Malkie Klaristenfeld
From the start, this pregnancy was shadowed with fear and uncertainty. Medical issues kept on cropping up, like mushrooms after a rain. As soon as one was diagnosed, the next one peeped out and made itself known.
I was scared.
Simply and unashamedly afraid.
For the first few weeks, I reined in the excitement that the promise of new life carries on its wings – especially at my age, when the merest sliver of promise is a blessing. The days turned into weeks, and slowly – in an agony of doubt – the weeks morphed into months.
I counted them carefully. The first trimester crawled past. I spent sleepless nights agonizing will it? Will it not? I spent the hours reaching out for some security that all will be ok.
As days passed and time started moving I slowly began to trust. I began to feel slightly more secure.
And I allowed myself to feel. To imagine. To dream.
I saw myself holding this little, precious neshamala and marveling at its innocence and perfection. I pictured the reactions of my excited children, as they would welcome the new addition with warmth and enthusiasm.
Stop, Malkie! My logical mind urged me. So many complications. So many worries. The high blood pressure. My sugar. All medical issues…You know that ‘cautiously optimistic’ is the way to go.
But I was sold. It has been a few years since I held a newborn that was all my own. I could not clamp down on those treacherous feelings that teased me to…Relax, Malkie! Everything will be alright! You’re nearly at the end of the second trimester…
Every ten days to two weeks saw me tramping off to my appointments. Another run-through of all the numbers. Another sonogram. I remember my doctor once telling me– I love those visits where there are no issues. Simple and normal.
10:30 a.m. on Tuesday, December 31st was to be just one more in this long line-up of appointments. The anxiety that had been stalking me for so many months peaked the night before this routine visit. My husband, too, grappled with a sudden upsurge of fear and doubt.
“Come with me,” I asked, only half in jest. “I’m scared to go alone.”
Reluctant to acknowledge his fears and validate my own, he tried to conceal the growing lumps of unease. “There’s no need,” he countered. “It’s just another appointment. But – but you’ll call me as soon as it’s over.”
I nodded, reminding him that since this visit would necessitate a detailed sonogram, he shouldn’t expect to hear from me before noon. The die was cast.
Tuesday morning, 10:00 a.m.
I left the house, closing the door behind me with deliberate movements. Much as I tried to convince myself that this visit would mirror the others, my heart refused to cooperate. Would my baby show signs of disability? Of deformation? Would something be…wrong?!
That’s as far as my thoughts took me. A child who was not well. A baby who would need special care. I had even mapped out who I would call once I would get that diagnosis.
I walked through the doors of Methodist Hospital and submitted myself to the ministrations of an unfamiliar, tight-lipped sonographer. Numbers were recorded, measurements were taken. All routine. Blessed routine.
My heartbeat quickened as the sonogram appeared on the screen. My baby!
Seeing the little life developing inside of me is a thrill, no matter how many times I’ve seen it before. There it was; a beautiful little silhouette outlined with that special halo that only Hashem’s protection could provide.
I smiled involuntarily and then looked closer.
The screen was static. Unmoving.
There was nothing to mar the perfect picture. Nothing to signal even the slightest hint of life.
Can words be put to a chasm of searing, wrenching pain?
Can words describe agony – sheer, unbridled agony that takes the heart and shatters into millions of bleeding slivers?!
“There is no heartbeat,” I said.
Silence. And then this unfamiliar sonographer matter-of-factly repeated my words. “There is no heartbeat”.
I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even blink.
Instead, I froze.
My thoughts and emotions froze into a single block of ice. I saw the silent screen and the sonographer’s impassive face…but I could not react.
“When did you last visit the doctor?” she asked.
Trivial questions. Mundane matters. I did not answer, waiting for the empathy and understanding that would surely follow.
But no. The stranger who had stepped into my world at this moment of rawest pain simply headed to the door.
“I’ll call another doctor,” she threw over her shoulder.
And that was it.
I was alone.
Just me and my silent, silent baby.
It’s over! – Malkie
I sent the short, biting text to my dedicated OB, Dr. Grazi. My jumbled thoughts could not contrive more than those two hurtful words.
I can’t believe this. I am shocked. Malkie, please know that you did everything you could to keep this going! – Dr. Grazi
The ice thawed slightly. I took a deep, shuddering breath and reread his kind words, time and again.
My baby! I wanted to scream. Do you hear?! I did everything I could for you! Appointments, consultations, precautionary measures…I wanted to give you the best chance possible! I wanted to give you…the world!
It was a calming thought; a validating statement. I had done everything possible.
11:00 a.m.
Now what?
I stood in the corridor of Methodist Hospital, toying with my cell-phone uncertainly. Was I supposed to call someone? Update anyone? Summon help or support?
Thankfully, I had another hour before my husband would expect to hear from me. An hour to reconfigure.
“Oh, Mrs. Klaristenfeld!” an enthusiastic voice greeted me.
I turned to face the smiling countenance of Dr. W., a valued professional contact. “So how’s it going?” he inquired solicitously.
And there, in that deserted corridor, the tears finally came. It was embarrassing, to say the least. Breaking down in the presence of a respected doctor with whom I deal with professionally was not…comfortable. But I cried. I cried for the sudden, wrenching loss. I cried for the little baby who was to be such a special gift when I hadn’t expected to receive another. I cried for myself and for my husband who was still unaware that we had lost our child forever.
“This was my biggest fear,” I finally said, amidst the tears. “I have buried so many children, Dr. W.! Too many. Little babies who were taken from me through D&E procedures… They were mutilated! I feel that I betrayed them; betrayed their perfection; betrayed their memories!”
Dr. W. was silent and I forged ahead. “I cannot do this again! This precious neshama must be delivered without trauma. I want my baby to remain…complete. As complete as she is right now.”
“I’m calling Dr. L.,” he finally said. “He’s an expert in the field and he’ll tell you whether it’s medically prudent.”
Dr. L. approved. Based on my history and medical status, he felt that a regular delivery would not pose any threats.
I walked down to the lobby of Methodist Hospital and…just stood there.
I had come through these doors just two hours previous with the hopes that only a would-be mother could entertain. And now…now I was standing in the same spot, bereft. The life inside me was no more.
It was noon. My husband was waiting to be reassured that our precious child was developing normally.
I called. It was the most horrific phone call I ever had to place. How does one trample on the title Tatty with such cold, untenable facts? I stood outside, in the bitter cold of this wintry day, and I told him that…it was no more. Our baby’s heart was no longer beating.
With fingers numbed by cold, I picked up Dr. Grazi’s call. He had nothing to offer me except his concern. I was scared to broach what concerned me most that I had been deprived of the opportunity to raise my child…I was determined that I would do all I could for her, so long as I was given the chance. Apparently, maternal instincts exist even in the shadows of death.
“I don’t want you hurting my baby,” I emphatically told him. “If there’s a possibility – any possibility – of delivering my child complete, nothing will stand in our way!”
And Dr. Grazi stepped up to the plate, as I knew he would. Although he believed that the better approach was to do a D and E, he promised to do whatever it takes to give me that one remaining comfort, in the safest way possible.
“Rethink your decision,” he urged. “But if this is what you want, then we’ll stand behind you every step of the way, it’s the least we could do for you.”
The tears were once again tumbling over each other at this simple gesture of warmth and empathy. Dr. Grazi would be in the hospital on Thursday, and I knew that I would wait for him. Irrationally, I was glad to have this extra day with my baby. I would have one more day to carry my child close to my heart, before she would be taken from me…forever.
I came home and walked straight towards the couch in my dining room. I sat down heavily…and sat…and sat. Hours passed in silence, as I continued sitting in the same position. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t even feel.
Instead, I fielded a tangled web of questions that grew thicker and more complex as the minutes ticked by. The pain and scathing agony cowered in their respective corners, as a surge of anger overtook me.
I’m calling it anger though it’s hard to define it as such. I was hurt. I was resentful. I was confused.
Hashem! Tatte in Himmel! What message are you sending me?!
The words reverberated deep inside of me, echoing in the silence that had snatched my soul. In my mind’s eye, I saw the Kahon Gadol earnestly doing the sanctified avodah of Yom Kippur. With each movement, he melodiously intoned Achas v’achas… One for one. One for two.The words reverberated deep inside of me, echoing in the silence that had snatched my soul. In my mind’s eye, I saw the Kahon Gadol earnestly doing the sanctified avodah of Yom Kippur. With each movement, he melodiously intoned Achas v’achas… One for one. One for two.
But I can’t even say that! Tatte, for me…there is no achas v’achas! You’ve given me eight wonderful, healthy children…but You’ve taken so many more! Fourteen, Ribono shel Olam! I have brought fourteen korbanos for You…
I couldn’t cry, though the tears burned the insides of my eyelids. Fourteen! Haven’t I given enough?!
For years, I have been counseling and supporting and guiding couples experiencing a loss…a loss just like my own.
What are You telling me, Tatte?! What is the message in this heart-slicing pain?! I have helped so many of Your suffering children specifically in this realm!
Was it anger? Was it confusion?
I could not pinpoint the exact feeling…but it was strong. It tortured me continuously, as it still does so many days later. I know – in my mind, that is – that everything happens with a cheshbon, with a purpose. But knowing is not enough. Will my heart ever reconcile with this seeming incongruity?
I called the school secretary to inform her that I would not be coming in the following day to give my scheduled lesson. How could I speak about emunah and simcha when my entire being was crushed into a shifting mound of questions?
The hours ticked by slowly, chiming the hours in annoyingly joyous tones. The children came home. Supper somehow landed on the table and Bedtime was dealt with. And I sat. I sat on that couch and stared sightlessly at the familiar walls of my home.
I was barely present.
As the clock ticked on, I vacillated between the silence of my bare walls and the inconsolable tears. There were moments that I wondered how many tears one could produce? How full could the cup get?
Later in the evening, I mustered the strength to inform some of my closest friends. They didn’t know what to say. In a shocking realization, I intuited that no one could give me what I gave to others. They asked intrusive questions and offered hurtful comments.
I knew that they didn’t want to hurt me. They were groping in the dark, trying to find something decent and comforting to say. But they didn’t know. They just didn’t know.
I suddenly came to a strong realization. What a service I was actually offering those experiencing what I now once again was going through. How much fine tuning went into each conversation. And what a skill true empathy is. Oh how this hurt. I was alone. Alone with no one to give me what I needed most.
The lchaim of a close cousin was scheduled for that night. I attended, betraying none of the turmoil that held me captive. I smiled. I wished mazel tov. I greeted my mother; my grandmother; my chattering family.
They looked at me with smiles in their eyes, as they calculated how far my pregnancy had progressed. They did not know that it had come to an abrupt stand-still. They did not know for I did not tell them. There was no reason to ruin the family simcha. There would be time enough for that.
The hour was late and tomorrow’s ordeal peeked out at me from behind the stars. I was scared. So, so scared. I needed to take someone along with me; to support me. The names of my friends flashed through my mind, but I dismissed each one immediately. They couldn’t give me what I needed. They could not – or would not – offer the support that would help me get through this.
For more than a decade, I had always dropped everything to be there for others in this situation. I sacrificed so much to make things easier for them! My comfort meant nothing. Even my husband and children were sometimes pushed aside to ensure that I could be there when I was needed.
Would no one be able to do the same for me?!
The answer was hurtful and unequivocal.
Wednesday Evening 12am
Dr. Grazi was already at Mt. Sinai. He expected me to make my appearance so that…so that my baby could be taken away from me.
I didn’t want to go. Had I been a child of six, I would have thrown a tantrum and barricaded myself inside my bedroom. But I was an adult. A grown woman. An almost-mother.
So I went. I got into the car with my husband, hating the sleek vehicle that was taking me closer to the end. With every mile swallowed by the car’s gaping jaws, my fists clenched tighter. I couldn’t do this! Why am I allowing this? Why was I sitting here, letting myself be taken to the point of no return?!
Shakily, I called the number stored in my contacts as the chevra kadisha. I was constantly in touch with them, preceding or following miscarriages and stillbirths. Now, once again, I was calling them to contract their services. I needed them to make the final arrangements for a baby. My baby.
I asked the director whether there was any possibility of bypassing the office staff. He was unaware of the circumstances and told me that it could not be done. I was embarrassed to find myself at the receiving end of those who always dealt with me on the other side.
Why are you ashamed? I asked myself irritably. You’ve done nothing wrong!
But the feeling of discomfort did not leave me. None of the grieving couples I dealt with ever had any contact with the chevra kadisha. Only I was thrust into that horrific position…for there was no one else to do it in my place.
It was an awful feeling; a precursor of things to come.
I walked into the delivery room, appearing for all the world like a woman in the bloom of pregnancy. It was a fleeting moment; just a passing illusion.
The induction progressed slowly, and I took an Ambian capsule to help me sleep. As was to be expected, it was completely worthless, though its effects worked wonders on my husband, who was soon fast asleep.
I remained awake, haunted by a progression of little faces and tiny, delicate fingers. All those babies I had held and cuddled, supporting their parents as they bid them final farewells… All those pure neshomos who had flitted briefly through my life, leaving an imprint that neither time nor activity could erase…
They were all there, in the Mt. Sinai delivery room. I saw them lined up in a long, long procession…and once again, the questions surfaced.
Why?! Why was I being tested particularly in the area to which I had devoted my life? Perhaps I had not sympathized enough with the bereaved parents. Perhaps I had not given them all that they needed.
The stories replayed themselves in my mind, wreaking havoc on my already-shaky equilibrium. As labor progressed ever so slowly, I found myself thinking about the episode in Columbia; the wrenching heartbreak at Methodist; the couple struggling in Maimonides.
It was my story…yet it was theirs, as well. I felt, inexplicably, that my experience was a world-encompassing, communal tragedy, with thousands of spectators who had previously been helped. They had merited support… I felt so alone.
Dr. Grazi as usual went above and beyond to make this easier. He stayed beyond his designated shift. His presence did much for me, and his frequent calls checking on my progress were reassuring. Dr. Lanskowski, another member of the team, sent me a moving text that gave me a sampling of that ever-elusive support.
Malkie, I just heard about what happened. We’ll do anything to make this road just a little bit smoother for you. You have my #. Call or text if you need anything. – Dr. Lanskowski
Delivery was difficult and draining. Though the physical pain was overpowering, it was the emotional pain that nearly bowled me over. I was terribly and achingly alone. No one was there to hold my hand or to reassure me that these horrific moments would soon pass. No one could give me that which I gave so selflessly to others.
And worst of all – I couldn’t give it to myself.
I felt powerless; stripped of the tools that had helped countless others in my situation. I tried telling myself the words that I told them, but all I came up with was a feeling of cynicism; a strong sense of hypocrisy.
Malkie! I told myself. Get your act together! You’ve been doing this for years! Can’t you even help yourself?
But no, I couldn’t.
I was helpless and broken, like an injured bird pitifully dragged down by its useless wings.
The baby finally made her appearance. I couldn’t look. I couldn’t think. I could barely feel. After hours of not eating, I felt on the verge of collapse…but the Malkie Klaristenfeld who would have instinctively brought me a cup of refreshing water was confined to bed. No one could be my Malkie.
I asked for a cup of coffee, and gave exact instructions as to where milk could be obtained. I asked for another blanket, guiding my husband to the right closet where the spare blankets were kept.
I knew what was coming next. My little princess was lying there, silent and cold. She was mine. Mine. The doctors called her ‘a second-trimester pregnancy failure’. The reports filed her away with an offhand phrase – No cardiac activity detected.
But she was my little girl – now and for all time.
And I was her mother. The only mother she would ever have. A mother for mere moments…but a mother nonetheless.
“I can’t do it now,” I cried out. “I feel too detached. I’m not fully present and…and I can’t squander these moments!”
I knew that these precious few minutes would have to provide memories for a lifetime. I couldn’t afford to waste them! I needed to use them up to their fullest. How could I bond with my little girl when I was so out-of-sorts? I was terrified that I would waste the only chance I would ever be given.
Come on, Malkie, I urged myself. You know what these babies look like! You’ve seen hundreds of them! You know how to get acquainted; how to sing to them; how to bond with them…and then…to let them go.
But knowing was one thing. Feeling was quite another. That helplessness washed over me again, stronger and more potent than before. I was alone. I would have to face this all on my own.
My little baby girl.
For a moment, I saw myself bending over that tiny form and handling her with love. I saw myself soothing the bereaved mother, wiping her tears and holding her hands gently.
But then I saw…myself. I wasn’t Malkie of Knafayim. I wasn’t the giving, supportive presence that others had come to know. I was just a mother. A grieving mother whose daughter had gone even before she had come.
And I screamed.
I don’t know where those cries and shouts came from, but they echoed in the silent room for a long, long time. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t even look at my bundle of innocent purity. I couldn’t!
The baby was still lying near me, completely covered. I didn’t touch the blanket. I just looked at that tiny form concealed under a pure, white blanket. It was so small; so helplessly fragile and tiny.
Somewhere in my subconscious, I realized that someone had softly opened the door and then closed it again. I was in my own world. It was a small world; a world just big enough for me and this little neshama’la who would soon be taken away, never to be seen again.
Suddenly, my little world filled up. Hundreds upon hundreds of stillborn babies crowded in on us, squeezing the air out of my lungs. It was so crowded and yet so eerily silent.
I saw myself handling those little souls, caressing them and smoothing their features so that their parents could form the most positive memories. I saw myself gently pouring water over their tiny little hands. I heard myself reciting nishmas over them; putting those little fingers over small and unseeing eyes for their first and last Shema.
Help me! I cried out to those innocent souls. I welcomed you into this world and escorted you out. I was there for you….but who will be here for me?! Hashem…WHY?!
All those babies that I had so lovingly held and given over to their Mommies, who I had caressed, cared for, stood lined up at my baby’s crib like a barricade hauntingly staring in my face, questioning– you too? How many more need to join us? How many of yours stand lined up together with us?
My little baby daughter and me. To get to meet each other and then… to inevitably say goodbye. And so, I ever so slowly leaned over to my baby – the one little baby in this whole parade who was and always will be just mine – and I uncovered her smooth little face. She looked so fresh. So perfect and untouched.
I counted her fingers. Ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes. I looked at every part of my little girl’s body. So many minute details had come together. So much perfection and so much silence. Why, Tatte?! Why must her journey be so brief?!
I held the bassinet on my lap and looked down at her.
I felt the weight of her body on me and it felt so right. She was mine. She was my little girl; a perfect little rose that had never been given the chance to show me her velvet-soft petals.
“I think it’s time to…to take her back,” I was told slowly.
I flinched. Take her back?!
This was it. She was being taken from me forever!
כי מלאכיו יצוה לך…
May the malachim watch over you, my precious little one. They will come with you on this final journey while I – your mother – will stay far, far behind.
The bassinet was crossing the threshold of my room. It was going out – out – farther and farther away.
The feeling of my heart ripping to shreds was tangible. I was being torn apart. A piece of me was being taken away and I could do nothing to stop the pain; to staunch the wound.
She was gone. The room was empty.
My little girl was no longer there. I knew where she was and I couldn’t bear to think about it. I had seen too many little babies holed up in the cold, dark morgues of large hospitals.
And then once again I was left to the silence. An exhausted silence. Indescribable. No words for this painful journey…
The doctors insisted that I stay overnight and I was wheeled upstairs, to a double room. I would never have allowed any of my patients to be treated in this manner. I would have insisted on a private room…but there was no Malkie who could do that for me now.
I was so cold and vulnerable but the doctors were afraid to release me before morning. So I stayed there, in the uncomfortable hospital bed, letting the tears flow unabated. The night hours swam away on my tear-soaked cries and I was relieved when day finally dawned.
The relief was premature.
Early morning Dr. Grazi entered. Once more he came to offer me some comfort. To check up on me. And yet he found me in shambles. “Who will be your Malkie? Who will take care of you?” With tears in my eyes I just pointed upwards. But I knew this was going to be one lonely trip.
When I was actually preparing to get discharged from the hospital, I was nearly bowled over by the finality of it all.
Leave?! How could I leave and go back into the land of life? My daughter is here! My little girl – my dream – she is staying behind!
I tried pulling myself together, but my insides were a mess of unresolved fears and tears. It dawned on me then that I had never fully grasped the difficulty of this moment. Physically pulling myself away from my baby was…torturous.
The hours passed and yet there was no way that I was leaving. Leaving my little baby here alone? Hours passed, shabbos was approaching and at one point we had no choice but to leave.
We took our discharge papers and went to the front entrance. We stood at the door leading out of the hospital. I stared outside, wondering at the hustle and bustle that continued unabated. It seemed so foreign to me.
“Where is your baby, ma’am?” a security guard asked me.
Could a shattered heart shatter once again? Could unfathomable pain grow even stronger and more searing?
“In the morgue!”
Apparently, pain has no threshold.
When I finally settled myself into the car a kind friend had arranged for us, I felt just how high those pain levels could climb.
The car started pulling away from the curb and I wanted to scream; to halt it in its tracks. He pulled off with full energy and..And then…I saw them. All of my precious little babies who once were and are no more.
They were there, flying ever higher – away from me, away from my arms. I watched them flying higher, all fourteen of them, and I felt my body trembling uncontrollably. I was being torn to bits and there was nothing anyone could do to help me!
I wanted them to stay, my little ones. I wanted them to be close to me; to lean their soft, feathery cheeks on my hands. But they were gone. They were gone. My heart was screaming in sheer agony…and no one even heard.
And now we were to face going home… face once again lighting shabbos candles. Do we add an extra candle? Does she make a difference in our family kleidescope? Do I daven for her or does she daven for me? So many complicated and unanswered questions.
The next few days were simply torturous. An unremitting cycle of tears and frozen numbness. At one point, I ventured outside to stand on my stoop for several stolen minutes. The world was rushing by, and I was befuddled. It was surreal. How could anyone move ahead when life itself had just ground to a halt?
And then I saw her. A woman who looked just as I had appeared a few days previous. She was carrying life. She was carrying hope.
I was carrying nothing but a huge, gaping hole. A hole that pulled and tugged…but remained nothing more than a deep, black void.
The feelings swept over me in torrential waves. I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look at anyone, for that matter. I didn’t want to talk to my friends or family. I couldn’t bring myself to reach out. It felt strange; completely unnatural.
After decades of being the mainstay of so many, how could I so drastically turn the tables on myself? The violation of my privacy was also a huge hurdle that was – and continues to be – a sore point.
So many people are looking at me and gauging my reaction. How will Malkie Klaristenfeld of Knafayim deal with this? As a professional, she has all the tools in her back pocket…
But I don’t! I’m a grieving mother, mourning the little bundle of joy that will never be mine! Doesn’t anyone understand?
Right now, I’m not Knafayim. I’m not Mrs. Klaristenfeld.
I’m just…Malkie. A mother in pain.
A mother bereft.
