What happened to Hazel Jean?

When others learn that our sweet baby girl is no longer with us, the first thing they want to know is "what happened?"   It's a painful question to answer, especially repeatedly.  Instead of reliving the nightmare of her birth/death, I put together a narrative that I share with those who want to know what happened to her.

Truth is, I wish I could tell you exactly why she died. I wish we had an answer.   Hazel seemed perfect in every way.  She never gave us any indication that she would be anything but a bright, beautiful, healthy little girl.

The doctors can't fully explain why she died.  The autopsy revealed nothing.  They know she was very anemic at birth.  She struggled for her first breaths.  Attempts to relieve her acidosis were unsuccessful.  But we don't know why. Or how.  The doctors say, "She should have been fine.  She should have made it."

All I can do is tell you a bit of her story and then you can decide for yourself: What happened to Hazel Jean.

**********

I have four living children ages 10, 8, 6, and 3.  All of their pregnancies/deliveries were fairly peaceful and uneventful for the most part. We had a few scares and hiccups along the way, but nothing devastating.  We had no reason to believe that our 5th baby would be any different.  In fact, my 5th pregnancy was so normal, it drew no special attention at any point along the way.  I was 40 weeks and 6 days pregnant when I finally went into labor.  We had just put the kids to bed and at 8:30 those nagging contractions began to hurt more and more!  We went to the hospital at midnight when I was afraid to stay home any longer.

Labor was progressing normally.  Everything seemed to be following a familiar pattern based on my four previous experiences.  The only difference is that Hazel was still riding high and had not descended much. Suddenly we started losing our baby's heartbeat, for no apparent reason.  I was rushed to the OR for an emergency C-section, but was ultimately allowed to delivery her normally under enormous pressure to "get it done now!" 

I had her out in just minutes.  But it wasn't quick enough.  Our sweet, perfect Hazel was born February 4^th, 2014 at 3:49 am in the OR room, and handed directly to the neonatology team. I never heard her cry.  I never got to look in her eyes.  I never cradled her new, naked body next to my chest.  I could only watch over my shoulder from my gurney where I was being stitched up as the team worked on her.    I don’t know how long we watched them working on her.  Finally, they left with her.

My husband followed Hazel up to the NICU where they continued to treat her.  I was taken to my room to deal with heavy bleeding and intense shaking.  At this point I wasn't terribly worried.  I knew the Doctors had it under control and it would just be a matter of time before I was nursing my baby and wrapping her in pink.  Right? 

Hours passed.  The nurses finally agreed to let me be wheeled up to NICU to see my Hazel.  I won't go into all the details of what it was like to see my baby covered in tubes, wires, sensors.  Nor will I bore you with all the medical details.  But I was told that her brain was already very oxygen starved and she was experiencing brain malfunction.  She would need to be transferred to another hospital to receive cold cap therapy.  The transfer team took hours to come. I kept asking how much longer she would have to wait.  Was the team on their way?  Really, the hospital she was going to was only 25 minutes away.  Why weren't they hurrying?  Didn’t anyone care about saving my baby but me?  She was finally moved about 8 am.  They wheeled her isolette down to our room and encouraged us to take pictures of her before they left.  Good-bye pictures, I wondered?  Were they already giving up on my baby? They certainly didn’t seem to be in a rush and I wanted to scream at them to get the hell out of here and get my baby the help she needed!

 I was told I could not go with her because of my heavy bleeding.  But the Dr. agreed that if my bleeding was under control by lunch time, I could be discharged and go see her then. My husband, however, did follow the ambulance over in our car.  In the meantime I began to pump, hoping that I could at least take a little bottle to my baby and let her drink some of that liquid gold.  

Around 9:45 I received a visit from the neonatologist, letting me know that Hazel was "not responding well to treatment”.  Apparently that is code for "Your baby is dying and if you want to see her you better get going."  I made them yank the IVs out of my arm. I dressed, grabbed my bag and left the hospital, without the standard wheelchair, and with only minimal paperwork completed.  The milk I had pumped was left in the fridge in my room. 

I waited for what seemed ages out on the curb in that cold February wind for my ride to come get me and take me to Hazel.  All the while, I cried to Heaven "Save my baby! Save my baby.  Only you can save my baby.  Hear me, God! Save my baby!" 

The 25 minute drive to the hospital was eternal.  I didn't move a muscle or say a word. I sat tense, but still believing that my baby would be ok and I'd get to take her home before long.  I was still confident that someday I'd look back at these horrifying hours, with my sweet Hazel in arms, and tell her survival story.

Instead, I'm telling her death story.  When I got to the hospital, I raced as quickly as my aching stitches would allow down the maze of hallways to the little room where Hazel waited for me behind that tacky blue curtain.  She was different.  One eye was shut.  The other was open just a slit.  She was totally motionless except for the gentle rise and fall of her ventilated chest.

I saw what I assumed to be the "cold cap" we had sent her here to receive.  It sat next to her on the bed, unused.  A Dr. came near.  I almost screamed, "Where’s the cold cap!! Isn't that why she's here??"  Very bluntly he laid it all out: it wouldn't help now.  It was too late.  She had no more neurological activity.  Her eyes were fixed and dilated.  "I'm sorry,” he said. 

"So we're just going to let her go?!"  I demanded. Apparently, we were.  I saw it in my husband's eyes.  At that moment I had to accept what was happening, although I'm sure I was not really comprehending the full implications of Hazel's condition.  Her heart was barely beating, but she was still there.  Wasn't there a glimmer of hope?  No.  Not even a glimmer.  I was going to lose her.  So I decided that our last minutes together would be as peaceful as I could make them.  I asked if I could put my arm under her tiny limp head.  The nurses agreed and actually moved her off the table, tubes and all, into my arms where I sat waiting in a large, stiff rocking chair.  I nestled her as best I could around all of the tubes and wires. 

Soon a monitor started beeping.  My husband and I ignored it. We were too locked on Hazel's sweet face to care.  But a nurse came in and noticed that the heart beat monitor had flat lined.  She used her stethoscope to find a pulse.  "I don't hear one,” she said too calmly, too flatly.   The Dr. came in.  He didn't find one either.  Time of death: 12:09 pm.  

My baby died in my arms after 8 hours and 20 minutes of physical agony in this world.  Minutes after her passing, our children arrived.  They had just missed seeing their little sister “alive”.   We peeled off as many of the tubes and wires as we could before they came in.  The rest we hid under her little receiving blanket.  As their mother, I had the duty of delivering the sad news as gently as I could, and with as much dignity as I could muster.  I know that angels bore me up in that moment.  I never dreamed I would have to deliver such devastating, soul crushing news to my own children.  I watched their sweet faces change from joyous anticipation to unabashed grief.  Instead of happy birthday wishes for Hazel, we could only offer her our collective tears.  They each got a turn to hold her, kiss her, and say a good bye.  My oldest daughter brought a hat she had just finished knitting for Hazel.  We put it on her. 

Our children left, and we continued to hold Hazel for hours.  Funny, I hadn’t slept in almost 2 days, I had just delivered a baby, and we had not eaten anything all day long.  Yet even as evening came on, I felt no hunger.  Only emptiness. 

Time wore on.  If I could have, I would have stopped time so that I could spend endless hours holding my little one.  But I knew I had to leave the dead to go care for the living.  My children at home were hurting and they needed me.  So we began the solemn, heart wrenching process of giving Hazel her first and only bath.  When she was clean, I dressed her in a white gown that a social worker gave to us in a plastic bag marked "Bereavement kit: girl".   So now I was a case for social workers.  I was angry at myself for leaving my hospital bag in my ride's car.  It contained all the things I wanted to put on Hazel in that moment: the blanket, the outfit, the cute socks, the hair bow.  She would never wear any of it.  Instead, she was wearing this donated "bereavement kit".

After I had dressed her in the white gown, her umbilical cord began to bleed all over and we had to take the white bereavement gown off. The nurse spent quite some time hunting down an outfit that would fit my 8 lb 15 oz., 21.5 inch baby. Apparently the NICU is only used to dressing preemies, not chubby, full term babies with massive heads of hair. They stuffed my baby into a too-small, shabby, red and white cast off outfit. Perhaps another baby had died in it.   I didn’t dare ask.  I smoothed her hair once more, laid the donated pink, crocheted blanket on her, kissed my last kiss and left my baby behind.  The only thing I carried home that day was an ache so big and hollow, you could have driven a truck through it.

But that is not the end of Hazel's story. It really is the beginning. The rest I cannot tell you until I meet her again in that other world where there are no dead babies or heart-broken mothers.