Bad Ideas

We have Netflix, and the last three movies we picked out and received in the mail arrived before William died (and then was born...) 

One of them is Reservation Road. I went to put it in, and read this: 

Ethan Learner (Joaquin Phoenix) and his wife Emma (Jennifer Connelly) are consumed with grief after their son Josh (Sean Curley) is struck by a hit and run driver.  

Uhhhhh...never mind. Bad idea. 

*** 

I went to the hospital today. I went to sign a release form so I could get the lab results, the pathology report, all the information that might tell me what happened to William, why he died. 

Bad idea.  

I didn't realize how much it would bring things back. The memory of walking up to the main entrance, afraid of what they would tell me, my belly heavy with my baby - heavy in a way it had never been before, different, wrong somehow - was as fresh and dizzying as the smell of wet paint in a closed room. It literally made me nauseous.  

At least I didn't have to go to labor and delivery. I didn't have to see or hear any babies. I just had to endure the tight-lipped smile of the woman who handed me the records and had me sign the form. The look in her eyes said, "I'm sorry, but let's not talk about it, okay?" And so we didn't. I thanked her, took the envelope, and slowly walked back to my car thinking that I never, ever wanted to go back there again.

***  

Just a piece of advice, in case you ever have the awful opportunity to pick up your dead baby's pathology report - do not, under any circumstances, open the envelope and read it in the car. Trust me on this. It's a really, really bad idea. Reading phrases like, "Intrauterine fetal demise, denies pregnancy complications..." is just not conducive to driving.

***  

I had a message on my phone. My prenatals were still at the pharmacy, waiting to be picked up. I thought about going to get them. It wouldn't hurt to keep taking them, I reasoned. So I stopped on my way home from the hospital.  

Bad idea.  

The pharmacist remembered me.  

"Where's your baby?" he asked, noticing my empty belly...and my empty cart. 

It was the first time I've had to tell someone aside from family and friends. What do you say? You know you're about to shock someone, you're already anticipating their reaction, their "I'm sorry" is a foregone conclusion. I felt bad having to say it - but I didn't want to lie.  

"He...he was stillborn two weeks ago."  

Everyone stared at me. The pharmacist, the other women behind the counter, even the people waiting for their prescriptions. Is it so shocking? Babies die. It really happens. Every single day. Why doesn't anyone want me to talk about it? 

He mumbled "I'm sorry," I said an obligitory, "Thanks," and I didn't even notice how much I was shaking until I got into the car and tried to start it. My key kept missing the ignition.  

When I got home, I went back to bed and had a long, exhausting cry. 

That was the only good idea I've had all day.