I don't have children. I've never been one of those women who lived my life to be a mom. I don't see anything wrong with that desire and I'm not opposed to it...it just was never very strong on my radar. I chalk it up to how I was created, how God designed me. I've certainly never been one to not celebrate the arrival of a new little one. The way they smell, how tiny they are, I marvel at creation, marvel at God's infinite wisdom in designing us...but there has always been a bit of hesitancy and relief as I return that little one to his or her mommy/daddy. I've never completely understood it...the hesitancy...I think until now.
Tonight - in the midst of a diaper cake, clipart, corsages, centerpieces; I took a moment to read a post. I stopped to read this particularly profound post because a friend of mine's name was attached to it.
She was a college mate of mine in grad school and we were project partners at one point. We became friends on facebook and like so many of you, I've followed her life transition post-grad school. I rejoiced for her when she finished pharmacy school because through my own sister, I knew what a challenge that was. When she announced she was expecting a little one, I was once again thrilled for her because it was her first-born. So of course I said a prayer for her when she posted her and her husband were awaiting the arrival of her baby boy, David, from the hospital!
Having recently married, Ricardo and I have had several of conversations about children...even before we married. Is it the right time? Are we ready?
There have a been plenty of selfish questions as well: Do we want to change our lifestyle? Are we prepared for sleepless nights? What about the expense? What about traveling? Can we financially afford to have a baby right now? What bout daycare...in the midst of a move to a new city, a new job?
I have several friends who have for reasons known or unknown delivered babies who never drew their first breaths on earth or drew their last, moments or days after their delivery.
We often want to say that we can't imagine what they are going through. There's a fallacy in that because I think we could. We may never truly understand or know the pain unless we've experienced it ourselves.
I'm an aunt to two little ones. I love those boy's more than I could ever imagine possible. They taught/continue to teach me about unconditional love. I could never compare it to the love their mother has for them...it's different, but it's deep and because I don't have children of my own - it's the only experience I can draw from. My heart hurts when they're sad...hurts when they're hurt...and in their short 10 and 7 years on this earth, they've taught me more about adult responsibility than I ever thought possible.
If you've had children or if you haven't - maybe you have nieces or nephews, maybe both: if you've waited for little ones to arrive and experienced the deep profound love that grows as your little one does, then you don't want to imagine the kind of pain that comes in losing a child...but I think you could certainly understand the depth of it.
My friend's son, David Maddux Moonjian, was called from our life to join God in Heaven on September 15, 2015. They go on to say:
In faith, we believe God has a greater plan for our baby boy in His design of our lives. Although we struggle as parents in accepting God’s plan we are comforted in knowing David will only know the love we shared for him as expecting parents and the love of family and friends awaiting his arrival in all our lives.
Just one week ago...seven days...I believe in the significance of numbers. Seven being representative of completion and perfection.
Creation Day 7 (Genesis 2:1-3)
God rests. This in no way indicates He was weary from His creative efforts, but denotes that the creation is complete. Further, God is establishing a pattern of one day in seven to rest. The keeping of this day will eventually be a distinguishing trait of the God’s chosen people (Exodus 20:8-11).
After reading my friends post, I've decided to stop asking those questions. My husband and I had already decided that if we should get pregnant then so be it and if not then the Lord has other plans for us. I believe that the Lord will give to us (child/ren) when He deems we're ready and whether we have what we need or not, He'll supply. He always has...and if He blesses us with a baby, I promise to look at our child with very different eyes...to be thankful, grateful, and present...
To my friends who have said 'good-night' to their little ones: we think of you and pray for you often!
I pray the Lord continues to be your comfort and give to you what you need in those moments you need it most!
For Eleanor, David M, and so many more:
There seem to be so many friends of mine and Brian that have either recently had babies, are soon to have babies, or will probably be expecting babies in the future. This is my plea to you:
There will be times your child will scream and cry any time you try to put him or her down. Or they'll cry even as they're in your arms and you've done everything you can possibly think of to get them to stop. There will be sleepless nights, multiple diaper changes in a matter of minutes, spit up in your hair, pee on your shirt, and poop in your hands, and again - so much screaming from the baby, and probably from you as well. Every time that happens, every time you feel frustrated and want to run away, please remember my story:
My sweet, sweet Eleanor Josephine was born sleeping September 11th. I went to bed the night of the 10th, and she was kicking away. I woke up, and she wasn't. I couldn't find the heartbeat on the home doppler. I knew. I just knew. I didn't want to know...I wanted to be mistaken, but I knew.
We went to Labor and Delivery immediately, praying the whole way there. They tried the doppler - nothing. Before they put the ultrasound wand on me, they ran the heartbeat monitor over my belly - nothing. My heart was sinking fast, and I remember thinking "This can't be happening...this is just a dream...this can't be happening...They'll find something on the ultrasound...just *something*." But these were feeble hopes, because again, I knew. I could tell they knew, too, but no one said anything until Brian (who was parking the car) got there. I could tell they were delaying, "Oh, the ultrasound machine sometimes takes a while to boot up." "I think there's something wrong with the wand...." Finally, Brian was there, they did the ultrasound, and there was silence as they all exchanged nervous glances. Finally one of them matter-of-factly said, "Hi Natalie, I'm Doctor ______ (I don't remember her name, but you don't want to know what I call her in my head). I'm sorry...there's nothing there." I keep having flashbacks to that moment. It's a crippling, all-consuming feeling of utter suffocation, and a memory that will haunt me for the rest of my life. In that moment, I felt trapped as if the ceiling was literally crashing down on top of me. I couldn't breathe, lashed out, I screamed, I threw things, I threw up...and then a piece of me died with her. I was helpless to change anything. My body was supposed to keep her safe, and instead it killed her. I was 40w6d.
A couple of hours later, I was induced. They offered me an epidural, but I couldn't do it. I needed to own it. I needed the pain, the agony, and misery to mirror what I felt in my heart. It was the hardest thing I've ever done. Ever. Dealing with the unbearable contractions, the ring of fire, the tearing...knowing that all of it was for nothing. I was delivering a lifeless child. There would be no happiness at the end of it to help me forget the pain. The pain, unlike my baby girl, would live on forever.
Then finally, after those hellish hours of labor, she was placed on my chest - gorgeous, but lifeless. There was no reason to expect that first little cry from her. Instead, it was me who sobbed. I begged her through my tears to wake up: "Please wake up, baby girl...please, wake up. Why won't you cry for mommy? Please, please, please....just wake up."
She was beautiful. She was perfect in every way. I love her so much, and the devastation I felt, and still feel, cannot even begin to be described. We got to spend 6 hours with her. We took hundreds of photos. A photographer from "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep" came by and took even more. We bathed her, we brushed her hair, we held her, kissed her, and told her how much we loved her. And I apologized over and over again for failing her. Oh, how I failed my beautiful baby girl.
They offered to allow us to say the night, but I couldn't stay there any longer. I couldn't bear the thought of leaving my daughter, either, but I knew I was just prolonging the inevitable. As time went on, she was looking less and less like the flawless child that I brought into this world. I couldn't keep watching her deteriorate in my arms. I knew she couldn't feel any pain, but I was feeling it for her, and I had reached my breaking point. I wanted to die with her.
Around 11:30pm, we said our final goodbyes. As I stood over her and spent those last few minutes with her, blood was cascading down my legs and onto the floor. I didn't care - my womb was crying. Everything about me was crying. Watching them wheel her away broke me. My life ended then and there. They wheeled me out of the hospital and I screamed the entire way.
Monday was the funeral, and we had to go through the whole thing again. Seeing her one last time (my legs gave out from under me at first sight), singing to her, touching her cold, lifeless face, telling her how much we loved her, and me, apologizing over and over again for not being able to protect her. It was a small, intimate ceremony - 9 people total. Immediate family only. We all took turns blessing her. And once again, we said our goodbyes.
Everyone gave my husband and I one last moment with her, just the three of us. And when we were done, he and I walked arm in arm down the aisle, as our family held the doors open for us as the end of the room. I flashed back to our wedding day as we walked down the aisle as husband and wife and the doors were held open for us. The memory was such a cruel juxtaposition to the current reality. Our wedding march was joyous. This was a nightmare, this was morbid, this was wrong. Everything about it was wrong. I can still see that tiny box draped in a white cloth that held her tiny body. I had to leave her there in that cold, empty room; all alone all over again. It's a nightmare that just won't end.
I say all that to say this: my womb, my heart, and my arms are empty. There are going to be so many of you who have babies who are going to cry every time you try to put him or her down. Or they'll cry for no reason even if you're holding them and you've fed them, burped them, changed them...everything. And inevitably you're going to cry too, because you will feel so helpless and so frustrated and so clueless, and you'll want to scream, "Why won't you stop crying?!" You're going to be exhausted and angry and fed up and all you're going to want in this world is just a little time to yourself so you can sleep or shower or or eat whatever. People will tell you to just let them cry it out, that you'll otherwise just be spoiling them, as if you can spoil a child with too much love. Feel free to slap those people for me.
But please just remember, while you're awake at 3am because you have a baby in your arms keeping you up that late, I'm up at 3am because I don't. And I would give anything in this world to have a baby spitting up on me, being colicky for all hours of the day and night, screaming, not letting me put her down, cracking my nipples from breastfeeding, keeping me up all night. Instead, I have a stitched nether region, painfully engorged breasts no baby will suckle from, a flabby stomach, an empty womb, and blood that will continue to pour out of me for who knows how many more weeks. As if her death and birth wasn't traumatic enough, I still have to live with the physical effects all these many days later.
All I ask of you is when you have your dark moments with your baby - when you're at your wits' end and feel like you can't go on anymore when you're only getting an hour or two of sleep a night - instead of begging your child to go to sleep and wallowing in your frustration and exhaustion, say a prayer of gratitude for your child, as difficult as it may be in that moment. And if you would, say a prayer for me and all the mothers whose children were taken from them too soon. Say a prayer for my sweet, sweet Eleanor who never got to know life outside my womb.
Please. Do it for Eleanor. And do it for her mommy who loves her and misses her beyond measure.
At heart I'm a musician, immediately several songs came to mind. I've posted them below.
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