The High Tech Way

Steve Irwin

Everyone knows now that the Crocodile Hunter, Steve Irwin, was killed this weekend while swimming at the Great Barrier Reef.  Lots of the news coverage and all the people I've talked to have pretty much taken a particular tone when recounting the story. They are not surprised. He was always doing crazy stuff with wild animals.

The way they talk almost makes it sound like Irwin was asking for it, or that he deserved it.

This attitude is sort of pissing me off. Irwin was an environmentalist, a conservationist, a son, a husband and a father. He loved his wife and kids and they loved him. He loved the animals he worked with. He was a good guy.  And he was also a professional.

And the stingray attack did not occur when Irwin was showcasing a stingray, holding one in front of the camera, chasing one, or otherwise interacting with one. The news accounts I've seen have said that the stingray was buried in the sand, that no one knew it was there, and that it reared up and stung him directly in the heart when he unknowingly swam a little too close.  The news accounts say that stingrays don't normally sting humans.  It was something that could have happened to any swimmer.

What happened to Irwin had nothing to do with the behavior that other people have characterized as problem behavior. 

Admittedly, I think he was rightfully taken to task a few years ago when he was feeding a crocodile with one hand while he held his infant son in the other arm and then walked the boy through the animal's pen.  I remember wondering if he'd gotten in trouble with his wife after that episode. I never heard of him doing anything like that again.

He was charismatic, funny, irrepressible and quirky.  And what appeared to be his risk-taking behavior (when it was risky just for him) was part of his great appeal.

What a tragic tragic event that such an amazing educator and entertainer was taken from not only the world, but from his family at such a young age. How tremendously sad it is that his wife must tell their children that daddy isn't coming home. And how heartbreaking that those kids, so loved by their dad, must grow up without him.  I hope they don't ever hear the talk show blather that's going around today.

LA LA LA LA

The weeks that followed were horrendous.  We cremated our baby Will's remains, and I put his things together in a blue leather box.  I felt like I'd not only lost my baby. I'd also lost my shot at motherhood.  The thought of NOT ever being a parent to a living child changes your idea of who you are. I missed my baby and I didn't know how I would ever feel ok again.

I've thought about how to capture the feeling here, and the idea of trying to do it made me not want to write anything. 

Know that it was just really really bad. The worst time of my life. I was in therapy. I was on Zoloft. And I felt like I was stuck there for an eternity. I just wanted my baby back.

I chronicled these awful days in an online community I belong to, and one day the community crashed and all the posts were lost.  In a way, it felt kind of freeing. It happened about 2 1/2 months after my loss.

The abyss

In the weeks that followed, I could not bear to be alone. When David got up and went to work (he works from home in an office at the front of the house), I would follow him and just sit there while he worked.  I didn't need to do anything.  Just sit there. As long as I wasn't alone.

This was so unlike me. I've always been independent and celebrated my time by myself.  Not now. Only despair. I never felt so fragile as I felt then. Like the breeze from the window fan might blow away the pieces of my crumbled self. 

The crash

Have you seen those VW television commercials where two people are driving along, having a normal conversation, and you think the commercial is going to be about something in the conversation? Then WHAM! Another car slams into the VW. It's a moment, an instant, where the world changes dramatically. Chests slam against seat-belts. Airbags deploy. Everything stops. The old conversation is completely forgotten.

At 12 weeks pregnant they tell you your risk of pregnancy loss is very very low.  The first trimester is over, and all those very important physical systems have formed in the fetus.  I was paranoid about this, because I had had a miscarriage before. (We were lucky enough, once, to get pregnant naturally, and found out on our wedding anniversary.  But the beta levels were low -- 14 at 16DPO (days past ovulation) and 29 at 18 DPO. The nurse said to be cautiously optimistic. I only heard the word optimistic and was devastated when we miscarried at six weeks pregnant.)

So at 12 weeks pregnant, when the risk of miscarriage falls to something like 2 percent, I was elated. After such a long wait on what seemed like an endless roller coaster of emotional lows and highs, our prayers were finally about to be answered.

For David's 40th birthday I wanted to give him something different, so I planned a trip to San Deigo for the weekend for the two of us towards the end of June.  It was a wonderful trip. I booked us a room at the Marriott on a high floor so we had views of downtown from our balcony. We had dinners at sidewalk cafes. We went to the Air museum (aircraft) and the zoo. I was almost 18 weeks pregnant.

We made the long drive back home on Monday, and within an hour of getting home we got the call at around 7 pm.  It was the results of the amniocentesis.  It occurred to me as David handed me the phone that the genetic counselor had said that if the results were bad, they would call in the evening.

It was the genetic counselor calling that evening. She said she was sorry. She was surprised by the results. I suppose that's because she's used to telling people that their babies have Down Syndrome or Trisomy 21.  She told us that our baby had Trisomy 18.  I did not know what that meant, but it didn't sound good.  I asked if it was a boy or girl and she asked me if I really wanted to know.  I told her I did and she told me it was a boy. It is hard to remember what happened next.  I think I hung up so I could look up more information on the Internet.

In all the information available on the Internet you'd think you could find something slightly positive about everything. But not about this. It is fatal. Of babies who are born, 50 percent die in the first week. 90 percent die in the first year. I think I found a place that said there are 20 teenagers alive in the world today who have this condition.

The perinatalogist's office that performed the amniocentesis and Level II ultrasound (the level II showed no problems at all, by the way), offered us the option of trying to take the baby to term or of terminating the pregnancy.

I don't know if I can express the emotions.  We wanted a baby so badly. We waited for years, and did the most advanced medical procedure available just to get pregnant.  And now we were presented with this choice.  I knew that God hated me.

We decided that for William's sake -- that was the name we had chosen years ago for our boy -- we would disconnect the life support. We scheduled a D&E for that Friday. I cannot write anymore about it right now. It profoundly breaks my heart to this day. I miss my baby. And not only did I lose my baby that day. I lost my hope.