The words I never got to say

Dear Noah,

I still remember clearly the morning I found out we were expecting you. I was home alone in the bathroom staring at the two lines on an EPT shaking with excitement. I had to sit down because my legs suddenly became paralyzed. I can’t tell you what I was thinking, because in reality I had too many thoughts in my mind to form even one coherent thought. The first person I told was your big brother, Nathan. We giggled and laughed as I excitedly rambled on about what a baby brother was. From day one I knew you were a boy. We rarely discussed the possibility of a baby sister.

I couldn’t get ahold of your daddy for an hour. This truly was the longest hour of my life. I knew he had to be the next person I told but living alone with this secret was enough to make me feel like I was going to implode. It was just too much joy to keep all to myself.

I didn’t come up with any cute or creative way to tell him. I barely got a whispered “I’m pregnant” out past the excitement induced lump in my throat. It wasn’t until he came home that night with two more pregnancy tests and a bottle of prenatals that we were truly able to celebrate. We considered you our reward for the past 14 months of deployment. However, in retrospect I can’t imagine that we could ever do anything so grand or spectacular that we would be worthy of such a gift.

 The night I first started bleeding I was still high on excitement from the news of my pregnancy. That began the most emotionally exhausting journey I have ever taken. I was so scared of losing you, you were only a week old and the size of a pen tip but I loved you the same then as I love you now. When I saw your heartbeat on ultrasound it was at the top my list of happiest moments ever. I cried. I never imagined it was the beginning of the end.

As the next few months went by, and my belly got bigger and bigger I began to feel your kicks. You were so strong. I felt your first taps at 9 weeks. I thought I must be crazy but the movements got stronger and stronger until there was no doubt that it was you saying hello. Daddy could not just feel, but could also see your movement through my belly at 12 weeks. I was amazed by what a strong little baby you were.

When I got the results of my quad screen back and they told me the grim news that you were likely suffering a disability, I sobbed. I was so sad to imagine my sweet child going through life with such hardship. But I knew God made you in his image and you were special to him. And with that knowledge I was happy again because I knew that no matter how you came out, nothing could change my love for you.

At my 20 week ultrasound when they told me that you were fine my heart soared. I know there were no words that could bring me more joy. When they confirmed my suspicion that you were indeed a boy, I cried again. I imagined you and your brother tossing a football, and stuffing frogs in your pants pockets and climbing to the tops of trees. I knew if you were anything like your brother I would have my hands so full between your shenanigans. And I couldn’t wait. The thought of two precious little boys was almost more than my heart could handle. I always liked boys better anyway (this is our little secret if you ever get a baby sister!!).

When I got put on bedrest just a few days later, I was bound and determined that I would lay there on the couch the rest of my life if it meant you would be healthy. When my water broke and they told me you only had a 27% chance of living I think I went numb. I worried, and I cried but I don’t think I could fully absorb the full shock. I still don’t think I have. With every bleed, and setback and every visit to the doctor to receive more bad news, I never lost hope. Maybe it was a period of “invincibility” since things like this always happen to someone else, right?  I felt like my emotions were a battle of good and evil within me, in a constant feud between optimism and despair.

The week you were born I knew my pregnancy was coming to an end soon. I could feel it. Whatever “it” was. My last day with you was spent on the couch just like the 31 days before it had been spent. I wish I could live that day over again. You had the hiccups a few hours before you were born. Your movements were so weak and labored. It pained me so horribly to imagine you struggling inside my body as you were literally crushed by lack of fluid. I knew that to just wiggle your toes took amazing strength. But that never stopped you. No matter how cramped it got in there, you still kicked your little heart out like you always did. I wish I could have just laid in silence and counted your hiccups and movements that by then were rarely noticeable from the outside.

The doctors think that you grabbed onto the edge of my placenta which started the final abruption. I wasn’t too worried when I started having another bleed. When hard labor began I still remained calm. I could feel you moving and I knew you were safe. It wasn’t until I was lying in the hospital bed and they told me you were going to be born in a few minutes that I finally cried. I was so scared. I knew that under the best of circumstances your outlook was bleak at only 24 weeks old. And these were the worst of circumstances. Your big brother was there and he gave me a kiss as they took me away to surgery. I lay on the table, nearly losing consciousness several times as I prayed and prayed for you. Then they put me under.

When I woke up you were the first thought in my mind. Your grandma was there and she told me you were alive. My heart soared. We had done it! Then I slowly got the news that they had done all they could for you, and while you were alive your lungs weren’t able to work and you were brain damaged from lack of oxygen. I wanted you to wait for your dad but he was still hours away when they brought you to me.

I was in awe of you. I couldn’t imagine how someone so small could be his own independent person. I could barely hold you. I was so scared to hurt you. You had been through so much in the hours before that I wanted to hold you to me and provide as much comfort as I was able in your last few minutes of life. You looked so much like your big brother that it makes missing you hurt all the more. Your daddy was on the phone and he knew he wasn’t going to be there in time to meet you so I held my phone to your ear as he said hello and goodbye.

The entire medical staff surrounded me, you attracted quite a crowd! I was still groggy from the medication they gave me and didn’t immediately realize what was happening. The chaplain who had baptized you put her hand on mine and prayed for us. Then they asked for my permission to remove you from life support.

I kissed you goodbye and held you tight as they removed all the tubes from your face. Although I know it was just delaying the inevitable, I would have gladly delegated that decision to anyone else. Giving permission to end your child’s life is nature’s cruelest joke. It defies everything you know as a parent. I would have taken a bullet for you. How could I give up on you?

When the doctor told me you were gone, I hit a brick wall at a hundred miles an hour. I felt the impact without the physical damage. I stopped breathing. I don’t know how long it was until I finally gasped for air because time stood still. I guess that small part of me that had stayed hopeful all along was a lot bigger than I realized. The book that “should have been” my life was slammed shut so abruptly that it made my core shudder.

I’m so sorry Noah. I spend most days feeling like I failed you as your mother. My womb was the one place that you should have been safe. And instead it became a hostile environment that gave up on us. I hope you know the things I would have done for a different outcome. We had a good fight, you and I.

We shared a sweet, albeit short, journey and you’ll forever hold my heart. You will always be my little boy. Not a day goes by that your memory doesn’t monopolize my thoughts. I’d give years off my life for one more minute with you. But I know you are safe with Jesus now. When I really get to missing you I ask Jesus to give you a hug and kiss for me. I hope he answers my prayers.

Some days I get angry that I now have to carry this grief around with me forever and that my future will forever be haunted by an empty place in my heart. But knowing what I know now, I would do it all over again without a second thought. As the age old saying goes “It’s better to have loved and lost, then to never have loved at all.”

I find great comfort and anticipation in knowing we will be together again. But until that day you will live on forever in our hearts.

I will always love you son,

Mom

One in heaven...

“How many kids do you have?” seems to be the cruel question of the year. Maybe I just never noticed when people asked me before, but now I am painfully and acutely aware whenever this “getting to know you” pleasantry is exchanged. It’s a nauseating gut shot that leaves me awkwardly tripping over words. I never know what to say.

I had two, I have one.

But that’s not something you tell the little old cashier at Walmart who’s busy making googly eyes with your toddler. She’s just trucking along, waiting for the last 2 hours of her shift to end. She asks because she needs something to break up the monotony of her evening, not expecting a grieving mother to drop a sob story in her lap.

I have one.

As all of my fellow mommies in this awful walk of life know, you can’t just leave it at that. Sure, it’s the easiest answer. But the guilt of sweeping your other child under the rug for the sake of simplicity will eat away and gnaw holes through your heartstrings. It seems as though we have a new mission in life. Validating our babies’ existence becomes a purpose driven goal. They are no different than our living children when it comes to love and overwhelming pride. But since having a dead baby is taboo and uncomfortable we are forced to choke over words to avoid making the asker feel awkward.

I have two.

Seems like the most appropriate answer of all. But that opens the floodgate of questions. 

“Boy or girl?”

Easy answer. Beautiful baby boy.

“What’s his name?”

Still easy, Noah Ethan.

Then comes the harder questions. 

“How old is he”.

Even that one can be answered to the extent of “He was born August 6^th”. Strange way to answer the question, but still allows you to avoid a difficult subject with a complete stranger. Then comes 

“Where is he?”

I hate this one. He’s buried in a box 3 feet under. Thanks for asking!

So without fail, telling them I have two children always ends in an awkward exchange about what happened. Then I take my change and leave the store quickly to avoid looking like a psycho mom that can’t accept my loss who walks around claiming to have children that I don’t.

So, for now when people ask, I continue with a tongue tied rant that probably makes no sense. I figure that “one on earth and one in heaven” will probably be the answer that I stick with in the future. But not until I am able to come up with a Reader’s Digest version for why Noah died. It’s not that I mind talking about him. But I don’t feel like giving a ten minute explanation every time I run into the Piggly Wiggly for a gallon of milk. I think I just need to get a T-shirt….