“We need to get that debris out of there.”

After I gave birth at home to my tiny but perfectly formed miscarried baby, those words still make me recoil.  It didn’t matter how amazing I thought the hospital was or how well they worked with my birth plans for my other children.  After their response to my loss, I was never going back.

{important fact: not everyone’s response to our loss is equal.}

About three months later, when I was about 10 weeks pregnant with my “subsequent/rainbow” pregnancy, I supported a client delivering at New Birth Company, a brand new local birth center.  It was so brand new, in fact, that most of the building was still under construction.  I fell in love immediately anyway – it was exactly what I had envisioned of a birth center.  I worked alongside an amazing midwife, and the lovely birth that the mama had just solidified my desires for me.   Then, after the mama’s birth, the midwife said that she wanted to find my baby’s heartbeat!  What a tremendous surprise and wonderful blessing!  I came home to tell my husband not only how amazing the birth went for the mama, but that I got to hear our baby’s heartbeat!  I told him that I definately wanted to birth there.

{important fact: not all birth centers are created equal.  Neither is every midwife.}

But, they didn’t take my insurance.

So, my children’s pediatrician recommended his friend, an OB.  Both are Christian, and I fully trust (and adore) my pediatrician, so I felt confident in the switch.

The first couple of months of the pregnancy were wrought with complicated feelings, as I explained in Irish Twins.  I really enjoyed the OB, and we discussed many of the feelings associated with subsequent pregnancy after loss, and it was nice to be open about my Christian faith and how it plays a part in my life, my pregnancy, and my healing.

At my 12 week appointment – the same week my miscarried baby died – the nurse couldn’t find a heartbeat.  I looked at my husband and the tears, oh the tears, they just spilled out as I gasped for air.

 Not again, Lord.  Please, please, please, not again.

So, I walked the long hallway, clutching my middle, praying and clinging to hope, as I was led to the ultrasound room.  Paper gown tucked, warm gel applied, and…..

…..swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh…..

…the beautiful sound of a perfect, tiny heart beating!  The ultrasound technician told us we were having a girl, but my husband quickly laughed it off.  I didn’t.  I was so overwhelmed with joy at the site of that beautiful, swishing heartbeat, and in the back of my mind, the thoughts, the wondering, of which gender my baby was, just made it all even more wonderful.

Just around the same time as we celebrated and mourned the due date of our fourth baby (November 2011), we also found out the gender of this one, our fifth baby.  The ultrasound appointment was uneventful which was a tremendous blessing.  Finally, the ultrasound technician printed out the photo that revealed the gender, placed it in an envelope, and handed it to my husband.  Then, we left.

My husband dropped me off at home, where my mother in law was spending time with our crew of kiddos.  He left and headed to the local baby store, where he opened up the envelope to discover the gender.  He laughed later and told me that he read it several times, making sure he didn’t get it wrong.

He selected some gender-specific items along with a green and yellow gift bag.  He came home and placed the bag in front of me…

…I pulled off the yellow tissue paper, and asked my oldest son what color he saw…

…and he exclaimed…

“PINK!!”

I was elated!  I screamed, and my one year old started crying, poor guy.  With three little John Wayne’s in the house, it was the first time we’d ever had pink!

Several weeks later, I submitted my birth plan with one of the OBs.  I am used to advocating for myself and helping my clients do the same, but I wondered how things would go at this particular hospital.

At 36 weeks, I began having prodromal labor.  I never did have sporatic Braxton-Hicks contractions with this pregnancy, but instead had series of contractions for several hours at a time.

I posted a little about this on Facebook.  The midwife from New Birth Company posted a reply,

“I wish you were delivering here with us!”

Oh, how I wished too!  I told her that I would, but that they don’t take my insurance.  She replied, “Yes we do!” and that was it.

I switched providers at 37 weeks.

I had a 37 week appointment with the OBs early in the morning.  I kept the appointment, and ironically, of all days, that was the day that one of them went over my birth plan with me.  She pulled it out of her papers: printed on pretty pastel paper, written in a pretty font, was my plan.  It had my name, my husband’s name, and my daughters name at the top, a scripture in the middle, and a few “wishes” at the bottom.

“And she said, ‘With the help of the Lord I have brought forth a child.'”

Now, however, my birth plan had marks written all over it.  Arrows, question marks, and conversations between doctors littered my few wishes.  The OB began to explain to me that I could have something close to my birth wishes if I were to deliver between 9am and 5pm, but if my labor starts going past 8pm and she has to start waking people up to come support me, she would become more aggressive in moving my labor along.

I have worked with the most high-risk hospitals in my area, and worked with the strictest policies and most rigid medical practices to bring my clients a comfortable blend of safety, interventions when necessary, but also comfort and joyful memories.  I had never encountered such a rigid interpretation of birth wishes before.

I asked if I could have my birth plan back, so that I could revise it.  She told me that I could not have it back.

{important fact: not every hospital is created equal.  Neither is every OB.}

A couple of hours later, I had my first midwife appointment.

She and I agreed that we were not expecting it to be very much longer before my daughter would be born.

I continued to have bouts of prodromal labor.

April 19 came, and I had another midwife appointment – it wasn’t planned this way, but it sure was a blessing.  April 19 was my miscarried son’s first stillbirthday.  In the midst of grief and joy, I was able to be surrounded by people who knew the situation intimately, who were the first to find my daughter’s heartbeat, and who understood the mix of my emotions.  And, I got to hear her heart beating again.  Of all days, it was very encouraging.

…..swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, swoosh….

What a beautiful sound.  After the appointment, I spent time at the cemetary.  It was the right place to be: sitting, crying, chatting, praying.  I needed to be there.  Processing.

April 20, her “due date” came and went.  I was still pregnant.

On the morning of April 24, I woke up to a deep, clear voice that penetrated right down to the center of my soul:

“My peace I give you, not as the world gives.”

The contractions felt pretty regular, but I had had enough prodromal labor that I didn’t keep track of their frequency.  They were definately manageable.  I logged online, and found an issue that I attempted to help resolve, while I supposed the contractions began to increase in intensity.  I held onto the message I received that morning, and just figured that God was speaking comfort to me to let me know that I can give as much as I can to resolving the issue, but that ultimately, it would be Him, in His timing, that would show the answers for anyone who took a little time to look for them.  As the issue only seemed to escalate, I logged offline and remembered that God was speaking peace into my heart.  Ironically, somebody sent me a message just that morning saying that she had a dream the night before that I would be online trying to resolve a conflict while in labor.  And, that’s exactly what happened.

At about 4:30pm my husband pointed out that the contractions hadn’t yet subsided as they had before, and he wanted to call the babysitter.  I wasn’t ready to leave yet, so I procrastinated.  The sitters came at about 5:15, and my husband was very eager to get me out the door.  I stalled, and he started to raise his voice.  I raised mine right back, and he said, “Honey, I’m just excited!  Now, let’s go!”

{important fact: even if you are sure of what is going on in your own labor, you can be wrong.  And, of course, not every husband is created equal, either.  Mine happens to be pretty amazing.}

I called the photographer.

The contractions were 10 minutes apart.

In the car, the next contraction was 9 minutes later.  We drove in the opposite direction of the hospital.  The next contraction was 8 minutes later.  We drove past another hospital.  The next contraction was 7 minutes later.  Then 6.  Someone cut us off in traffic, and my husband said, “Let me know if I need to drive on the shoulder.”  I laughed it off.  Then 5.  We drove past one more hospital – the one where we were told our fourth baby was “debris”. The next contraction was at 4 minutes.  I laughed as I began pulling my pants down a little, as the elastic on the pants band was right where the contractions were at.

We arrived at the birth center.  He walked in first, while I had a contraction on the sidewalk.  I walked in casually, and enjoyed a few pieces of a chocolate bar as the midwife came in.  A pregnant mother was signing in for a birthing class, and I laughed to her and exclaimed,

“We’re having a baby today!”

I look back on that now and realize that the lady probably thought I was totally crazy.  The midwife came in.  She checked me, and said,

“You need to let me know when you have the urge to push.”

Really? I went to our beautiful birthing suite, changed into my gown, while my in-laws got settled in.   I had a pretty strong contraction while changing, and heard the voice again through it,

“My peace I give you, not as the world gives.” 

The contractions were intense, but still manageable.  I knew God was leading my baby girl out to me.  When I came out of the bathroom, I knew this was it and told my husband, “We’re almost done.”  The midwife snapped a picture of me in my gown…

And then,

I asked if someone could dim the lights, I leaned over the bed and whispered,

“I’m pushing.”

And then, quietly and simply, our beautiful daughter was born.

The birth was so fast that the photographer never made it.

The midwife snapped a photo of us together moments after we met our daughter for the first time.  What a blessing that this very first photo turned out to be so unexpectedly pretty!  Later, a sweet friend of mine from Treasure Beans even edited it a little by writing the caption on it.

Then, the staff baked a chocolate cake, we all sang Evelyn “Happy Birthday”, my tiny, sweet daughter and I shared a lovely herbal bath together,

and then, we went home.  Mommy, Daddy, and little Evelyn Mae.

That night, Evelyn listened as I whispered stories to her, telling her all about her brothers – the three that she would meet the next morning, and the one whom she won’t meet until Jesus says it’s time to.

{important fact: pregnancy is the time when we mothers are the most interested and the most vested in our birth preparation.  Whether you are expecting a live birth, preparing for a known stillbirth, there is a difficult diagnosis involved, or you are pregnant with a “subsequent/rainbow” baby, use the time wisely.  You will likely not get every single thing you desire during or for your birth (we had all sorts of special things we had planned on using during the labor but didn’t get to), so it is best to learn now, as much as you can, about what your options are.  If pregnancy automatically equals hospital birth for you, take some time to visit the birth centers and midwives in your area.  It will give you a chance to consider including some special natural options into your birth wishes.  If you are hoping for a home birth, take a maternity tour at your local hospital just so that you will feel familiar with those surroundings.  Even if you don’t utilize their services, when else are you going to get such a chance to ask questions and get information?  Get to know all perspectives and philosophies surrounding birth.  And, regardless of what birth experience this is for you, or where you are planning on delivering, visit with our doulas and consider inviting one in on your plans and experiences.  In the end, it was extremely important for me to pray about my options and lay them all out before the Lord.  I let Him speak into my heart of mixed feelings, of anxiety and hope, about what the best plan was for my baby’s arrival, and it made all the difference.  He gave me peace, and not as the world gives.}

When two babies are born nearly a year apart, they are said to be Irish twins.  This happens when one baby is conceived three months after the other was born.

I already have one set of Irish twins.  The older of the two is going to be three years old, and the younger is heading to be a two year old.

At first, they were 5 clothes sizes apart; while one was wearing 0-3 months, the other wore 9-12 month clothes.  One was very much a brand new baby, while the other was a toddler.  Today, I can manage to get them both to wear the same sized clothes, although one is exactly a head taller than the other. They get jealous and fight with each other.  When one cries, the other cries louder.  When one laughs, the other comes running to see what all the fun is about.  They push each other down, wrestle each other, and they hug and snuggle each other too.  They love each other.

My newest baby is also an Irish twin.  She was born in April, and is the brand new baby in our home.  Yet, she is a totally different kind of Irish twin.  She and her Irish twin will never be mistaken for fraternal twins when I go grocery shopping or when I take the children to the park.  She will not have the same competition to cry louder than the sibling immediately older than her.  The two of them will not squeeze into our little children’s couch, one pulling a blanket over the other ones lap, to snuggle with their sippy cups together and watch a cartoon.

You see, last April, I gave birth to my miscarried baby.

There is a person missing from our family in our family photos.  There is a carseat missing in our car.  There is a missing stack of folded laundry, there is no leaky sippy cup dribbling on the floor where one should be, there are no memories of scooting, rolling over, lifting his head, tasting his first solid food, wrapping his tight little hand around his grandma’s finger or smiling big for his daddy.

There is an ache in my heart where fondness should be.  And yet there is hope also, where presumption would surely have otherwise resided.

My heart, and my life, are forever filled with an ache and a hope that would have never otherwise been.

I should have been pregnant with my miscarried baby until November 2011.

I became pregnant with my daughter in July 2011.

What is it like to share a pregnancy – to share time that belonged to another of my babies?

It was lonely – shortly after my natural miscarriage, I took a home pregnancy test to confirm that it was in fact, negative.  It is a terrible feeling to long for him, to miss him, to dread seeing the one, lonely line on that test, and yet knowing that the single line meant that my body had safely completed the birth of my tiny baby; to see so simply and matter 0f factly that to the rest of the world it was all over, and to know that in my heart, life without the presence of this child had only just begun.

It was angering -having to face a perfectly timed menstrual cycle, exactly 28 days following the miscarriage.  To see that my body could naturally, instinctively, do what it was supposed to do, and yet it couldn’t protect my sweet child – I felt like my body had cheated me.

It was confusing – when I saw the two pink lines for the first time with this pregnancy, where they should have remained with the former one, was bittersweet.  I was not expecting to be nor was I trying to get pregnant.  My heart was constantly challenged from the months of July to November, as I wondered what it would be like – how could I possibly prepare myself emotionally – if I not only experienced a second loss, but during the same time that I would have still been pregnant with my first miscarried baby?

It was humbling  – these two babies could not have both lived here on earth.  While traditional Irish twins are born a year apart, it is because the second is conceived three months after the birth of the first.  It would have been virtually impossible for me to give birth to one child in November 2011, and the other in April 2012.  God knows when we will be born – each of us.  He knew when my miscarried baby would be born.  He knew also when my daughter would be born.  Neither of these births are an accident or outside of His purposes.  They are both important.  So while I know of the impossibility of both of these children living here on earth, I am confident in the hope that one day they both will in fact reside in eternity together.  As impossible as it is for me to have my 5 children here, it is most certain that all 5 are made in the image of God Himself, have purposes, and have the opportunity to enter Heaven.  In fact, one is already safely there.

It was a gift – God picked the timing.  In the same month that my miscarried baby would have been born, November 2011, I also learned the gender of this baby, my first daughter.  It was a gentle, pleasing buffer from the heartbreak, the agony, the despair that overcame my heart.

It was a challenge – as if I hadn’t grown enough through the experience of losing my child, of first laboring and delivering and then burying my dead baby, I mentally prepared for facing April 2012.  April, the month that held the first anniversary – the first “angelversary” – the first stillbirthday of my miscarried baby.  April, the month I discovered that my baby was dead.  The month I saw him, motionless on the ultrasound monitor.  The month I prayed desperately, deeply, for the most important miracle of my entire life – “Please God, please, give a flicker of life.  Please let him stir.  Please don’t tell me he is gone.”  The month I understood that God didn’t ignore me, even though His reply seemed to be only silence – eery, overwhelming, my-life-will-never-be-the-same-again silence.  The month that I was told that my dead baby didn’t have value and that I could discard of him as I wished.  The month I waited for labor to begin, the month I hated myself, the month I dreaded what the end of labor would bring.  The month I knew I would face my dead child.  The month I met him – saw his perfectly formed, tiny body.  Counted his miraculously beautiful toes.  Cried over him.  Folded him into his final, miniscule bed, drove to the cemetary, saw the hole in the ground.  The hole that would hold my child.

Yes, this very same month, only one year later, is when I planned and prepared for the birth of my miscarried baby’s younger sister.  I planned to experience labor again, anticipated what the labor would bring, hoped for who I would meet at the end of it.  It is the month that I anticipated counting toes again and marvelling at God’s perfect design.  It is the month I hoped for what the end of labor would bring.  The month I knew I would face my dear child.

Would God give me this child, to enjoy in this lifetime?  Would I be able to hear her crying, bring her to my breast for comfort?  Would I clean her tiny little poopies and snuggle her in warm pajamas?  Would we need the carseat?  Would a grave hold her, or would her mother?

It is the month I knew I would need to be submissive to God’s will, and be ready for whatever outcome He ordained for our family.  I would need to let God remain in control.  I hoped – oh, how I hoped.  I hoped and wished and prayed that this April would bring joy rather than more heartbreak.

I planned as though God would give our daughter to us in this life.  And yet I accepted that His plans may be very different than that.

I didn’t have the control.  Much like the births of each of my other children, in fact including her Irish twin, I could only participate in the ways that have been permitted for me.

I prayed.  I planned.  I hoped.  I submitted.  I labored.  And then, I met her…

April 2012

April 2011

We give back to you, O God, those whom you gave to us.  You did not lose them when you gave them to us and we do not lose them by their return to you.

Your dear Son has taught us that life is eternal and love cannot die.  So death is only a horizon and a horizon is only the limit of our sight.  Open our eyes to see more clearly and draw us closer to you that we may know that we are nearer to our loved ones, who are with you.  You have told us that you are preparing a place for us: prepare us also for that happy place, that where you are we may also be always, O dear Lord of life and death.

~William Penn

Pregnancy & infant loss parents often refer to subsequent children, born after their miscarriage or stillbirth experiences, as “rainbow babies”, the idea being that “a rainbow follows the storm.”

Our world offers a lot of interpretations of rainbows, and while I enjoy the sentiment and agree, wholeheartedly, that the experience of pregnancy loss is in fact a devastating storm (but not that the child is), as I rub my tightly stretched, expanded belly, which holds my fifth child and my very first daughter, I feel convicted to push the fantasy aside and know that she is in fact, not my rainbow.

Genesis 9:8-16 tells us:

Then God said to Noah and to his sons with him, “Behold, I establish my covenant with you and your offspring after you, and with every living creature that is with you, the birds, the livestock, and every beast of the earth with you, as many as came out of the ark; it is for every beast of the earth. I establish my covenant with you, that never again shall all flesh be cut off by the waters of the flood, and never again shall there be a flood to destroy the earth.” And God said, “This is the sign of the covenant that I make between me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all future generations…”

God is telling us that the rainbow is a reminder of His covenant, a promise that He will not allow destruction in the same manner in which He previously did.

I cannot deceive myself into believing that this promise is directed toward the preservation of earthly life of this child in my womb.

God has not promised that He will not allow destruction of this child’s earthly life, as He previously permitted of my last child.

And yet understanding that powerful truth does not leave me feeling vulnerable, suspicious, or afraid.

It makes me humble.  It makes me marvel at God’s goodness.  It makes me thankful, not for every trimester that passes or for every month that brings me closer to the birth.  No, I don’t count down the days.  I rejoice in them.  I touch my belly.  I feel my daughter stir.  25 weeks.  She is growing so big.

Her legs are longer than her arms, which as she continues to grow will serve to constrict her space even further and make things more uncomfortable for her.  I can tell already by the force of her kicking that she is stretching and has begun to fill in the space within my womb.  Why are her legs longer than her arms already?  It is to prepare her for walking, for life outside of the womb.  Yet all she knows right now is the swishing, the whirring, the humming of the sounds through the water that surrounds her.  All she knows is she bumps harder and stronger every day into my soft but protective flesh around her.  She has no idea that the duration of her earthly life is not promised.  That at any day, any minute, God could gently whisper to her heart, to still.  She has no idea just how vulnerable she is, how delicate this life is.

All the while, her body continues to prepare her for a world she has no idea is here.  A world much bigger than she could ever imagine.

I want to have faith like that.

I want to just naturally move to a rhythm that brings me more and more prepared for the life that is bigger than this.  I want to be grown, molded, and shaped to be ready for it.  I want every day to mark a change in my development, I want it to be visible and apparent and obvious to others.

My storm has allowed me to see just how my spirit is taking shape.  It is growing.  I can feel the resistance when I push at life’s pressures as they close in on me.  I feel the reality of the physical world, the discomforts and the sense of imperfection around me, and know that this is in fact, not my home.  I am gestating, maturing and learning, so that I can be prepared for a place much bigger, much more bright, much more awesome than the little space I have right now.

I sit quietly in my baby’s nursery.  I am surrounded by pink for the first time in my adult life.

As a little girl, my mother and father were abusive and unloving toward me.  I was raised in foster care, and because I wasn’t “adoptable”, I didn’t stay anywhere long.  I lived in orphanages, institutions, and shelters.  I have been abused in every way possible.

I never had a mother to teach me how to cook, how to sew, how to be modest yet bold, how to be submissive and yet successful.

When I began having children, I felt as though I was not only sorely ill-prepared to be a “girl mom”, but to a mom at all.  I was scared but trusted God to prepare me.  My first son  has shaped my ability to love selflessly and has refined my determination and perseverance.  My second son has shaped my patience and ability to share and have balance.  My third son has taught me to embrace the amazing joy of motherhood and to relax.  My fourth son, my miscarried baby, has taught me forgiveness.  I blamed God and myself for his death, and I learned to forgive God, to see His perfection even in storms, and I’ve learned to forgive myself for things outside of my control.  And, I’ve learned to accept God’s forgiveness, really accept it, for blaming Him.

My fifth child, my first daughter, has taught me about God’s goodness.  I love each of my children for their intrinsic value and the wonder of God’s blessings through them but I feel compelled to share now the spiritual value of her particular life, this daughter of mine.

She is not the promise after the storm.  She is neither the long awaited-for girl born after boys.  I never imagined having a daughter.

Now, as I sit in the nursery, filled with soft shades of pink, I marvel at the wonder of it: my daughter.  I touch my belly again, and thank God for His goodness.

He has entrusted with me a little girl, even in the face of all of my uncertainties and fears and shortcomings in my own childhood.

While I like to dream about our future, a life with three active, rowdy, crazy boys, and wonder what our daughter will be like, how she will fit in with this family, I don’t have any expectation.  In the same way I strap all of our children into their seats with seatbelts, I know that the time we are given, the duration of this life, is not promised.

As I allow those dreams to linger, as they build the reality that in fact our daughter will be born, I don’t miserably wish the time away until something feels more certain.  I don’t impatiently wish this pregnancy past.

I rub my belly.  I marvel at how far we have already come, my daughter and I.  I am not in any hurry for her to reach a certain point or a particular age or even a milestone.  I don’t depend on her to be my promise, a promise that would make my love for God conditional and would limit my joy tremendously.

I watch adoringly as my oldest son kisses my belly and says he loves his little sister.  My heart melts as he enters the nursery and jokingly says it gives him a “pink headache.”  I marvel as I see how much he has grown, and the things he is capable of doing; things that have nothing to do with his sister at all.  I am captivated by my third sons new ability to maneuver as a biped.  How do humans learn to walk, anyway?  It amazes me.  I am filled with joy when I see my second son pat his little brother on the head and ask “Are you OK?” when he falls down.  I melt when my man walks in the door from work and looks at me, really looks at me, full of compassion and adoration and total love, and tells me simply that he’s glad to be home.  We’ve always had an amazing marriage, but the experience of grief following the birth of our miscarried baby shook us, both individually and as a couple.  Oh, how God has grown us even closer than ever before!

There are so many blessings all around me.

I don’t want to call my daughter my “rainbow” because I can’t separate that from what I know God’s promises to be, and I can’t allow myself, or my daughter, or God, the terrible disservice of confusing His promises from His gifts.

My daughter is in fact, a gift.  One that I have already received.  I have been given so very much by her presence in my life already.  I will remain in this life the mother of a daughter, regardless of the duration of her life, or my own.

The “rainbow” in my life, in the worldly context of finding beauty after the storm of my loss, is in the strength of my marriage, the strength of my heart, and the strength in my relationship with God.  It’s in having new eyes to see the many ways He blesses, provides and sustains, each and every day.

The actual biblical promises I stand on include bringing all things that He creates to proper completion.  He creates, gestates, provides until the creation lacks nothing, and when that person’s job is complete, they are welcomed Home.  These are biblical truths.  I trust that my miscarried baby is complete, that his work is done, and that he is Home.

I move into preparing for my daughter’s tomorrow; I wash and fold her tiny clothes and match her tiny ruffled bloomers with pretty floral dresses.  I hold out her tiny booties and smile as I imagine her tiny feet tucked warm inside.  I hope for tomorrow, and act as if when it comes we will continue to share it together.  I don’t demand it, and I don’t fear it will be taken.

Instead, I am simply and deeply thankful for the hope that I am given today.