August 30, 2011

Tuesday, August 30, 2011, Jay and I got news no parent ever wants to hear. Our precious baby boy, who was absolutely fine the previous week, as seen on an ultrasound, had passed away. A routine non-stress test couldn't find his heartbeat, so I was sent down for an ultrasound. The tech looked around at the babies, then mumbled something about checking with the radiologist to make sure she had everything. I started thinking something might be wrong, because the previous week, the same exact ultrasound tech had said everything was fine and the babies looked great. She was gone for 20 minutes. She came back with a smile, and then wheeled me back up to the OB triage room.

Once I got up there, the nurse went to hook me back up to the machine, and then said something about being summoned, and went to go take care of things. She came back about 10 minutes later, and said that the doctor had said we didn't need to hook back up to the monitor and she'd be back shortly. She brought my doctor with her, and I knew before he said anything what was going to come out of his mouth.

Horrifically, he proceeded to tell me that our little guy's heart was no longer beating. They didn't know when it happened or why, but he was no longer living inside me. For nearly two more weeks, my body would continuously try to go into labor, with contractions or other weird problems. I spent more time in the hospital then I did at home.

We had another routine ultrasound on September 9, with the specialty "high-risk" clinic that I had been seeing throughout my pregnancy. Within minutes, the ultrasound tech realized our little girl had almost no amniotic fluid, and she left the room to get a doctor. The doctor, whom we had never met before, came into the room, introduced herself, waved the ultrasound wand over my belly for a few minutes, then told me I was going to the hospital immediately.

Sometime later that evening, we met with another specialty doctor, who told us that "we can continue waiting, but at this point, we're waiting for something bad to happen." She made the decision then to take out the babies via c-section the following morning. Zenith was lying transverse (sideways) at the time, making a natural birth impossible.

At 9:35 on September 10, 2011 (9/10/11), Zenith Danielle and her brother, Wesley James, were born. Zenith was a name Jay and I had picked out for about 8 years. Zenith Marie Hollinger had been Jay's great-aunt. Danielle is my middle name. Wesley was named after my great-great-great-great grandfather, Noah Wesley Hampton and my grandfather, James Talmadge Hampton, as well as Jay's grandfather, Harold James Hollinger.

Zenith came out screaming, which relieved the most horrendous anxiety I have ever felt in my entire life. She has spent the last two weeks in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) at Helen Devos Children's Hospital, but she is doing amazing. The nurses call her a "feeder/grower", meaning she's just there to learn to eat and put on some weight. She does okay taking her bottles, but she's a little lazy like her big brother Andrew, so it takes her a full 30 minutes sometimes to finish her milk, which is the maximum time they'll allow her to eat before feeding her through her tube.

We are putting Wesley to rest in Jay's family plot tomorrow morning. He'll be laid with his uncle Allen Hollinger, who was also stillborn.

We feel unbelievably blessed. We know many of you have been praying; we've received cards and flowers and so many well wishes. Zenith is thriving, and we pray that she continues to grow and come home soon to join our family. We are sad over losing Wesley, but as Christians, we know he is in a better place than this world could possibly offer.  Thank you for the love and compassion you have poured over our family in the last month.