My sister

My sister wrote this in her own blog, Blogging for Boobs, as her own account of Sarah's birth.  Reposting it here, because her words capture so much.  Love you, Chana!


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Sarah Tzipporah

Life never really goes according to plan, does it? Neither does death. On October 31st, 2012, I awoke to a phone call from my sister. "I think I'm going to have a baby today. Maybe baby!" I pretended to be calm and collected as I told her that after I ate my breakfast I would be right over. She only lives 5 minutes down the road. I fried up two eggs, all runny and yolky in the middle, and placed them like eyes on my plate. A ketchup smile completed a happy-faced breakfast. A great beginning to the day.

When I got to my sister's house, her curly-headed 2 year old greeted me at the door with a big grin. We chased each other around the house a few times before settling into the living room. My sister was surreptitiously stifling her own excitement, knowing that even though she was 10 days past her due date, even though she had been having steady contractions since 3am, birthing is unpredictable - it could be an hour or a day. We chatted idly and flipped on the television. "Ooh, let's watch 'The Office,'" she said gleefully. "Laughter makes the baby come out." She wiggled around on the birthing ball throughout the episode, shifting positions, walking around, breathing deeply as contractions rose and fell. I was mesmerized. Yeah, I had labored through 2 natural births myself, but it wasn't any fun. This woman before me, sister of my blood, seemed elevated with grace and knowing even in the throes of her primal ache. What a great laborer, I thought to myself enviously. I wish I could do that.

Shortly after I had arrived, her husband had taken their toddler on some errands to afford his wife some peace and quiet. Now it was almost noon, and the contractions were coming a bit less frequently than the morning. "When they get back from the store, Rachie will nurse," my sister said confidently. "That will get the contractions going again." Sure enough, the arrival of her big girl sent strong clenches through her uterus as we awaited the midwife. Not just any midwife, but the woman who had gently steered and caught my son and both my sister's older children.

Michelle arrived and set about fixing her doppler on the swollen belly to get a heartbeat reading. And she placed it low. And high. And to the side. And. nothing. As minutes passed without a reading, I saw my sister's eyes widen with worry. Perhaps laying down on the futon would help position things correctly. She moved into the birthing room that had been set up in the study, door closed, as I entertained my niece in the living room. More minutes. Then the midwife came out, gently shutting the door behind her, fingers dialing her phone as she quickly explained to me that there was no heartbeat to be found. Maybe this was a tricky baby. Maybe there was a problem. Either way, they were calling ahead to let the hospital know they were on their way for an ultrasound. My sister came out of the room like shackles were on her feet, her neck bent and eyes searching mine. "There's no heartbeat." She collapsed into my arms. I held her tightly. "I don't know what to do if she's dead," she whispered. I spoke to her calmly saying, "Let's just take one thing at a time. We'll figure it out."

They left for the hospital, my instructions to care for my niece and bring our parents up to date once they arrived at the house. I was frantic. I called my brother's house and got my sister-in-law on the phone, "They can't find the heartbeat. Hospital." Unable to stay still, I took Rachie for a walk outside, around the block, just like yesterday when we had all taken that walk together to help gravity and motion induce the baby's coming. Should we not have gone for that walk? Was there something I could do that I hadn't? No answers. As we circled back to the house, my phone rang. "She's dead. The baby is dead." Oh G-d.

As the message repeated in my mind, our parents pulled into the driveway. My dad noticed there was a car missing, probably thought her husband had run to the store. No. I walked up to my dad. "Something happened. It's not ok. Let mom get out of the car so I can talk to both of you." I explained the labor, the midwife's abbreviated visit. Their assent to the hospital. The phone call. "They couldn't find a heartbeat. The baby is not alive." No child should ever have to look her parents in the eyes and say those words. My father's face sank, "Oh no. No. How horrible." He could not comprehend. My mother crumpled and cried, "No. No!"

The next few hours were in a haze. I left my niece in her grandparents' care as I went to meet my children's school bus. It was Halloween. We always went trick-or-treating with my sister and her kids. What now? I pasted on a smile and hugged my son and daughter too tightly as they jumped off the bus. They had a snack, put on their costumes. We went back to my sister's house. I arranged for my husband and some close friends to take the kids trick-or-treating while I went to the hospital. The drive was too long. Memories of my sister's previous births flashed through my head.

When she had given birth to her eldest, my son was only a few months old and couldn't be left. It was a long and difficult hospital labor, and I struggled with the knowledge I couldn't be there. But in the end, I gathered up the kids and had their dad play with them in the waiting room while I tended my sister for just a short hour in the hospital. I simply could not bear the thought that I could do something that might help ease her along. That one hour in her room was a productive one, dialating another centimeter with my presence and words. Visiting her the next day to see my beautiful nephew. Showing her husband how to hold the baby gently. I changed his diaper, gave him his first bath. Demonstrated how to wrap him to her body so that he was snug, secure, and able to sleep. Then the next baby - a homebirth with the same midwife. A baby that came so smoothly, so fast I missed the entire labor. The first picture I saw was my sister resting in the recliner, hair damp from the birthing tub, smiling shyly, cradling her sweet little girl.

I had no idea what scene would greet me at this morbid hospital scene. Visions of crying, screaming at the earth so visceral as to pull down the mountains filled me with coldness. Michelle met me at the elevator, enveloped me in a hug. "She's going to have the baby. She will deliver the placenta. And when she stops bleeding, she can go home. They are doing ok. They're listening to Bon Jovi." I sputtered a laugh, feeling disbelief. We walked down the hallway. The staff had placed my sister at the end of the hall, empty rooms surrounding hers. "So she doesn't have to walk past crying babies," Michelle offered. I opened the door. My sister was laboring quietly in bed, her husband seated next to her, holding hands. My sister. We hugged. She had been given some pain medication that had a calming effect but kept her lucid. She decided to sit on the birthing ball. I rubbed her back. She was hungry. I cut up her baked potato, added butter. We remarked on the Sprite can which was really iced tea. An hour passed.

"Rachie knows the baby's name," my sister whispered. "I didn't tell anyone else but her. She knows it is a secret. If you ask her she will say 'Shhhh.'" as she mimed a finger to her lips. "Sarah. Her name is Sarah Tzipporah." We cried.

That moment of release, of truth, gave way to logistics. I would go back to the house and take her children back to my house. Her 5 year old son would think it was a treat to stay over at his cousin's house - the 2 year old may be trickier, since she had never spent the night away from Mama, but I would manage. We hugged. I wished I could stay to see her through this birth, to finally get to see her through her birth, but being a Mama means you must take care of all the baby birds in the nest.

Sarah was born around 10pm that night, just as little Rachie fell asleep cuddled up to me on the couch. From the front, she was perfect. A beautiful head of dark hair, rosebud lips and a cleft chin. Chubby thighs and wrinkly feet. 10 fingers, 10 toes. But laid on her stomach, it was apparent that her spine had not formed properly. There were divots and fissures where there ought not be. The umbillical cord was short, slimy, indicating possible infection. No autopsy. Nothing to be gained.

My sister labored and birthed all 3 of her children with grace, compassion and love. She showed such strength of character and mind, even when the walls of the world were crumbling beneath her feet. Life never really goes according to plan. Neither does death. But our lives are forever changed by my sweet little niece. She is still Sarah.