Cove’s Story

by Sarah Rivera

Before I was an ER RN who teaches prenatal classes, I worked as a registered nurse in a busy, high-acuity level III NICU. I’d been there a couple years and really enjoyed the privilege of connecting with families during an emotional and vulnerable time for them.

On August 22, 2014, I was assigned a bedside with one sick little peanut: a baby girl, her parents’ first child. Born on August 20, 2014, at 4:41am weighing 7lb 15oz, about 8 days past her expected “due date.”

There were no concerns with pregnancy or labour until the very end, when fetal heart rate abnormalities were detected on the monitor. During an emergency cesarean section, a true knot was found in the umbilical cord.

She required intensive resuscitation at birth with CPR, intubation, ventilation, and emergent administration of epinephrine. On arrival at the NICU, she began therapeutic hypothermia to prevent further injury to the parts of the brain that did not receive enough oxygen at birth. After 72 hours, she would be gradually rewarmed and undergo testing to assess the extent of the damage to brain tissue.

Catheters, IVs, scalp leads, and many other tools were in place to monitor her. All day I worked to keep her vital signs normal, her fluids balanced, her temperature controlled.

When her parents Ben and Spirit came to see her that day, I was struck by their oneness.

They looked worried together. Exhausted together. But happy to see her, together.

I saw her through their eyes. Cove Rose. 7lb 15oz is large to me (as most NICU babies are premature), but small to them—tiny, even. Dwarfed by lines and tubes and machines and screens. Their long-awaited little girl, who they already had hopes and dreams for, had fuzzy dark curls like her daddy and blue eyes like her mama.

Unexpectedly, I fell in love with her, and my fight for her gained a ferocity I can’t explain.

I went about my work and left them sitting beside her helplessly, gingerly touching her fingers and toes, wondering how this could be happening. They repeatedly told her they loved her and whispered things to her that were sacred and warm and not for my ears.

On August 23, I was assigned to Cove again for my night shift. The day’s rewarming went smoothly as expected, with further testing in the morning.

That night I was privileged to help Spirit and Ben hold their precious babe for the very first time. It wasn’t easy—Cove still had lines and tubes and machines and screens attached to her—but what a rewarding job it was.

We had a quiet night together, she and I. She looked cozy and peaceful, surrounded by soft squishy boundaries so she had the familiar comfort and security of the womb she pressed into for so many months. I stayed with her all night, writing in a journal for her and filling my heart with hope for the morning’s tests. I dreamed of how lovely it would be to watch her parents take her home in a carseat, awkward and nervous and happy.

On August 24, when I arrived for my night shift, my coworker pulled me aside. She put her hand on my back and said she was sorry. The tests showed that Cove suffered significant and irreparable brain damage related to her cord incident, and she couldn’t survive without the machines. Once we discontinued them, it would be a matter of hours.

I was numb. But… she wasn’t even mine. How much more heartbroken must her sweet mama and daddy be?

They agreed, selflessly, that she should feel warmth and love for the time they had with her. It hurt them indescribably to let her go. But they didn’t want her to suffer anymore. So all of those many lines, tubes, stickers, wires, and machines were disconnected, and we gave the family of three some privacy.

I checked on Cove and her parents every so often. I didn’t want to intrude on their private family time, but I also didn’t want them to feel alone or forgotten or scared. Sometimes when I went in, they were lying with her in bed. Sometimes holding her in a rocking chair, singing to her. I heard Spirit softly, brokenly sing “You Are My Sunshine” to Cove and my heart shattered.

After about eight hours of them creating the final memories they would ever have with their daughter, they called me to say that her breathing was changing. I walked slowly because I didn’t want it to be time yet.

Just after 3am on Monday, August 25, 2014, in the arms of her parents, Cove’s heart slowed to a stop and she quietly left us.

I asked Ben and Spirit if they needed more time with her. They thanked me and said that they were ready—or as ready as they could be—to let her go. They walked empty-handed down the hall, together, shoulders heavy, together, and again I noticed how these two were one, so deeply unified in their love for Cove Rose.

And then it was just me and her. My coworkers covered for me so I could take her to a designated bereavement room on the unit and close the door behind us. I sank into the couch and cradled her, working hard to commit every piece of her to my memory. Her face, now unobscured by wires and tubes and tapes, was serene. Her cheeks were soft and plump, with perfect little rosebud lips.

I was struck by how well her parents named her. When I think of a cove, I think of a small sheltered bay of water, away from the wind and the storms. A safe haven. Somewhere to be quiet and at peace.

Cove went from resting in the waters of the womb to resting on the water blanket in the NICU. She was quiet and calm her whole life. Her eternal innocence was like a shelter and a refuge. She was perfectly named.

I gently washed Cove’s body, combed her hair, and cut a small snip of fine baby hair for Ben and Spirit. I pressed her hands and feet into my palms and committed them to memory. I put a diaper on her and swaddled her in a soft white and purple blanket.

Then I dimmed the lights, snuggled her upright on my chest, and grieved. We stayed there together for over an hour. And then it was time to say farewell.

Time passed and my grief eased, never disappearing but gradually becoming less sharp. Every August 20, on my wedding anniversary, I think of Cove’s birthday. I remember our time alone together and think of who she would be if she was still here with us. So many little things make me think of her. Songs I listened to on the way to her memorial service. Roses. Calm bays of water. The Rocky Mountains. I miss her.

Before Cove, I’d cared for other babies at the end of their life but I can honestly say she was the first that I loved. The first to ignite in me a fierce protective instinct, the first who I thought off constantly, even when I was home between shifts. The first time I ever allowed myself to hope for a miracle for one of my patients was for Cove.

I named my business The Birth Cove because I wanted to convey a strong sense of peace, even stillness within stormy waters. The imagery around peace and stillness and “calm in the storm” is strongest for me when I think of Cove’s life and her gentle, dignified passing.

It’s my way of furthering her legacy because any time anyone asks me about my business name, I get to talk about her and how special she is to me. Cove Rose is, and will always be, inextricably woven throughout who I am as a nurse, a parent, a friend, and now an educator.

Special thanks to Ben and Spirit for letting me share my side of their story. I can never thank you enough for letting me be part of your journey.