Connor Richard Nielson, our second son, was born at 3:05 a.m. on July 22, 2010. He was 4 lbs. 10 ounces and 18 inches long. Unlike McKay, he was born with a head full of gorgeous wavy dark hair. He seemed to be absolutely perfect, except one thing. His heart wasn't beating.
We found out we lost Connor on Monday, July 19. On Saturday, Christina and I spent some time on the couch, feeling the little tike move around inside her tummy. Sunday afternoon, Christina mentioned she hadn't felt the baby move for awhile. We decided he must be having an extra sleepy day, but decided to pay close attention. Midday Monday came, and there was still no movement, so we decided it was time to see a doctor to be sure. Even up to this point, we felt no urgency. For some reason, the most dominant feeling was peace. Still, we left McKay with Christina's mom and headed to the hospital, fully expecting to get sent right back home.
Once we reached the hospital, it didn't take long for those feelings to change. A momentary flash of panic on the face of our first nurse was enough for us to realize something was amiss. A student nurse was the first to assess Christina. She used a doppler machine to attempt to detect heart sounds. Nothing. "I'm not very good at this," she says, rushing for help.
Her mentor nurse. Nothing.
The head nurse. Nothing. She collected two different ultrasound machines. Nothing on either machine.
A resident. Nothing.
Finally, the attending physician, who introduced herself as a "high-risk OB". Nothing -- except while pointing at the ultrasound screen. "This is where we expect the heart beat to be. We can't see anything. I'm afraid your baby is still-born."
Our world crashed down -- but it did so slowly. The whole situation was too unexpected -- too anticlimactic -- to seem real. Numbness took over.
It got worse. Christina still had to deliver the baby. The resident suggested we start right away, but we just couldn't do it. It was now only a few hours from July 20, 2010, McKay's first birthday, and party preparations had been buzzing feverishly for several days already. Invites had gone out, the cake ordered and food prepared. The thought of missing McKay's birthday, or of forever associating with it with tragedy, overwhelmed us. After some discussion, it was decided that Christina's health wasn't in immediate peril, and the delivery could wait until after McKay's birthday.
The next day, we compartmentalized our emotions, struggling with all our might to slide such a heavy burden to the back, and allowing the excitement of McKay's milestone to show on our faces, at least temporarily.
McKay's party, which was both combined with and a cover for a surprise 60th birthday party for Christina's father, went quite smoothly. Christina's sister Kathryn (and her family) touched down early in the day on Tuesday, flying in from Pennsylvania to spend a short vacation in Utah. The day was a flurry of activity while decorations were finished, food was prepared, the house was cleaned and kids were chased. We had serious discussions about cancelling the party, especially the larger surprise party, and holding a smaller party focused just on the family. Christina and I resisted the cancellation, insisting that the party go on. For McKay, for all those who had worked to plan the party and for us -- we were enjoying the distraction. (McKay's first birthday will be covered in more detail in another blog.)
Through some miracle, sleep came easily Tuesday night, and we were able to get some much needed rest. And still, Wednesday morning came to soon, and we were back on our way to the hospital, carrying heavy hearts and filling the air with prayers that our baby would suddenly start moving. It wasn't to be.
Christina's induction was a slow moving process. Wednesday passed slowly, emotionally and rather uneventfully. We spent time staring at the TV (which we never could get to work right), filling our paper work and selecting the proper clothing and blankets for our son. At about 10:30 p.m., the resident decided Christina's cervix had finally dilated enough to begin Pitocin and start contractions. Four and a half very busy hours later, our baby was laid delicately in the bassinet. We hadn't previously been able to select a name, but as soon as I saw him, I felt strongly that he was Connor.
We held Connor, and inspected his tiny hands and feet the way new parents always do. We took pictures and carefully dressed him. We hugged him, whispered our I Love You's and kissed him. Finally, we sent him to finish his short journey on Earth.
And we cried.
Earlier today, we dedicated the grave that will protect his body until a time when he will need it again.
Tomorrow, we will start to move forward. I expect it will be a slow start. Healing will take time. Especially for Christina. It seems, at times, that her very heart was torn out. And while she would have done anything -- ANYTHING -- to save that baby, I would have done anything to take even a measure of the pain, both physical and emotional, that she was forced to endure. Only Christ can do that.
I have my own pain. My heart hurts. My tears have fallen -- and will continue to do so. It will take some time for me to heal. But still, I -- who held Christina, who cried with her, who joined with her to create life, who held her hand as we learned that that life had been taken from us -- can't understand the pain that Christina has endured. Her tears have fallen freely, but her faith remains. In every step, she has been beautiful. She has been a champion. She is my hero.
We will miss our dear Connor, but we know it will only be a short time before we hold him again.
We love you, Connor!
