Six Months

One month and it still feels like a nightmare.

I see two boys in the grocery cart together and I think about what could have been.

Two months and there are still moments of disbelief

A pregnant woman passes by and I am jealous of her ignorant joy.

Three months and my body finally quit producing milk.

I hear the wind howling in our apartment and it sounds like a newborn cry.

Four months and the anniversaries begin.

One year ago we just found out we were expecting him.

Five months and time has raced passed us.

I hold a newborn for the first time and my heart sighs sadness.

Six months and I still encounter people who haven't heard.

We would be figuring out personality, favorite foods.

This is a long road.  Sometimes, trudging along is the only thing to do.

One

Its the question I dread the most.  And I am lying every time I answer it.  

Small talk with strangers often leads to this place.  And strangers don't want the real truth.  They want the easy answer.  

So I lie.  One.  I have one son.  

My heart aches every time I say it.  My body is conflicting itself.  My mouth says something my heart knows isn't true.  

My finger wears two rings - one for each of my sons.  

I have cradled in my womb, two sons.  

Yet the world will know one.  

Both of my sons lives are meaningful and important.  

Yet, somehow one of theirs is tucked away, hidden. 

Sorrow & Joy

Sorrow was beautiful, but her beauty was the beauty of the moonlight shining through the leafy branches of the trees in the wood, and making little pools of silver here and there in the soft green moss below.

When Sorrow sang, her notes were like the low sweet call of the nightingale, and in her eyes was the unexpectant gaze of one who has ceased to look for coming gladness.  She could weep in tender sympathy with those who weep, but to rejoice with those who rejoice was unknown to her.

Joy was beautiful, too, but his beauty was the radiant beauty of the summer morning.  His eyes still held the glad laughter of childhood, and his hair had the glint of the sunshine’s kiss.  When Joy sang his voice board upward as the lark’s, and his step was the step of a conqueror who has never known defeat.  He could rejoice with all who rejoice, but to weep with those who week was unknown to him.

“But we can never be united,” said Sorrow wistfully.

“No, never.” And Joy’s eyes shadowed as he spoke. “My path lies through the sunlit meadows, the sweetest roses bloom for my gathering, and the blackbirds and thrushes await my coming to pour forth their most joyous lays.”

“My path, “ said Sorrow, turning slowly away, “leads through the darkening woods; with the moonflowers only shall my hands be filled.  Yet the sweetest of all earth songs — the love song of the night — shall be mine; farewell, Joy, farewell.”

Even as she spoke they became conscious of a form standing beside them; dimly seen, but of Kingly Presence, and a great and holy awe stole over them as they sank on their knees before Him.

“I see Him as the King of Joy,” whispered Sorrow, “for on His head are many crowns, and the nail prints in His hand and feet are the scars of a great victory.  Before Him all my sorrow is melting away into deathless love and gladness, and I give myself to Him forever.”

“Nay, Sorrow,” said Joy softly, “but I see Him as the King of Sorrow, and the crown on His head is a crown of thorns, and the nail prints in His hands and feet are the scars of great agony.  I too, give myself to Him forever, for sorrow with Him must be sweeter than any joy I have ever known.” 

“Then we are one in Him,” they cried in gladness, “for none but He could unite Joy and Sorrow.”

Hand in hand they passed out into the world to follow Him through storm and sunshine, in the bleakness of winter cold and the warmth of summer gladness, as sorrowful yet always rejoicing.”

Mrs. Charles E. Cowman, Streams in the Desert

Buttons

Sifting through the small drawers quickly, I didn't anticipate the outcome.  We found hundreds of buttons, spanning many decades, worn by many family members.  

As we sifted and sorted, questions, stories and speculations arose from both of us.  We took our time, examining each piece and digging into each story.  

Finishing our surprising treasure hunt, I was struck.  I breezed through these same drawers with no intention of digging deeper.  Yet the time spent looking, talking, wondering and exploring was meaningful and surprising. 

Sometimes you don't know the value of something until you hear it's history. 

The life I want to lead is one where I dig deeper.  To look at people with the same intention, to find out their history, sit with them in the present and look into the future with hope.  

Helicopter

You know that mom at the park who follows her son too closely for him to have freedom of play?  Or that mom who calls after her son with such strain in her voice to please be careful?  

That's me.  

At least, that's me now.  

And while you may watch how I interact with my son and use words like, hover or helicopter, please know something: I used to be like you. 

I could sit on the bench and joyfully watch him play in freedom.  I could let him climb and explore without cringing and let him see for himself what his limits were.  We would interact with ease and trust. 

And we were happy in this place.  

For him to come to me with questions, or hurts and for me to trust his self-discovery and play.  

But we lost that simple innocence.  

And now I am that mom.  Terrified that something preventable will happen, I am on edge, always anticipating.  I want to regain that place, for him and for me. 

But when you have lost something so small, so precious, without reason, what else do you do but hold on tighter to what you already have?  

Lost & Gained

What we lost cannot be measured.  

We lost hopes and expectations, dreams and visions.  

We lost a son.  

My son lost a brother.  

We, as a family, lost.  

I sit and wonder still, what if.  And it takes me into a nothing place.  I can't allow myself into that hollow place where the only answers are my own echoes.  

And so the table turns.  It turns from losing to gaining.  

We lost, but he gained. And what he gained?  Also, unmeasurable.  

For we do not grieve as those who have no hope.  We grieve, oh we grieve. But we remember hope.  

The rainbow does not take away the outcome of the storm, The rain, the wind, the lightening and thunder, they all still came.  

But then came the rainbow.  

So too with hope.  The pain, the sadness, the grief and sorrow, they all still came. But then came the hope.  

Seven Words

She invalidated my suffering in seven words- 'oh well, there will be another one'.  How could I respond? 

She didn't need to know how agonizing that decision is already. She didn't need to hear all the thoughts that swirl around as we consider another one. She didn't need to be told how scary it would be to wait through another 40 weeks waiting to see if it would end differently. 

Because someone who can make suffering trite wouldn't understand the complexities of the next step. You cannot label tragedy with 'oh well’.  Nor can you expect me to move on as if his nine months were inconsequential. 

Every next time will be overshadowed with grief and clouded with angst.  There’s more below the surface of ‘oh well’.  

Voices

She cupped my cheeks in her hands and spoke with insistence.  I was listening but it wasn't just her voice that I heard.  The reality of what she was saying was swirling around with words of doubt, shock and disbelief.

I couldn't make sense of what I was hearing.

"There is nothing you could've done to prevent this" was mixed with "just wake yourself", "this will all be made right" and "they are all wrong". But in fact, hers was the only truth being spoken.  And hers is a hard truth to believe.   I clung to the thought that this was all a terrible lie.

If nothing was wrong, why did it all go wrong?

"There is nothing you could've done to prevent this" isn't much comfort when nothing makes sense.  But it does provide relief from the consuming power of 'what if'.

Failure

My body has failed me twice.

The word c-section tasted foul in my mouth.  I was ashamed to say it, every time.  It stung every time I heard accolades for women who succeeded to do it the right way, the natural way.

Yet the right way is bitter too.  To succeed and still come out losing. I felt empowered and devastated at the same time.  A simultaneous high and low.  A confliction of heart.

And now, no confliction, just sadness.  For even though my arms are empty, my breasts are full, ready to provide nourishment to my babe who never took a breath.  I am leaking, milk, tears and sadness.

My whole body reminds me of loss.  From the soft stretchy skin, to the tenderness after tearing, these are the daily reminders of what didn't happen.

My firstborn is healthy, so I am thankful, despite the backstory.  And my second born is with Jesus, so I trust, despite the circumstance.

The Story

To say I had an inkling would be inaccurate.  I had a sinking feeling I was desperately trying to push aside.  

The day before had been perfect.  One of those days where time stands still and you are able to cherish the sweet moment you are right in the middle of.  Perfection.  We had decided a family day for the three of us was in order.  Being 39 weeks, there may not be much time for memory making days so we made the most out of it.  To the park, duck and goose pond and a ride on a steam train.  Playing, walking, laughing and cherishing.  Perfection.  

Then the unthinkable.  

Waking at 5 had become a normal occurrence. The thought that popped into my head, however, was not.  Baby hasn't moved in a while.  I pushed it aside in my tired state and told myself yesterday was a busy day.  I fell into a fitful sleep and the first thought when I woke was the same.  Baby hasn't moved in a while.   I suddenly wasn't so sleepy anymore.  I walked around, pushed my belly and laid on my left side, all the while pleading for movement. 

Nothing.  

I confessed my thoughts to Jonnie.  We stared at each other in silence for a moment.  I tried more to make movement come.  Nothing.  Starting to panic, I started researching and trying to placate the wild thoughts as they flooded in.  I called the doctor.  No answer.  Jonnie called my nurse practitioner. I was to come in right now.  We quickly left, still clinging to the hope that baby was just really tired.  The nurse practitioner struggled while I lay there.  She consulted a doctor and wished me the best after she confessed she couldn't find the heartbeat.  A heavy weight found its way onto my shoulders.  How could this be? She must be wrong.  She couldn't find it once before.  Surely, it was the same this time.  

We called our friends to drop our son off and started the drive into the city.  This was really happening.  We texted family.  I couldn't hold it in any longer.  I sobbed and pleaded for something other than what we were dreading. 

Rushed into the triage area the nurse hooked me up right away.  She struggled and wouldn't make eye contact.  She called the attending doctor.  She too struggled and called her supervisor.  She also struggled and confessed none of them had found any sign of a heartbeat.  The ultrasound machine and technician were brought in and confirmed the worst.  No heartbeat.  How could this be? Could they all be wrong? They must be.  I had a healthy pregnancy, textbook everything. Baby grew healthy.  This shouldn't be happening.  

We were left to soak in the news.  We sobbed into each other's arms in shock and disbelief.  This made no sense.  When we were ready to hear how to proceed, the staff returned to our room, somber.  They must have been privy to our sobs and cries of distress.  Next steps were discussed and yet I still pleaded for them to all be wrong.  Surely God was going to do something huge to show His power.  Surely this was a test like Abrahams and God would provide in the eleventh hour.  

Sent home to wait for a call, we wandered, aimless.  Family texting, calling, arranging flights, this was not how it was to happen.  Overwhelmed with confusion, the night was quiet and long.  Sleep was hard to come by, and every time I woke, I hoped beyond reason it would've all been a terrible nightmare. And yet, I still got the call. This was indeed reality.  

Dressed in baggy clothes to hide the belly that now housed my no longer living child, we went back to the hospital.  IV, drugs, procedures all being taken care of while I mindlessly watch it happen.  I try and rest.  We talk a bit about a funeral.  We walk around.  I try to rest.  We talk on and off, but things are hard to discuss all at once.  Pain meds are requested as things are slowly progressing.  I am no hero. I want to feel nothing.  I don't get the prize at the end. Our pastor comes, prays, distracts and comforts.  He leaves, we try and rest.  I wake, pain intense.  The nurse is called, my nurse is on break. The relief nurse says the baby is getting into position and that's why it's painful.  I sob quietly because she isn't aware.  

Pain is in full force and my nurse comes back.  She checks and I am transitioning.  From 3 cm to 10 in just a few short hours.  I was not prepared for this.  I start to sob and cry that I am scared.  I am coached on how to push and encouraged that I can do this.  I am scared.  I haven't done it before and finishing means knowing that everyone was right and I still desperately pray they are wrong.  

I push with all that I have, knowing that this is how it has to be.  Not too much later I hear talk of the head emerging.  Then the shoulders.  A couple more pushes and the baby is out.  

Our baby boy.  Levi Isaak.  

I feel empowered, I did it! And I feel crushed.  They were right.  There was no cry from Levi.  Just silence. He is placed on my chest and I hold him close.  His body is there, but his soul is not.  He is beautiful, but lifeless.  I am devastated.  Wasn't God going to surprise everyone? 

He is taken away to be wrapped and I finish pushing and am sewed up.  I still feel high after delivery, yet it is mixed with an incredible sorrow. I was never aware how much you could love someone you never had the chance to meet. 

We take turns holding our sweet boy and talking about who he looks like.  We cry and pray, still confused, but full of peace.  We were devastated, yet calm.  A stillness was covering our room. Jesus, who was already holding my little guy, was also present in the room with us. Showering us with peace and grace and quiet.  

A holy moment as we said our final goodbyes to the son we never met.