Cheyenne 27.07.1994

Precious daughter...Too beautiful for this world

Dear Cheyenne

The Journey Begins...

The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity and an understanding of life that fills them with compassions, gentleness, and a deep loving concern.
Beautiful people do not just happen.
Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, MD

The sky blue nursery was already prepared for you. It seemed like the longest of all my pregnancies. I had hoped for another little girl. But according to the ultrasound, you were a boy. It didn’t matter. I loved you anyway, my fourth child. Everyone always joked about me being the proverbial overprotective, health nut of the family, cautious about even chewing gum with aspartame. Regardless, I continued my healthy vegetarian diet throughout my pregnancy with you, just as I had done with the other three.

But when I arrived at the hospital in transitional labor on July 27, 1994, something went terribly wrong. I was already eight centimeters dilated and without any pain medication I was trying to get through my fourth natural childbirth. It seemed that my labor with you was more painful than with the others. I quickly learned why. About ten minutes after we arrived at the hospital, the doctors told me they thought you had died. I Lay there in disbelief. I kept asking if I could just go home. I knew this could not be true. I knew you were alive and that the doctors were wrong. It seemed like hours in that room. Everyone was so quiet. Still disbelieving their continued diagnosis, I convinced myself that you would prove them wrong. My son would come out screaming and we would all shout for joy!

They were asking me silly questions, hundreds of them. They asked if I wanted to hold you. They asked if I wanted pictures of you. But I am trying to concentrate on giving birth with the contractions now one minute apart. Anyway, babies don’t die during labor anymore. It just doesn’t happen. Within twenty minutes after I arrived at the hospital, I gave birth. My eyes closed tight handed you to your father. He loosened the blanket in the silence of that sterile hospital room. But you did not cry or even attempt to breathe. They offered no explanation, nor any reason. The doctor said there was none. There was only the deafening stillness in that room. Not knowing what to expect, I was afraid to look at you. This was my first experience with death. My body trembled with fear and adrenaline.

But then with my eyes still held tightly shut, your father gasped as he unraveled the blanket. He told me that I had a little girl. I sat up in disbelief and grabbed you, my daughter, my little girl. You are what I had hoped for all along. I looked at your perfect, lifeless body. You were so beautiful. Your skin was flawless and you had curly, ebony hair. You were my largest newborn, weighing 8 lbs. And certainly the healthiest appearing of all my children. You had a double chin and rolls of fat around your soft wrists. That made it so difficult to understand what happened. You looked like you were asleep. I remember being tempted to breathe life into you but fear of intervention from the medical staff prevented me from trying. With a mother’s love, I instinctively knew I had to make my first and last memories with you now.

The silance was horrifying. The nurse and doctor quickly left the room. I held you and cried a little, but I still had not accepted this as reality. For two broken hours, I dressed you, took pictures, and kissed you hundreds of times. I unraveled you from your blanket every fifteen minutes to examine and reexamene every inch of your body. I wriggled your toes, caressed your arms, and stroked your soft warm cheeks. As your tiny body began to blister, they urged me to let them take you to be prepared for the mortuary. Reluctantly, I handed you to the nurse and said goodbye.

Knowing I could not stay in the hospital a moment longer, I left for home. For forty weeks I planned my life around you. I loved you and nurtured you inside me. My every waking thought was consumed with waiting for your arrival. For forty long weeks, I changed the way I ate, the way I dressed, the movies I watched, and my every thought and word. All of this for nothing. As I headed toward the exit, I wakked past the nursery with my emptty arms and broken heart. I was leaving the hospital without you. That is when I began the very difficult and boundless journey into griefl. I had no idea the pain I was about to experience. I chose the name, Cheyenne; it means "white mourning dove".

Little child of mine
On this day, you died
And you have takenwith you more then your oun life
You have taken my life too.
I died with you today.
You have changed my life forever.

*******************************

Chey is my silent strength. She is phisically absent from my life, but she is my source of courage, inspiration, and strength. And she taught me the greatest lesson of all: To help one person is to help the world.

Joanne Cacciatore
M.I.S.S. Foundation CEO and Founder