It has been 39 days since I gave birth to you, my daughter, Isla Noelle. This is the first time I've written about the experience. You were supposed to be a vbac homebirth, an amazing experience for our whole family. We had a pool, candles, food, everything planned. All we had left to do was clean, I kept waiting for the nesting to kick in. On Friday, September 14, I noticed at bedtime that you hadn't been moving around much. Come to think of it, I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a really strong kick. We'd been at Ikea all day, with Evan and friends, and not really been paying attention to your movements at all. Around 11pm, I drank 2 strong, sugary iced teas and waited...I got one kick, which gave me enough reassurance to go to bed. The next morning, I had another sweet drink, and still nothing. Tim got up and we left for the midwife's. She said flat out that she was worried. Well, shit, me too. She found your heartbeat quickly, in the 150s, and we all let out a huge sigh of relief. I was nervous at how nervous she was. We called the hospital nearby, and they recommended coming in for a non-stress test. We got there, the midwife came, and the NST revealed a similar heartrate, though without any variation, which concerned the staff. They put an empty pop can on my abdomen, and flicked the tab a few times. I guess this sends waves through the fluid and usually, babies react, heartrates fluctuate and babies move around. None of these things happened. The OBGYN on that day checked my cervix for dilation and the possibility of an induction, as I'd wanted a vbac. I was not at all dilated, and you were still posterior. No chance. And they wanted you out. I was prepped for a csection. Though it was technically an 'emergency', it wasn't, in that I was given time to call family, tell them what was going on, go to the washroom. No one rushed, they worked around my needs, it was leisurely and comfortable. There was no urgency, really, no sense of doom. I requested to wait on cutting the cord until it stopped pulsating, not have my arms strapped down, so I could hold you, and to delay eye ointment so we could see eachother right after you were born. After they cut me open, everything changed. No one really spoke, or said anything except "it's a girl". I distinctly remember not hearing any crying. I remember the anesthetist next to me looking more and more concerned, and eventually leaving, to go help with the doctors and nurses on the crash cart. Then I heard resuscitations and I remember asking 'is my baby going to die'? The anesthetist said "she's very sick"... and I put my fingers in my ears and closed my eyes. The next parts are such a blur, and honestly, I don't care if I remember them or not,so I'm not going to detail them. They told us they were going to take you to a cooling unit thing at the Stollery, a place that could possibly help with possible brain damage. Then the neonatologist came back and basically told us there was no hope, no brain activity, and we should think about discontinuing life support. What a fog it all is. What a whirlwind. I was wheeled into the NICU in my bed, and held you. You had tubes coming out your mouth, and I can't believe how calm I was about it all. We knew you were going to die, and yet, I was able to talk, smile and make decisions. I realize now I was in a complete state of shock. In no way could I comprehend that my newborn daughter was going to die. My body was protecting me, because I'm sure, could I have really understood the magnitude of it all, I'd have killed myself. The next few hours I floated in and out of awareness, I was so drugged up, so exhausted and so stunned. Marcia, the hospital's chaplain, came in and did a blessing for you, and I don't remember a word of it, I'm sad to say. I held you close. I took off your sleeper, pulled down my gown, and just held you against me, skin to skin. God you were perfect Isla. Your tiny shoulders, still with lanugo on them, so soft. Your perfect, tiny ears, your hair, so soft and so dark! Your amazing little hands. How tiny they looked next to Papa's as he held you. We kept you with us all night, passing you back and forth between Daddy, Auntie Sandi and me. When we knew your time was getting close, we came together, and thought deeply of you, loved you, cried for you. It was so very hard to say goodbye to you Isla, so incredibly hard. I don't even know how I did it. I think I should be grateful for the drugs, really. Somehow they kept me from dying from the unimaginable pain and agony that I was going through. I can hardly write about it yet. I hope one day I can write about it, with a smile for you, instead of just this wicked horrible grief that is currently my entire existence.