Told by: Ashley

My amazingly supportive husband and I spent 41 weeks preparing for every aspect of our son’s arrival. We hired our birth doula at 12 weeks, read natural birth books, watched The Business of Being Born, made sure to have the best of the best for our little one when it came to car seats, etc. We customized Jackson’s nursery to be just perfect. We had dealt with the normal pregnancy “scares” including the glucose testing, ultrasounds to measure for size and NST when I was “overdue.” Jackson and I continued to prevail and stay healthy. I had predromal labor for a few days and had an office visit, NST and ultrasound just a few days before “real” labor started.

My husband and I had dinner on Friday, March 21 but on the way home my contractions became a little more intense. I was not too concerned because they were not regular. An hour passed and the once manageable contractions were more regular and definitely increasing in intensity. I labored for 6 more hours before finally believing I was in REAL labor. I was so excited! I was feeling Jackson move and I was remembering how active he had been at the NST that morning. He had kicked the sensor with such vigor at one time that it made my husband and I jump. Back to labor… Our doula arrived around 2:30am and assessed the situation. We tried different laboring positions, stayed hydrated and waited another hour before deciding we should go to the hospital. The labor pain was so intense in my lower back. I remember always hearing about how horrible “back labor” is and I was hoping Jackson was in a prime position and not spine-to-spine with me. After the 15 minute drive to the hospital, we were admitted to L&D and I was not having any breaks in the back pain at this point. I was happy that our doula suggested going again and changing into my Pretty Pushers gown while at home so we could get this show on the road as soon as we arrived. It seemed things were right on track.

The L&D nurse explained that I would be monitored for 20 minutes and then I could get up and move. She tried and tried to find Jackson’s heartbeat. She called in another nurse who also could not find his heartbeat. She then called in my on-call midwife with the ultrasound machine. The midwife then called in the physician who confirmed via ultrasound that our baby boy was not alive. The same perfectly healthy baby boy whose heartbeat his dad and I had heard less than 18 hours before. After realizing I was in shock, in pain and so confused with everything in the world, my plans of a natural birth were the furthest from my mind. I wanted to be NUMB. I immediately knew I couldn’t do this. Section me please. Luckily, my midwife and doula both talked sense into me and when I realized we were already at 5cm, I had to accept that I have to give birth to my sleeping baby boy. After 23 hours of labor, Jackson was born. I’ll never be able to put into words having to say hello and goodbye. I hope by sharing my story that I am on my way to healing.  Even several weeks postpartum it still seems like yesterday although every day does get a little brighter… especially when I think of my gorgeous baby boy looking down on me.

Told by: Uli

You may consider this a manual how to treat a mom who just lost a baby, who had a stillbirth, or you may just read it to share my personal pain. Please don’t ask me how I am doing. There is no good answer. I can try to smile (but mostly choke back tears) and say good or okay, but it’s a lie. I can be honest and say horrible, still choking back tears, but you really don’t want to hear that. No, I am not okay. I am in agony, I couldn’t have imagined 7 days ago. It hurts so bad. Crying doesn’t help, or maybe it does, but it doesn’t feel like it. I am hurting emotionally, my heart is empty, there is a huge hole. I am hurting physically, I just gave birth 7 days ago. My boobs hurt, my body hurts, my back hurts, my eyes are burning. I am sleep deprived. It’s exhausting to cry so much. If you did ask me how I am doing, don’t feel bad. I would have asked the exact same question before going through this. If you tell me you are sorry, I appreciate it. I am blessed by your kindness and support and prayers.

There is an elephant in the room, in any room I am in right now. The elephant is Maya. She will be with me always, but right now it’s a huge elephant I can’t ignore. I can pretend it’s not there; I can order toys for my sons, make a photo book because I have a free code, go to the store because they have a sale, but any moment that elephant can become front and center and I may cry. Not because of something you said or did, just because I am in pain. If you hug me, I appreciate it, I really do, but I may still cry. I want to talk about my daughter. I want to talk about how she was born, and how she died. I want to talk about how she looked, so tiny and perfect, and wonderfully made. I want to show people her picture. I want to share her birth story. I want to buy a locket so I can have her picture close to my heart. I want to hold her and never let go. I want to stop crying. I wish I knew her eye color. Linus thinks she had green eyes, which is very unlikely. He thinks we should have named her Wild Styles, like the girl from the Lego Movie. I want to finish her nursery. I want to never open the door to her room again. I don’t want to talk about her. I just want to ignore and deny this ever happened. I don’t want anybody to ever see her photos. I want 2015 to get here, to see if time really heals, because I can’t imagine. I hope time will heal. I want to rewind time and go back to March 18th and be happy and pregnant. If you ask me what I did last weekend, I might answer: “I ordered my daughter’s urn.” You don’t want to hear that answer. It’s not fair to you. I am blessed by wonderful nurses and a wonderful midwife. My midwife’s 9 year old son died last year. I can’t even fathom the pain she must be going through. I want to be there for my boys, every moment of the day. I want to spoil them. I want to buy legos for them. I want to put my everything into them, but I still have to be their mother, who disciplines them and tells them no when they ask for a second dessert, or if they misbehave. I am so blessed having two healthy boys. I am worried about my older son. He has wet his bed two nights in a row. He has been completely potty trained since age 3, including night time. I don’t know if it’s related to his baby sister dying, or staying up late playing with his legos. I am worried about my younger son. He doesn’t understand the permanence of death. He started bawling yesterday. He asked when his baby sister was coming home. I told him that she is not coming, and he just started crying. It broke my heart. I want to be strong for them, but also vulnerable for them.

They both say we can have another baby girl. It’s okay for them to say that. It helps them. It’s not okay for adults to say that to me. I am so blessed having my husband who is walking this journey with me. I wish I could help him more in his grief. I want my friends to ask me to go to the park for a playdate with the boys, but I think they are scared, because they realize I am not good company right now. I can’t participate in small talk. I am not fun to be around. I want to stay home and close the door and watch TV with the boys all day long. I am so blessed having a small group who cares for us. I dread checking the mail, because there may be another condolence letter. But I love reading every one of them, even if they make me cry. It’s not okay to tell me “it wasn’t meant to be.” What does that mean? I am blessed by my son’s wonderful preschool and the teachers there. They have been so kind. My house is a mess. But who cares if there are crumbs on the kitchen floor. I am blessed by wonderful co-workers who are willing to jump in and cover my class. I dread going back to school in a few weeks. What will I tell my students? I would love to get my hair cut. I have been meaning to get it cut for weeks now. But I can’t imagine making small talk with the hair dresser. I am feeding the kids sandwiches or chicken nuggets every day. And that’s okay for now. I would love it if people brought us food. But I am scared. If they get here, and my husband is not home, and they are kind to me, I will cry. If you ring the door bell, I may not answer. If you call, I may not answer. If you text or email, I may or may not answer. I am blessed. And I am in unbearable pain.

Told by: Halley Kim

Reprinted with permission

Blood.  As women we have a complex relationship with blood.  The sight of our red-stained underwear can elate us, relieve us, annoy us, embarrass us, disappoint us, or devastate us depending on our life stage and intentions.  The arrival of our period can bring the sweetest relief when we dread becoming pregnant.  Conversely, it can lower the cruelest blow when our efforts to conceive have not been successful and we deeply long for a child.  And somewhere in the middle of the spectrum, is the unfortunate experience of finding yourself ill-prepared for Aunt Flow in a public location…thank goodness for kind friends (or total strangers) who provide emergency tampons in such situations.

I have been thinking about blood a lot because I just had a terrifying, violent, and heartbreaking experience with my own blood. That sounds so hokey to say, that I “had an experience with my blood.”  But I did.  It was me and my blood.  Doing battle.  So much blood.  There was no one else.

My baby died.

Three words.  It only took me three words to tell you, friend, acquaintance, or stranger, what happened to me.  I wonder how many more words it will take to tell myself — the MAMA, the bearer of lost life — what happened.

11 weeks.  Saturday night.  Walgreens bathroom.  By myself.  Cabernet Sauvignon in the public toilet.  Doughnut-sized clots of tissue that just kept coming.  The sensation of birthing jellyfish.  Sticky red hands from trying to clean myself up, pulling red chunks out of my underwear.  Staring into the toilet and wondering how in the world I could possibly flush it (I did, after a long time and many tears).  Drips running down my legs and polka-dotting my feet.  Telling an employee there was a bloody mess in the bathroom.  Walking out of Walgreens in blood-stained jeans.

(Did you like it better when I had only said three words?  I liked it better when I was still pregnant).

The long drive home.  Uterine blood finding the blanket I had placed on the driver’s seat.  More gushes.  Briefly considering stopping at Chick-Fil-A for a chocolate milkshake because it no longer mattered if I ate healthy.  A moment later thinking I really wanted a stiff drink.  Waddling through the front door with that fuzzy blanket between my legs, crying out for my husband’s help.  Impossibly more blood in my own bathroom.  Getting out of those drenched clothes that are now clean but perhaps forever emotionally stained.  A wonderful and awful shower in which I watched maroon water, then red water, then golden-pink water circle the drain.  Having to get down on my knees in the shower because I felt myself getting lightheaded from blood loss.  The relief the water pressure brought to my lower back, so knotted and painful.  Orange juice and Girl Scout cookies to get some sugar in me.  Taking a few steps, falling on the bed; taking a few more, falling on the couch.  Pounding 800mg of Ibuprofen.  Popping in a Friends DVD to escape from reality.  Hot rice sock on my traumatized belly.  Eventually going to sleep with a towel over the top sheet in case the battlefield saw more bloodshed.

The next day.  Postpartum.  No baby.

How do you tell people what happened?  Literally, what words does one use?  “We lost the baby.”  “I had a miscarriage.”  “Our baby DIED.”  I’m saying all three.  It depends on the person, my emotional state in the moment, the particular threads of truth I’m choosing to grasp or deny.

We didn’t really LOSE our baby.  I know exactly where she is.  In the fucking Walgreens’ sewer system.  (I think this is the first time I’ve ever cursed on my blog; I try to generally avoid it.  But there’s just no other suitable adjective.  The degree of the offense demands the use of the word.  My baby is in a fucking sewer system).

I did have a miscarriage.  It’s technical, it’s medical, it’s emotionally-distant, it’s…cleaner.  Nicer.  It doesn’t make people feel uncomfortable.  But what happened to me was not clean.  It was not nice.

Our baby died.  The truth.  The awful, gut-wrenching, culturally-uncomfortable truth.  I had a baby living inside me.  She was roughly 11 weeks gestation.  She loved bacon and grapefruit.  She was going to be born in October, maybe on our wedding anniversary.  She was clearly a fighter and she was going to give Gabe a run for his money.  I was going to braid her hair and put it in pigtails.  I had already lovingly stroked the baby girl onsies at Target.  We had already nicknamed her Zuzu, and it suited her perfectly.  We decided this weekend to officially name her Susannah.

But now Zuzu is dead.  Susannah is dead.

The whole concept of having to “untell” the world is interesting.  It sucks, to be sure.  Was it foolish of me to announce my pregnancy on Facebook at 9 weeks?  Wouldn’t it be easier now if I didn’t have to tell literally hundreds of people that my baby died?  Yes, that would probably make this ever-so-slightly easier.  But I would still tell people.  I would still tell everyone I’m close to.  I would still need support.  My baby would still deserve to be acknowledged.  I still believe that there is no “safe” time to announce a pregnancy…babies can die later in pregnancy too…I’ve watched a 41-weeker die right before my eyes.  So, was it foolish?  No, no…I don’t think so.  But it is crummy to have to say “never mind” to so many people…and I totally understand the decision to wait longer to announce pregnancies.  (I will probably wait longer to Facebook-announce next time?  Then again I may not).  Are the odds of a positive outcome better after the first trimester?  Of course.  Is it wonderful to share the news of pregnancy quickly and hope for the best?  Yes it is.  And, generally, I’m an optimist.  I have many flaws, but one of my strengths is choosing hope.  So…having said all of that, here it is, Facebook friends.  The untelling.  I’m not pregnant anymore.  It blows.

I’m still processing how much blood I lost.  My nurse brain is guessing it was 350mL.  However, I noticed that my shampoo bottle reads “500mL” so now my mom brain is positive I lost gallons and buckets and barrels full.  My hemoglobin dropped from 13.5 to 9.9 in a day.  Ouch.  I’m taking Floradix (liquid iron).  I actually think it tastes really good.

It’s odd how “knowing” a fair amount about miscarriage/baby loss has not been helpful at all thus far.  I know this is not my fault.  I know this is not my fault.  I know this is not my fault.  But I’m still thinking about the glasses of wine I drank, the essential oils I used, the lovely massage I had before knowing I was pregnant.  I’m still analyzing my diet like a psycho, knowing there should have been more green and less chocolate.  I’m still thinking about the times Gabe kicked/poked/prodded my belly.  Perhaps it’s just human nature to question.  Or my nature.  But I am questioning…despite mostly knowing the answers to the questions.  The answers do not satisfy.  The answers do not bring my baby back.

I have felt guilty about not wanting to be pregnant when I first learned I was carrying this baby.  I have felt stupid about fretting over having children 22 months apart.  Now that Susannah is gone, I want her more than ever.  I wouldn’t care that it would be challenging.  I wouldn’t even care if my milk supply for Gabe dried up while awaiting Zuzu’s arrival (a possibility I wept bitter tears over during the first few weeks of pregnancy).  I wouldn’t care at all that this wasn’t the “preferred spacing” I had desired for my children.  How incredibly dumb that sounds now.  On this side.  The other side of death.  Susannah was a perfect blessing from the Lord, and no amount of potential parenting hardship makes it worth her death.

March 15, 2014 is Susannah’s birthday.  And her death day.  Conceived 1-12-14.  Born/died 3-15-14.  Her due date was 10-05-14.  (I was guessing she’d greet us sometime after the 10th, which is why I was giving everyone the “mid October” line).

Don’t you think Susannah is such a beautiful name?  It means “lily.”  I’ve also seen it translated as “gentle.”  It’s a name that everyone knows but surprisingly hardly anyone uses.  It is also a New Testament name; Susanna was the name of a woman who provided for Jesus out of her own resources (Luke 8).  William Shakespeare also chose the name for his daughter, which is kind of cool.  I can’t really imagine a half-Asian girl having freckles, but I think Susannah would have had freckles.  If you’ve never heard the James Taylor version of “Oh Susanna,” it’s worth a YouTube visit.

And Zuzu?  I picked that up from the classic Christmas movie It’s a Wonderful Life.  George Bailey’s daughter’s name is Zuzu (nickname for Susan in her case, I believe).  She’s the one who gives her dad the flower petals that he puts in his pocket and discovers after his experience of seeing what the world would have been like without him, letting him know that he has returned to reality: “Zuzu’s petals!”  We think Zuzu is just the most precious nickname ever.  

Of course, at 11 weeks gestation, we don’t know for sure that our baby was a girl.  And sadly, I was not able to recover her body during the miscarriage.  But I had a very strong sense that she was a girl, and if there’s any truth to Shettles Method, she was very likely to be a girl (that little swimmer camped out for 5 days!).  She’s a girl in our hearts.  That’s all that matters.

This is the first time in my life I have ever lost a member of my family.  Ever.  My maternal grandmother is 93 and pretty healthy, and my three other grandparents died before I was born or while I was too young to remember.  This is the first time I have ever lost someone who was very close to me.   And this someone died INSIDE OF ME.  It’s hard not to feel like a hospice bed, an accident scene, a graveyard.

I didn’t have much time to get to know her.  She was only 11 weeks gestation, and I had only known I was pregnant for 7 weeks.  I never heard her heartbeat or felt her kick.  But as all mamas know, there is no intimacy like that which you share with the child growing within you.  And it happens FAST.  Part of me is grateful(?) I never heard her heartbeat or felt her kicks, because surely that would make the ache worse.  But I’m also saddened that I didn’t get those opportunities; that I wasn’t able to share those moments with Zuzu.

I saw a pregnant women at the mall yesterday.  She looked like she was about 36 weeks, absolutely bursting with life.  I felt so empty.  I wanted to tell her that had been pregnant too, just a few days ago.  I looked around the crowded food court and wondered how many other women had also just been pregnant.  And how no one knew.

It’s amazing to me how much I want to get pregnant again.  Not right away; that would not be wise emotionally or physically.  But sooner rather than later.  Maybe this summer or fall.  Not to replace Susannah.  It’s not like that.  I just want more than anything to hold a squishy newborn in my arms — MY newborn.  I spent a lot of my pregnancy with Susannah complaining about all the hard things that come with having a new baby: the colic, the sleep deprivation, the 3am poopy diapers.  Now that Susannah has died, when I think about having a newborn, all I think about, all I YEARN for, are the sweet things.  The milk drunk faces.  The intoxicating smell.  The amazing snuggles.

As I sit here in this coffeehouse and type out this post, my eyes are filling with tears.  I will never know Susannah’s milk drunk face.  I will never know her intoxicating smell.  I will never be able to snuggle with her.  I will never hold her.  Ever.

I want her back.  I want her back.  Dammit I want her back!

I just went back and reread everything I’ve typed so far…this is raw and ugly and depressing.  Potentially traumatizing even (a warning will be included when I publish).  But I don’t want to make it pretty because it’s not pretty.  I want to make it real.  I want someone else out there to read it and feel less alone.  Someone else who was pregnant before and is not now.  Someone who once stood where I’m standing, or who is standing with me now.  I need validation.  I’d love to offer it to others as well.  Suddenly I’m in this huge club that no one wants to be in…surely there are other members who can find healing in my wounds, and surely I can find healing in the aches of others.  If that happens, it’s worth writing ugly things.

During the horror at Walgreens, I instinctively and furiously collected what I could of Zuzu’s remains.  I dumped out the contents of my Walgreens bag (my prescription for progesterone injections — talk about irony) and put the big clots in there that I could find in my underwear and pants legs.  So much landed in the toilet however…I looked into the bowl helplessly, and for a second considered going fishing.  I didn’t, figuring it would only intensify the trauma (and be totally disgusting).  But I hated that I could not find my baby in the sea of blood.  I took that Walgreens bag home with me, full of clots, full of Zuzu.  It’s double-bagged and in my freezer now.  We are planning on burying Zuzu somewhere special and marking her grave in a meaningful way.

Simon and I are so deeply blessed to be surrounded by such a loving community and the spontaneous outpouring of support we have received has been wonderful.  We’ve received 4 meals in 5 days, along with numerous flowers, cards, snacks, babysitting offers, texts, and voicemails.  My mom spent the morning after with me when I didn’t have the strength to run after Gabe — being my personal nurse in addition to being on toddler duty.  My coworkers at the birth center are covering my call shifts so that I can have a mental health break from being around pregnancy/birth/babies.    It’s really great being surrounded by people who understand that this is not just the loss of a pregnancy, but the loss of a child.  We are feeling very loved in the midst of our pain.

Today is Wednesday.  It’s a normal day for the world around me.  It’s a normal day in many ways for me too.  It feels terrible that it could be normal.  And simultaneously I am grateful for any amount of normalcy I can cling to.  My precious son Gabriel is running around the house, smiling as big as ever, having no idea he had a baby sister or that she died.  I have kissed him over and over and over the past few days.  Suddenly I am struck anew with how precious and finite his life is.  He is a gift and he is mine and he didn’t have to be.  So Simon and I just keep kissing him.  Thanks to Gabe, the last four days have included smiles and laughter.

My mother purchased a small stuffed animal, a giraffe, for Zuzu just a few days before my miscarriage.  She gave it to me on Sunday morning and we cried together.  I have barely let go of that little giraffe since.  I have slept with her every night, tucked her right between Simon and me.  In some way…it’s like Zuzu is still with us.

Told by: Kayla

My second pregnancy started just the same as first. The morning sickness reared it’s ugly head, and I knew. My husband was so excited, as was I. We chose a midwife in a free standing birth center, and couldn’t have been happier with our choice. We were right on schedule to have a baby girl February 5th, 2014. Every appointment we had she sounded healthy. Our excitement grew as her due date came closer and closer. The 40 week mark came and went, but we didn’t mind. I woke up on Valentine’s day feeling pretty crummy, I was 41+3. I knew she was coming soon! I called my husband at work and asked him if he would come to the appointment today because I knew I would need his help with our 18 month old son. We had an extensive visit with our midwives about the upcoming birthing day, how I felt, and let them know I expected her within 24 hours. She checked for position (she FINALLY rolled over into the right one) and heart beat. All was well and we left with the confidence that we would have our daughter soon! We spent the night in and relaxed as much as we could, and I went to bed around 8pm so I could get some extra rest. When I woke up at 4am with contractions, I was glad I’d done that. I knew this was just the beginning. I continued to have minor contractions and sleep through the breaks for another 5 hours. At this point they were only about 8 minutes apart, then tapered off to 15. I decided that a warm bath might do me some good, so with my husband sitting on the floor of the bathroom I labored about a half hour in there. I hadn’t been paying attention to the timing of my contractions much, but my hubby was. After a pretty hard one he looked at me white faced and said “We need to get you out of here and dressed. I’m calling the midwife.”  Our midwife agreed and said that she would meet us at the birth center in about 15 minutes. I got out of the tub and sat on the couch while my husband grabbed my clothes. In the time between the bath and reaching the couch I was in transition. By the time I was dressed and in the truck I was having contractions back to back and pushing against my own will. The 10 minute drive to the birth center was the most excruciating car ride I’ve ever been on. I remember trying to hide the fact that I was pushing from my already freaked out husband. When we arrived at the birth center the assistant midwife was trying to get my vitals as well as a fetal heart beat. After a few minutes of not finding it, they called an ambulance to transfer me to the hospital. When they loaded me up with my husband and midwife I remember looking at the clock and reading 1:13 pm. Luckily for us the hospital is right across the street from the birth center. They quickly whisked us into a room and desperately tried to find an OB close by. The nurses were setting up the warming bed and various other baby equipment, and I remember my husband saying “Uhh, guys, there’s a head. Can someone help us?” My midwife, with no hospital rights, jumped in and delivered my daughter. Audrey Elizabeth was stillborn at 1:18pm on February 16th weighing 6 pounds 11 ounces. She was loved incredibly, in all of her beauty. While we’re trying to cope we go on in our daily lives, simply missing something that should be there. We’ve prayed fervently for peace, but it just hasn’t seemed to come to us yet. Some day I know that it will. For all of you struggling with loss, know that it will come for you as well.

Told by: Taylor

My husband, Jack, was traveling on business the day my dear sister-in-law, Semmelle, and I excitedly walked into my OB’s office for my 36 week appointment. She had never been to an ultra sound before, and I was so excited to show her a sneak peak of her new nephew. I met her at my mother’s that afternoon, where relatives were still visiting after throwing me a beautiful baby shower that weekend before. My cousins and I had stayed up until late the night of the shower unpacking gifts, laundering tiny clothes, and decorating the nursery while we ate chocolate cake, giggling like little girls. Caleb was the first grandchild in both Jack’s and my side.

After years of my fighting an extreme case of bipolar disorder and wondering if I would ever be well enough to bear my own children, we felt the world was celebrating with us as we prepared to welcome our victory child. At first, they couldn’t find the heartbeat in the exam room. I became furious with the nurse, assuming she was inept. They brought in another nurse, and she, too, could not find the heartbeat. My OBGYN was called in. We were rushed to the ultrasound room as my OBGYN shouted orders to her receptionist to call her nanny and tell her she’d be late.

I didn’t realize that anything could be that wrong until I heard the ultrasound tech gasp. “What?!” I screamed. “THERE’S NO HEARTBEAT.” As I write this today—years later—I still cry. I remember begging them to do an emergency c-section, kicking and screaming like a three year old, my sister’s face covered in agony. I remember leaving, with my dead baby still inside me, Semmelle driving me back to my parents’. I remember calling my husband’s family, knowing that Jack was somewhere in an airplane still believing that our baby would be born and live, knowing that I would have to be the one to tell him we were living a horror I had never even thought to imagine. Shock makes some people crazy. Shock makes me sane, and I am able to see what is necessary and what is not. I am able to function and choose. I am able to get on the phone with my husband, while he is sitting on the airplane, and tell him his first son will be born dead. I am able to do that because he needs to stay on that plane and come home to me. I laid in my parents’ bed and waited, as well meaning, shocked relatives came in one at a time to tell me they loved me and rub my belly as they had done so many times throughout my pregnancy. I laid in bed and prayed the Our Father and the Hail Mary over and over, because they were the only prayers that I could muster.

I asked my mother if she thought I was unlucky. If I was cursed? I prayed Jack home to me, praying that he, too, would not be taken from me. Jack’s father greeted him at the airport and drove him to my parents’ home. He burst up the stairs to hold me in his arms, and we didn’t care who watched. We wretched. We held each other all night, knowing this will be the last night we would spend alone with Caleb. We took a shower the next morning with my big pregnant belly and wept for the child we already loved so much. We gathered up every ounce of courage we had, and we made our way to the hospital. We had just toured the birthing center in our Labor and delivery class, so we knew right where to go. Our bag had already been packed, just in case Caleb had decided to come early. For me, before having children, labor and delivery seemed like a black hole that I would enter, having no idea how I would make my way out the other side. I was afraid of the pain, afraid of the risks involved, afraid that I might die. I had never considered that my child who had been checked and rechecked thoroughly throughout my pregnancy–and was certified healthy–could die. And I never dreamed what it could be like to face all of the fears of my first childbirth knowing that I would have to endure it all and leave the hospital without my child. It was a day. An entire, 24-hour day. I was heavily drugged, as I had requested, with an epidural that left me entirely numb and very groggy. I spent the day with loved ones hovering over me when I opened my eyes, and kneeling next to Mary at the foot of Jesus’ cross every time I closed my eyes. In both realities, I was in extreme pain, but with my eyes closed I was in the company of Jesus’ Mother. As He suffered, She suffered, and they both held me in my suffering. That day, as I lay in that hospital bed, I felt the most intense love being poured out upon me, into me by pure Mother love. In Her suffering, she begat love for Me, born of physical and spiritual travail. It entered my laboring heart and flooded my chest cavity. This love rested upon me for weeks, as I bore the physical pains of just giving birth without the joy of my baby to help me forget them. Caleb Joshua was born at 6:27 pm on Wednesday, March 19th, 2008, in the middle of Holy Week. Time stretched before me like never before. There would be too many tomorrows without him in which I would be forced to dwell. Now was the only time to not fall asleep with exhaustion or miss one small dimple. Now was the time to make up for a lifetime of loves and hugs, kisses, baths, and songs. Those few hours would be the only ones I would ever spend with my son’s physical form, and I knew that it would most likely be a very long time until we would again be face to face. He was baptized by our beloved Father Ed and Deacon Bill. I bathed him, undaunted by his already decomposing form, and dressed him in his going home outfit. We took many pictures, but not enough.

Our parents held him, and we held him and held him. Time stood for me. And then, I looked at Caleb’s eyes and they were crying blood. We knew it was time. I gave the nurse my baby, and she brought me back the outfit I had him dressed in. They wheeled me out that night on because I refused to stay the night in a hospital without my baby. I howled crying from my room to the car, where Jack laid in the back seat next to me until I passed out from exhaustion. I woke up the next morning early in the guest bedroom at my parents’ house. I woke up without Caleb and started to wretch again. My sobs woke Jack up, and the two of us laid in bed and cried ourselves back to sleep . . . We did everything we could for our son in the days following his silent birth. I went to the funeral home and picked out his casket, his burial plot. I went to the children’s boutique and bought him his final “going home” outfit. When the sales lady asked if it was a going home outfit, I doubled over in sobs. My mother then went ahead of me into every store we entered and told them what was going on and to please leave me alone. I bought myself a hot pink dress to wear to his funeral, and his father a bright orange tie. It was Easter week; we refused to wear black. We laid Caleb to rest the Tuesday after Easter, surrounded by loved ones all dressed in their best Easter clothes. Our siblings–his aunts and uncles–carried his casket down the middle aisle of our church while Jack and I walked hand in hand behind them. We celebrated his life, as well as the unending life he was already living in heaven. We have spent the time since Caleb’s death trying to move on. We have had two more beautiful sons and live as joyfully as we are able. But the love for our first born son never fades, and my yearning for him has created a deep hole in my heart that is only satiated by my relationship with Jesus. Certainly, the shock and the intense pain has subsided. What is left is an ache–deep and unyielding–gnawing in the back ground of a beautiful life. I still hang his stocking at Christmas, and his birth certificate will forever be displayed in our hallway upstairs with the tiny prints of his perfect feet. We celebrate his birthday every year by going on a “Caleb adventure,” with his brothers.

We look forward to heaven more than ever before, but know our little Lebanite Warrior is in Good Hands, exploring the Promised Land, until we meet again. AMDG