Debriefing Death.

       In the wake of the death that rocked my world I struggled to understand. I had assembled the greatest team, the best support, and together we had put every domino in show-place to win. Yet when the pieces fell, a trick had been played, a side slide set when I was unaware and my win never came.

       Waking up into a defeated shock did not turn off the inner thoughts racing around my hospital room. I thought first of introductions and inductions to faith. Then of decomposition and imposition to the staff. I thought of formal notification and minimally of missed celebration. When I realized I had my team still assembled, that they were waiting for me to pick up the pieces and direct them how to proceed, I obliged. Those that stood by our side through the night, pacing in waiting rooms stuffy with dread and stifling with grief, were exhausted by daybreak and sat on the floor next to my bed, the emotional toll aside from the sleepless night wearing them thin. The reinforcements had been called, and they requested an audience, had photos taken and survived the meet-and-greet with the still little man in hand. Then they were all dispatched and tasked with cleaning up the best laid plans and incomplete dreams that remained at home. 

       I had met a new member, a doctor that had been chosen by luck and my poor judgment, the meeting not a pleasant encounter and one of only two during the brief stay I'd have under his roof. Shock still clouding me, I absorbed his clipped words, the staccato of his mandates piercing small holes in my heart, and nodded as he told me I had chosen my fate. The guilt and grief combined easily and there was nothing more to say or hear in that hell of a hospital room. Good-byes were said and quiet calls made to plan a new home for the still little man in hand. 

       The shock took long to wear away though through that began the process of processing the death. The how needed to come out as we would never understand the why. By the end of the second day I felt compelled to talk, to tell and retell the story, to live it and recall the simplicity of the trauma, the lack of drama in the death. And the team checked in. Asked permission even. For those who had supported us, perhaps shared in our delusion and now our horrid downfall, I answered and opened the door myself. Welcomed them in with hugs that were craved and attempted to elicit the events as they could be recalled. It was prying and for some, much too difficult to remember. I was told that it was a necessary step, this reviewal of the night though I felt at odds in doing it, that I was wounding more than I should those who had to bear witness to our greatest defeat. 

       I also reached out to a few extensions, ones who in the past had expressed doubt but still I knew could care about us and offer support. Early on I was disappointed by the responses to sharing the story, expected everyone in the listening to be all-comprehending but quickly found this was not the case. Each and every one of us has an emotional response to the death and the wake of Grief, some even a visceral one. I have been shocked to learn more recently that in my reaching out I have touched awful deep-rooted nerves in some that should never have been awakened. I hadn't learned this lesson early enough and I continued to debrief as best I could.  

       I made appointments in the after-death of my son, thinking that logically I should close the encounter I had opened with all involved. I had follow ups with my midwives, teas and breakfasts and hugs and tears aside from the physical postpartum checkup. I sat at the obstetrician's with my husband a week into the 'after,' struggling to wait in the fecund lobby, the room ripe with those mothers' hope, our Grief stewing us in our own corner. We hunched in our consultation chairs, accepted hugs and empty apologies, discussed the decisions and faults that led us to loss and reviewed that there wasn't another option available. In time, we met with the perinatologist, the statistician if you will, the one that pulled our odds and encouraged us to make the proper choice with all the information he could offer. Like everyone else, he listened to the tale, nodded wisely and offered little aside from the recommendation, "Don't spend too much time driving in reverse, you tend not to get anywhere in life." 

       That left only one team member that I hadn't debriefed. To be honest, I had no desire to see or speak to him ever again. When I thought that I was dying, I made the call to transfer to the closer hospital, the one with the unprepared staff that did not know us or our history. I chose wrong and ended up in the care of a callous, though capable, physician who was angry that he couldn't right my wrong. He was upset at my entire team and was forced to captain in my stead while I was unconscious. And when I awoke, in no uncertain terms he told me what he thought of my plans, my decisions, pointedly reminding me that I knew the risk and chose this death. He also said that while his repair of my parts went just fine, that I needed to be sterilized to not subject any future persons to this fate. So why did it feel so unfinished, this encounter months later gaping open in my mind, why did I feel the pull to call his office and schedule a consult? Maybe all my lessons haven't been learned after all. 

       I called months back, was told ten weeks was the wait for his earliest available time. Life has a way of creeping up on me though and last night the appointment came, loomed large over me all day and over my husband too- who must have asked me four times what point I needed to make, what whipping I wanted to take? I had to go alone and probably it was for the best. Pulse racing, blood pressure notably high, I was definitely keyed up. The medical assistant congratulated me on the forty pound weight loss. Was it intentional, she asked, making light conversation. What is your consult about tonight, she kept inquiring, wanting to put a forewarning message in for the doctor, some clue to key in to who I am and why I was there. I kept it cryptic, kept my cards close, wishing for a short wait and great elevator music. In the end it was anticlimactic. A brief hello, stumbled over discussion of events, minimal details of surgical repair and a smug smile about the obviously well-done job of saving my life. A few patronizing pats, one almost eye-roll and a "water under the bridge" closing handshake. I left unsatisfied to say the least. 

       Is that the way it all will be anyway? I'll be perpetually restless when it comes to this story's end?  I know the when. I felt it. I cataloged my thoughts as I went after, until I lost it. I have the notes from before the ambulance and the perfunctory dictations post surgery. Will it ever be enough? Without the why, will the how even matter?

        For each of my encounters' end, we all came to the same conclusions. We cannot repair the past. In the team I had assembled at first, the ones who helped me place the dominoes from the beginning, each member has replied that another decision could not have been made. Hindsight is not helpful for them. Unfortunately, those that I involved on that night and after have not always felt the same, having not been privy to our lengthy discussions and having no stake until it was too late, those members have gone on to harm rather than help. I should be grateful that I can see this now, knowing that for other circumstances I will need future teams of support in life, and can again choose wisely who to involve, needfully leaving behind those that have no interest in bearing us up, only in tearing us down.