Better Than Okay: Due Date

So today has finally arrived.

Since late summer, this day has been reserved on the calendar.

May 3, 2018.

I have been anticipating this date for so long.

Partly anxiously waiting for it to come so that it can pass. And partly wanting it to linger in the future, because I wasn't sure how it would feel, to face it and to then bid it goodbye.

It feels like a chapter finishing, a book's end.

And I don't want it to be over.

Because what do you do next, when a cherished story is completed?

These past few days, facing this mountain of a day,

I have been longing for the noisy and rushed to be quiet and calm.
Just so I can sit quiet and calm: to be still.

Today, Noah was supposed to be born.

With scheduled deliveries with each of our children,

this very likely would have been the true date we would have met and welcomed our youngest child.

Early morning anticipation of arriving at the hospital and getting this labor day going.

Envisioning the absolutely pure chaos of how crazy adding another baby to this mix would be! My word.

But, instead.

That hospital date has already happened, and the delivery is already over.

Instead of May, it all shifted to December.

December 1, 2017.

The first family picture,

instead of at a hospital bedside at St. Luke's,

was taken outdoors in Pocahontas County.

But first, back up a few months.

There was the beyond-surprised surprise we discovered, late summer.

Say what?

Number 5?

A family of 7?!

Oh, the desperate prayers.

The tears.

The disbelief.

The absolutely necessary support of loved ones.

The clinging trust that God had a plan.

The gradual, subtle acceptance of the reality coming to us...
"Here Comes the Sun"

And then, the big day came.

Boy or girl? Girl or boy?

BAM.

Suddenly, it. all. shifted.

Life's direction had changed.

Our baby was gone.

What? When?

Questions, no answers.

It just was.

Plans to be made.

Surreal:

Suddenly, moving from an ultrasound room

discussions of funeral homes and gravesites.

What?

Plans.

A new road.

And calling in the calvary of our dearest loved ones.

Long hours that day, just sitting in the front seat of the minivan.

A Jars of Clay Christmas song softly played on repeat.

Clinging to the voices of family, friends. Thank you, dearest ones.

Loss.

Shock.

Loss.

Questions.

No answers.

"Noah" means rest, comfort.

The perfect name for our innocent life who directly went on to heaven.

"What Child is This" brought me to tears.

So did anything.

Even Jimmy Johns sandwiches.

I found myself in such a tizzy, weighing the burden of this loss. Sometimes "how horrrendous this is" and the next second, "but others have had such a more terrible circumstance." Not sure how my grief could even be measured.

Here are some wonderful words on grieving in that way:

It’s in thinking that one pregnancy, one life, is more significant than another based on its duration. It’s in thinking that the loss of a baby who was too small to be seen, or held, is less significant than the baby who was big enough for a crib, but was laid in a casket instead...

The truth is that my losses are no more or less significant than anyone else’s. Whether it was an early loss or a late loss, I’ve missed out on the same things as every other loss mom. I’ve missed a lifetime of getting to know two of my children. I’ve missed milestones and celebrations. I’ve missed the mundane moments that would have made up the majority of memories with the two babies who didn’t make it home...

But I do know hat there is no "only" in pregnancy loss. Not in mine or anyone else's. There is "already."

There was a pregnancy that had already progressed to six, or eight, or twenty weeks along. There was already life as evidenced by two pink lines. The same pink lines that had already alerted a woman to her role as a mother. There was already the sound of a heartbeat, whether it beat for a day, a month, or longer. There was already a connection between mother and baby. And there was already love planted deeply in a mother's heart. A love that had already begun to grow from the moment the first sign of life was displayed in the once empty window of a pregnancy test. It doesn't matter if a pregnancy "only" lasted for a few weeks. It doesn't matter if it was an early loss or a late loss. What matters is that there was already a baby who was loved immensely. An love cannot be measured in weeks."

(Jenny Albers, https://abeautifullyburdenedlife.com/all-blog-posts/no-pregnancy-loss/)

So.

Weeks went by, life has carried on forward.

Without one hour going by, it seemed, where I didn't keep coming back to our loss.

Dealing with it all.

The bitter, the sweet, the aching, the reminders, the recovery, the journey, the beauty, the awful, the sad, the tender.

And in all that slippery, sludgy, heaviness... there really appeared to me, such pristine touches of love.

Coming through others, and through my Jesus.

Oh, the heartaching beauty of grief stories shared.

Of fellow lost babies, mommas relearning how to breathe and move through.

I am so honored to be a receiver of those stories, those hurts, those journeys. I hold your heart tenderly in mine.

Babies in heaven, awaiting the reunion, the meeting, the introduction.

I have recognized that, for myself, walking through these weeks, months with transparency is how I needed to face my own journey. Not keep it in entirely. Others may move quietly, privately, and that is beautiful, too.

No matter the style of progressing these days...

"There is great glory to the Lord in a quiet, confident walk in a day of adversity, a day of dread, when things about us are shaking and trembling."

(Charles Trumbell, p.32 "The Green Letters" Miles J. Stanford)

"Truth is, everyone is wounded-just some folks are better able to hide it or ignore it. Child loss has helped me be more transparent and that is a good thing."

(While We're Waiting: Support for Bereaved Parents)

And so.
I write. I talk. I am grateful for those who check in. To listen and show love.

And now.

Today.

Here I am.
After a late night/early morning, just thinking.
I'm sitting in a coffee shop alone.

Instead of checking into the hospital to prepare for our child's welcome to this world...

Instead of these most-precious, indescribable newborn baby-parent moments...
The intense emotions that accompany the arrival of a new life.
Emotional exhilaration.
Physical exhaustion.
The BIG STUFF...

We grieve.

And oh my heart, are we grieving.

Those soft, wrinkly baby skin touches.
That desperate newborn wail.
The comfort warmth can bring.

Memories of these First Moments with our older children.
Close my eyes, and I'm back there again.

I close my eyes, and I long to be have those First Moments again.

Only, I can't.

Not with our sweet Noah.

We've had some moments holding our small one.

Oh, where those incredibly tender, heart wrenching moments.

But his eyes weren't locked on us.

His eyes were softly closed.

Already staring up into the face of Jesus.

So, although we are

absolutely grieving...

We have hope.

(1 Thessalonians 4:13,14)

And for us, and for our Noah...

"There is never lack of (His) presence."

(Mary Beth Chapman, https://www.marybethchapman.com/blog/2018/5/1/i-hate-may)

Our youngest child: He has been with Jesus from his first.

"Your baby, who resides in heaven, is loved.

You can be sad for this, but know that your little one is now in the state of complete perfection.

Can I whisper a promise to help you in the days ahead?

Although your baby died on earth, your baby was born into heaven.

This isn’t the plan you would have chosen, but there is an absolute promise.

Our heart suffers right now in the present, but there is the promise that one day you will greet your child. It is in this place where glorious happiness shall forever exist. Trust that in the future, 'He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.' Revelation 21:4."

(While We're Waiting: Support for Bereaved Parents)

And while we down here wait...

Oh, there are such "why" questions.

WHY were we given such a surprise in expecting another baby?

When we had felt complete before, as we were.

When that new baby wouldn't actually be joining us.

WHY did we finally adjust to the idea of a full family with 5 children? 5 blessed arrows in our quiver.

When we would have to come to accept that having 4 means one will always be absent.

WHY.

When.

"Questions…there are still so many of the “what if” and “why” questions, but slowly they have turned into the “I wonder what” and the “would she” questions. I wonder with every school picture taken, what she would look like? Would she be shorter or taller than Stevey Joy? Would she cheer? Would she play ball? Would she sing? Would she be serious, funny, easy, or difficult? All of it rattles around in my head."

(Mary Beth Chapman, https://www.marybethchapman.com/blog/2018/5/1/i-hate-may)

Dearest Noah Samuel,

Your momma and daddy miss you. Oh yes.

We are soothed and calmed by the belief we will meet face to face someday.
Where you will fit into our hands, our arms, and you will absolutely pierce our hears with your gaze. (My stars, I can hardly wait.)

We'll be worn down by all those older siblings of yours, who caused us gray hairs and worry wrinkles. But, our lives always held a place for your life. For you, sweetest tiny one.

We have hope, even in our grief over our loss of YOU here.
Oh, how we miss who you would have been. How we would have CHERISHED YOUR LIFE.

But, baby.
Us 6 you left back here to wait?
We're doing okay.

"When I truly look at my children and know they are walking with a limp but doing great, when I see the impact that one little life has had…"

(Mary Beth Chapman, https://www.marybethchapman.com/blog/2018/5/1/i-hate-may)

I have grown to truly, truly look at these brothers and sister of you.
To memorize them. To see the beautiful and try to make it freeze in time.
CHERISHING...
-Z's "I love you" on repeat at the close of bedtime
-L's sideways shrug, closed lips smile
-B's darkest brown eyes, coming in for a hug
-A's "pretty" as she touches my cheek

And to see how much your daddy and I been through, together. And to love him more with each year, and with each struggle we walk through on this journey.
I bet you'd have looked like your daddy. Just like those older Balder brothers of yours.

And those siblings of yours? They know a piece of us is not here.

We are a family of 6. But really, there are 7.

Oh, I want to kiss your toes, your neck, your cheeks.

Every single day that you'd let me.

And I would read to you, the book that I read to your sister day after day, night after night.

The pages are worn and ripped, and tears have fallen as I've sometimes had to whisper those words aloud. Especially in those first days of losing you... "Safe in a Storm."

And I would pray for you, guide you.

But knowing you are already in the mostest perfectest place?

You have already been made perfect.

Why Jesus wanted you with him RIGHT AWAY is something I'll continue to wonder and dream about. But knowing you are okay, that you have always known perfection and beauty and love and peace... there aren't human words for that serenity, that comfort.

In the quiet and stillness, you can smile down on your momma, okay?

When I read about Jesus, please, send a glance His way and wink.

I've made some changes in my daily life since you've gone on. For the good, even when it's been hard. It's been good to have something to focus on and work toward, when the days of missing you growing, growing in me were so very rough.

And, a friend recently shared about standing up tall, in the midst of the winds. No more complaining, no fear or overwhelming anxiety. But be like Pocahontas. I want to try to be more like this, in your honor, dear one.