Reflections on the Nurse Who Held My Hand

I have the deepest admiration for the nursing profession.

My awe began over two-and-a-half years ago. Prior to that, my encounters with nurses had been fairly routine: office visits for myself and my children, or the nurses who cared for me after my two c-sections.

But on September 3rd, 2015, I was admitted to Labor and Delivery as the type of patient I had never imagined: to give birth to my daughter who had died, a little over halfway through my pregnancy.

My husband and I were led to a part of the hospital that was a bit secluded from the rest of the delivery rooms. The nurse who greeted us had to go through all of The Information. Medically, I was going to be administered medication to induce labor every four hours. Logistically, we needed to contact a funeral home. Mentally, we would be visited by the social worker. Spiritually, we could be visited by the hospital chaplain if we chose. She also told us that a tear-shaped placard would be placed on the door of our hospital room, as an alert to any hospital staff entering that we had experienced a loss.

The next 26 hours were a slow-motion parade of medical staff coming and going. The doctor's shift changed several times, as did the nursing shift. Social worker, chaplain, phlebotomist, anesthesiologist.

Nothing could make that time pass in any way other than a tortured waiting game.

Finally, the nurse told me that delivery was close. Her name was Nancy, and she was close to my mom’s age. She had blonde hair and a mature figure. She was more self-assured than some of the previous nurses had been. She told me that, due to gestational age, delivery could happen so quickly that neither she nor the doctor might be in her room. That idea terrified me.

I begged her not to leave me.

None of her other patients, delivering living babies, mattered. She stayed. She knew that when I began to vomit uncontrollably to get the doctor so he could be present. She sat by my side and held my hand, while my husband held the other, when my daughter, Nelle, was born.

For nearly an hour after delivery, we had to wait for my placenta to detach. Nancy continued to sit by my side. She told me stories about obtaining her nursing degree. She told me that her husband had died of cancer a few years before. That simple talk kept me distracted until the doctor returned and informed me that I needed a D&C to remove the placenta and I was prepped for surgery.

The shift changed again and Nancy briefed the incoming nurse who would be accompanying me to surgery. She gave me a hug before she left.

In the weeks and months that followed, I had nightmares about my hospital stay. I would wake in a cold sweat after, hearing the words over and over in my head: “I’m sorry, but your baby has no heartbeat.”

In my waking moments, I often thought about the nurses that were with me during my stay, especially Nancy. Knowing that I was not the only patient she had ever seen who was delivering a stillborn baby, I marveled at her composure and her ability to comfort me. Did she go home after a shift like that, and feel the heaviness of the parents that had just lost their child?

In honor of National Nurses Week, here’s to all of the Labor and Delivery nurses that sit by the sides of mothers experiencing the worst moments of their lives. For holding hands. For holding those precious babies, if only for a few moments until they are carried away, or helping the parents who want to see their children. From giving them baths, wrapping them in blankets, or taking photos. For holding it together in a way that I can’t even fathom. For gentleness and compassion and strength.

For the nurses watching over all of the patients like me, gratitude.

To read the writing that I do about pregnancy loss and grief, you can head over to my blog, Musings Out Loud.