-eyed. The video makes me happy, though it makes others sad.

My labor room

My labor room

When it was done, I was ready to move on to the NICU. My midwife had checked to see if Caroline’s room was free. It’s the space families can use when they need a place for privacy. “It’s not always used for bad news,” the neonatologist had told us on the tour, when I had asked him where can we go if our baby is dying. Today the room had a sign taped to the front, saying “reserved for the XX family.” My midwife had checked and we could use it for a few moments while the family was out. I wondered what bad news the XX family was dealing with today.

The furniture had been rearranged. The space was small, 6 x 10 feet maybe and it had just enough room for a small couch and two chairs. Today the couch and chairs were reversed, each occupying the space the other had been in when we were there with Mabel. I didn’t like it, the furniture rearrangement, and I said so. Chris and I sat on the couch; it was the couch were we held Mabel as she died, the couch where I put her on my lap so I could see all of her for the first time.

Caroline's room

Caroline’s room

“I don’t feel her here,” I said.

“I can, a little,” Chris replied.

“I don’t.”

But I then went on to tell my midwife about the bunny and carrots in the revolving door. We talked about how my ID didn’t work and she said I can’t take it as a sign that I shouldn’t be back. She had a problem with hers not so long ago. That brought us into a conversation about work and me being back delivering babies. It’s a conversation I don’t like and I got a little upset, so it didn’t last long.

Not wanting to take any more time away from the XX family, we left Caroline’s room and found the charting room to drop off our second dozen. The elevators then took us to the maternal special care floor. Three nurses were working there, two of them had cared for me while I was in house. I dropped off the remaining dozen donuts and headed to 1038, my room on the floor.

This was the place I was happiest in pregnancy. Once I was admitted and survived my first twenty-four hours, I realized that my baby was likely going to born alive. She was safe here- monitoring all the time and the burden of worrying about her well being wasn’t mine. The room looked more spacious, without the weeks worth of belongings I had brought with me and without the cot they had brought in for Chris. Their was an empty plastic basinet against the wall, waiting to be filled by a new baby. My baby never saw a basinet like that one. She only knew the warmth of a NICU isolette and the warmth of my skin.

my maternal special care room.  I was happiest here.

my maternal special care room. I was happiest here.

I looked out the window and noted how it looks different in the summer. My last view from the point showed streets covered in snow. My midwife joined us as we were looking outside. She mentioned how in the parking lot below us she had recently seen a jazz band at the farmer’s market that sets up there on Saturdays. The parking lot was outside the city’s mental hospital and Chris commented on how it was an odd place for a farmer’s market. “Look at that sign!” I pointed to a white banner hung up on the wall of the mental hospital that lined the parking lot. It advertised the farmer’s market and had a picture of carrots on it. There she was again. I still couldn’t feel her there, but she was making herself known.

If you look closely, you can see carrots on the left side of the white sign on the building.

If you look closely, you can see carrots on the left side of the white sign on the building.

As we left the hospital, the elevator doors opened onto the third floor. Thinking it was my stop, I started to step out. I paused realizing quickly I was getting off prematurely, when I almost bumped into a young woman, a teenager in fact, crying right there in front of the doors. She saw us and walked away. A hour before, I was her. A woman standing in front of the elevator doors, delaying my journey to retrace the last days of my daughter. I had cried tears for the baby I had lost and the memories I was about to face. I saw her crying on the third floor- I’m unsure what kind of floor it is- and wondered whom she was crying for. I turned to Chris and said, “I’m not the only one who cries by the elevators.”