Miles Bubbles Clayton
The baby who couldn’t stay
You never think it will be your story to tell…until you’re the one sitting in front of the blank page.
I’ve never been one to imagine the worst or see Fear lurking in every corner. I’m a solid “that could never happen to me” type. I’ve read so many stories of heartbreak and tragedy and while I always imagined myself going through it, in the back of my mind, it would never be me.
And yet, here I am. The only one in front of the blank page, and I’m holding the pen.
After I heard, “I’m sorry” escape from the doctor’s mouth, my world faded and my hands went numb but all I could think of was how to articulate everything that was going on. How would I write this? What words could possibly convey the gravity of this situation? I could almost hear the narration of it in my head. Then I thought, am I sick for immediately thinking to document this moment instead of just being in this moment? But I heard a line in a movie once and it immediately came back to me, “When you wake up, if all you can think about is writing, then you are a writer.” And that’s what I am. A writer. I write.
I’m not famous or published or viral or maybe even good, but at my core, I am a writer nonetheless. I have the journals from 1996 to prove it. So, this is my story and I get…no… I have to write it.
For about a week before Miles was born, I’d been seeing people where there weren’t any. Dark beings just outside my peripheral. They never scared me, and they weren’t ominous, but they always made me double take. I even mentioned them to my sisters, and we attributed them to wacky hormones. I believe now they were angels of some kind. Guardians. Coming to take my son home. A mother’s intuition can be a fierce thing.
For nearly a week prior to Miles’s birth, I’d been having what I attributed to anxiety – feelings of sadness, worry, envisioning myself saying goodbye to my child, thinking about how I’d handle going alone to an appointment that brought bad news. But I was also so sure it was nothing. On Wednesday I tried to find the heartbeat on my fetal Doppler as I had multiple times before. “It’s fine” I told myself when all I heard was my own racing pulse. I tried all the tricks – orange juice, a cold drink, laying with my feet up – to feel baby move. I begged for just one small indication that everything was ok. “It’s still really early” I reminded myself. The fact that I had been feeling him move since 16 weeks was unusual anyway. I confided in my sisters and shared my feelings. I admitted to googling, “Will I know if my baby dies inside me.” I told myself that I had gone too far and that I was paranoid. But a mother’s intuition is a scary thing.
Just a few days before Miles was born, I was sitting on the back porch flooded with feelings of sadness and anxiety. I was crying but I didn’t know why. I was holding my belly, again begging for signs that everything was ok and telling myself I was being hormonal. An old familiar hymn popped into my head…
“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll
Whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say
It is well, it is well, with my soul”
I hugged my belly and cried. I prayed, not for my baby, but for peace from feelings that I was sure were misplaced. But a mother’s intuition is a frightening thing.
The day before Miles’s birth, a coworker commented on my belly. I’d worn a shirt that hugged my growing bump just right and made me feel beautiful. I gave my belly a rub and responded, “It’s just growing and growing.” But immediately I regretted what I’d said. It felt like I didn’t believe my own words. I actually felt like my belly had stopped growing. A mother’s intuition…
On the morning of Friday May 29th, from my office desk, I called my OB’s office. I told the nurse that I was worried bout the lack of movement. She told me it was far too early to worry. I told her I couldn’t find the heartbeat on the Doppler. She told me those things are wildly inconsistent. She told me to relax. I could, of course, hold it against her and say she was insensitive and out of line. I wanted to tell her that “I’m sure everything is fine” is the most un-believed statement ever uttered. It never made anyone feel any better. Instead, I reminded myself that she must field calls from nervous moms all day long. She’s heard it all. Most of them probably just want someone to say everything is fine. But I needed to believe it. I began to cry as I told her, no matter what she said, I didn’t know how to make the feelings stop. Finally, and almost begrudgingly, she offered me an afternoon appointment.
I fully expected to go in feeling embarrassed and nervous and walk out with some relaxation tips and a reassurance that it’s always better to be safe than sorry. But, instead, I sat in a room and cried while the nurse called my husband to come get me. I tried to call him myself, but I couldn’t feel the phone in my hands. I had tried to leave so I could tell him in person, but I had a panic attack in the hallway. I’m terribly sorry to the expecting mother that saw me break down. How many other people left work that day traumatized by my cries? What did that sonogram tech, sweet Rose, the one who congratulated me 5 weeks earlier as we watched my baby jump and wiggle, the one who told me she’d never been in a situation like this and didn’t know what to say, carry home with her? Instead of a prescription to call down, I left with an invitation to Labor and Delivery. I would need to be induced. I would be giving birth to my child this weekend instead of this Fall. Ironically, and in a cruel twist of fate, L&D was full that evening. Full of other families celebrating the births of their children. Children who were alive and would get to go home. I had just been told my baby was dead.
When Jon arrived, no one knew what to do or say. Due to COVID precautions, he wasn’t even supposed to be allowed into the clinic. He says he stormed into the nurses station and they all stared at him, unnerved by the way he swept in. He demanded to be brought to where I was. After a doctor told him the same things he had told me, Jon and I were sent home to wait for a phone call.
We’ve all been in awkward silences, but the next 8 hours was the heaviest darkest silence I have ever sat in. Neither my husband nor I knew what to say. We didn’t know who to call or what to do. Were we supposed to do the dishes and the laundry? That all felt so trivial. I was still carrying my child inside of me, but I knew he was gone already. It was in those moments that I realized, there isn’t a line between believing in miracles and being purely delusional. Miracles are just delusions that proved true. And I was either hoping for a miracle or I was delusional. Both. I was both. Doctors make mistakes all the time. Crazy things happen. Maybe there were wrong. There could be an explanation to all of this. I couldn’t even pray. God knew what was going on and the ache in my chest spoke louder than I ever could. I just cried.
At 11:30pm, we were awoken by the phone call. I hardly remember deciding to go to sleep but clearly we both had. And it was a good thing we did because we would both be up for the next 20 hours, bringing our tiny baby boy into this tumultuous world.
Mile Bubbles Clayton was born very loved at 12:13pm on May 30. He was absolutely perfect and beautiful. He already had the strongest eyebrows forming on his sweet face. I was reassured by many people that all he ever knew was my love and the warmth of his perfect bubble. He’d heard me sing and he’d heard his older brother laugh and he’d heard his father play guitar. He got to spend every second of his tiny existence being held and happy and surrounded by pure bliss. He was born with his cord around his neck and body multiple times. Babies are born with wrapped cords healthy and alive all the time. But not my son.
I labored for 10 hours. Just I had felt every kick and wiggle, I felt every pain and contraction. I felt him leave my body in a warm gush. I felt the weight of him in my hands. I’ll feel the weight of him on my soul forever. The physical pain wasn’t as fierce as my natural labor with Cillian. The aftershock wasn’t as intense. The recovery proved quicker and easier. But this is by far the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I know I’m strong enough to carry this, but I don’t want to be. I wish I never had to learn how strong I am.
I just don’t want to be this mom. The one with an angel baby. The one with the high risk pregnancy because she’s pregnant again after a loss. The one with the rainbow baby – a baby born after the storm of a loss. I don’t want to be a part of the club that we honor every October. But no one asked me. They just threw a hood over my head and dragged me through this gut wrenching initiation.
Two days after his birth, we went to the funeral home to make final arrangements. Miles will rest forever with Jon’s Grammy. He’ll be safe and loved and remembered.
On June 3rd, sealed in a tiny white box, surrounded by love, Miles Bubbles was placed into the ground. As his older brother says, his body is there but Jesus has his spirit. And even though Jesus can’t fix his spirit, he’ll keep it safe. Miles is not and never will be alone. Jon has his Grammy, his Pop, and his Nana all loving on and holding Miles until we get to hold him again.
Miles Bubbles Clayton
May 30th, 2020
12:13pm
9.8 inches 7.4oz
