It’s been a month now since September 9th, a date that we
will forever call “Molly Day” in honor of the beautiful stillborn daughter that
we brought into the world that fall evening. Those days already feel so far
away, and yet they remain so fresh in my mind. After reading Debra’s two
beautiful and insightful blog posts since then, I realized that it’s important
for me to share my experiences as well, both for myself and for all those who
have supported us. As a husband in this situation, you have to put yourself
second and provide love and support. But as a father, you also can’t overlook
your own loss or forget to reflect on what has happened to you. This story is
that lesser-heard view, from a father’s eyes.
Saturday, Sept. 8th began as a pretty normal weekend
morning. We were anxiously waiting for Molly’s arrival, due the next day. Right
at 40 weeks, we were at the finish line of a long wait for our baby girl. Debra
had been having contractions on and off for about a week, and I had been
convinced Molly was going to come early. I had been extremely busy at work for
months, trying to wrap up loose ends before my planned two weeks of “paternity
vacation,” and at the time I was grateful to Molly for waiting and giving me a
few extra days to check some extra things off my list. Looking back, I so wish
I could give those work days back and instead have her safely arrive early.
We were a bit concerned that morning, as we realized that Debra hadn’t
felt Molly move in a while, but Molly was quiet sometimes and we didn’t think
too much of it. After a visit to the park with Cole, with still no movement from
Molly, we came home and tried to stir her up. Throughout the pregnancy, Cole’s
voice was the one thing that consistently got her moving, and I like to think
they formed a connection even though she never got to see him. On this day,
however, even Cole couldn’t get any results. Caffeine didn’t work either. After
we put Cole down for his nap, Debra spoke to a nurse on-call, who wasn’t too concerned
but suggested Debra go to the hospital to check things out. Still not really worried,
Debra left for St. Mary’s Hospital while I stayed home with Cole.
A half-hour or so later, I got a call that forever changed my life. It
was Debra, in tears, telling me that the doctors weren’t finding a heartbeat. With
those words, a chill instantly washed over my entire body that I pray I never
feel again. She told me another doctor was coming in soon with different
equipment to try again and that I needed to get there right away. I frantically
called her sister, Deanna, who was visiting with their parents at her home a
few blocks away, telling her come over for Cole so I could rush to the
hospital.
I drove quickly, muttering prayers over and over again that there was a
mistake and that Molly was fine. Halfway to St. Mary’s, Debra called again and
confirmed my worst fears, that there was no heartbeat. I’ll never forget as she
wept, “How are we going to tell Cole?” Cole had indeed been very aware of the
pregnancy, talking about being a big brother, holding and feeding his sister,
and we were so excited to see him with her.
Looking back on it all, I wish I could have been with Debra as she and the
doctors began to realize that Molly was not alive. I can’t imagine the
awfulness of those moments, which must have felt like days, desperately waiting
to find some sign of life. I wish I could have at least been there by her side
so that she didn’t have to go through that experience alone.
When I arrived at St. Mary’s, I parked the car and sprinted from the
parking lot, across the skybridge, through the hospital to the birth suites.
Having worked at St. Mary’s for several years in the past, I knew exactly where
to go but never imagined myself running there in a situation like this. After I
got to the room, another doctor came in for a final check. I knew what the
outcome would be, but I still stared at the ultrasound screen, praying somehow
that we’d still find life. We did not. Molly was gone. In shock with tears in
my eyes, I held Debra tight as she wept for several minutes.
We discussed options with the doctors, and Debra decided she still
wanted to attempt a natural delivery (labeled a VBAC because she had to have a
C-section with Cole’s delivery). I still admire the courage in her decisions
while facing this terrible situation, opting to go through the pain of labor
and delivery despite knowing what the outcome would be. We decided to go home first
so that we could process things with our family, get a night of sleep, and then
return in the morning to induce labor.
A few hours later, we were at Deanna’s house, and I stepped outside so
I could call my parents and then distract myself by playing with the kids. But
soon, I received another scare when Deanna ran out to get me, saying that Debra
was pale and sweaty and needed to go to the ER. In the end, it was just an
anxiety attack from the stress of everything, but we couldn’t take a chance, so
we quickly kissed Cole goodbye and rushed back to the hospital.
When I brought Debra into the ER, I could read the smile on the face of
the desk nurse, who was anticipating a joyous pregnant woman and her husband
coming in to deliver a child. I quickly cut her off and explained our situation
to avoid an awkward conversation, and I watched her expression instantly change
to the serious, sad look that we saw so many times that day. Debra was escorted
up to the birth suites while I once again parked the car and sprinted back to
the birth suites for the second time that day.
In the many hours of labor that followed, Debra and I held each other
and took turns consoling each other between the waves of contractions. From my
cot next to her bed, I kept my hand stretched out to hold her hand through the
night while we both tried to get a bit of sleep. I kept wishing I could do
something to carry more of the emotional and physical burdens for her. Thankfully
we were blessed with two amazing nurses who coached us, took care of us, and
cried with us. Finally, around 6:30 pm on Sunday, September 9th,
2012, Molly Christine Dybdahl was born.
I was the first to get to hold Molly, and her body was still warm from
the womb. She looked perfect and beautiful, with a cute little nose and what appeared
like a slight smile, leaving no clue as to why we lost her. She had wispy brown
hair and the same funny toes that Cole and I share. My mind kept imagining her
suddenly breathing or crying or opening her eyes as I rocked her in my arms. Until
that moment in my life, for whatever reason, I hadn’t really cried since my
childhood. But that all changed as I held her. Tears ran from my eyes, and my
body shook as the sadness kept hitting me in waves. I kissed Molly’s head and kept
telling her how sorry I was. I wanted to soak up every second I had holding
her.
We stayed overnight in the hospital, keeping Molly in the room with us.
We took pictures of her and took turns holding her when we could. As I emailed
the sad news to family, friends, and co-workers, it all began to feel a bit
more real. I kept tearing up every time I thought about Cole and how much I
just wanted to hold him in my arms, so that I could protect him, shower him
with love, and feel that heartwarming boost he always gives me.
In the morning, Molly’s body was beginning to show signs of
deteriorating, and we knew we’d soon be facing another incredibly difficult
moment. Her skin was cold. A trickle of dry blood had come from her nose, and
the memory of trying to wipe it off will sadly stick with me forever. We took
turns holding her for the last time. All too soon, it was time for us to let
her go. Saying goodbye and watching the nurse take Molly away was more than any
parent should have to do. Debra and I wept together before gathering our things
and leaving for home.
Much has happened in the four weeks since then. A private funeral.
Placing her ashes in her new memorial flower garden in our backyard. Visits
with family and friends. Returning to work after two weeks. But the constant
reminders are still there. Every morning when I wake up, I see our nursery door
open with the sun shining in, and I’m reminded that Molly is not inside
sleeping safely with the door closed like we had imagined. At night, I rest my
arm against Debra’s belly and half-expect to feel Molly kick. My mind often
jumps to the future that will never be and the amazing girl and woman Molly that
would have been. I find myself wondering if I’m feeling the way I’m supposed to
or grieving the right way, even though I know there is no “right way.” My brain
is often preoccupied, working in overdrive as my subconscious tries to make
sense of a seemingly impossible situation.
And yet, life moves on, and I’m reminded of so many things we have to
be grateful for. Debra and I have a wonderfully strong marriage that has proven
it can get us through anything. We have the loving support of so many family
members, friends, and neighbors who are looking out for us. We have an amazing son
who makes us laugh and beam with pride every single day, and who still checks
in every so often, asking with a smile, “Dada, are you happy now?” Even in the shadow
of tragedy, the people in our lives light our way, guiding us to a brighter
future.
As we move forward, Molly will forever be a part of our family. Even
though she never quite got to breathe the air or see the world with her eyes,
she is still our daughter. She is still a sister, a granddaughter, a niece, and
a cousin. She is still a person. She was with us for 40 weeks, hearing our
voices and feeling our touch.
I know that Molly is in a good place, wearing a yellow dress, smiling
down on her new memorial flower garden with other relatives who have left this
world, and whispering in Cole’s ear. I hope somehow she can feel how much her
dad loves her, and that she knows I’ll find her again someday. Our family will
move ahead and grow, but we will never forget.
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