Footprints, by Kristen Biehl (Indiana Department of Health) скачать в хорошем качестве

Footprints, by Kristen Biehl (Indiana Department of Health)

Kristen Biehl created her story in the Progressing Postpartum Digital Storytelling Workshop, facilitated by StoryCollab, sponsored by the Indiana Department of Health, and supported by the Health Resources and Services Administration (HRSA) of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, as part of the Maternal Health Innovations initiative. Find out more about StoryCollab here: www.StoryCollab.org. After multiple miscarriages, a woman's quiet hope for a healthy pregnancy is shattered during a routine 18-week appointment. Her baby's stillness on the ultrasound screen confirms a devastating reality. This poignant story delves into the unique grief of a late-term miscarriage, where a mother must face the loss of her child without ever having the chance to hold him. It's a testament to finding solace in small, cherished mementos and honoring a life that, while brief, was profoundly real. TRANSCRIPT: Mothers are supposed to know everything about their children. Every freckle, every scar, every fear. I don’t even know what color my son’s eyes were. All I have are hand and foot prints, and I know I’m lucky to have even those. Too many mothers have nothing to remind them their children were real. I was wheeled out of the hospital holding a stiff cardboard box, instead of my baby. Inside the box was a fragile pink ornament, a paper packet of Forget Me Not seeds, and a white porcelain heart the size of my palm. The Cheerio sized inky prints of my child’s left hand and right foot were pressed onto leftover cardstock. The nurse had written in black Sharpie the date and time he’d been removed from my womb, and the words “Baby Biehl” at the top. At my 18-week appointment a few days before, she couldn’t find a heartbeat on the doppler. I should have known then. Anxiety whispered in my ear to brace myself for the truth. I brushed that away and walked confidently to the ultrasound room. She found him quickly. There he was on the screen. I could make out his head and his body, but he looked odd… all curled up, floating there, still. My OB took a deep breath and let it out in an audible rush of air. And I knew. My baby had been dead for maybe over a week. They needed to remove him as soon as possible. I wouldn't be allowed to be induced or to give birth on my own terms. For my safety, they would have to put me under and remove him from my body in pieces. I wouldn’t be allowed to see him. I would never get to hold him. There would be no photos. We will never know how much he weighed or how long he was. But thanks to my doctor and my nurses, I know he had ten fingers and ten toes. I know how big his hand would have been against my fingertip. Even though my ultrasound photos will eventually crumble and fade, I will always know he existed outside my memory. His feet never touched the earth, but they touched paper and ink.