My Deepest Hurt

This is my first original song in years. I'd like to think my River girl has given me a new wind of inspiration. I have titled it: My Deepest Hurt. Here are my lyrics and my post to youtube.

My Deepest Hurt

Sometimes at night when I put up a fight

asking God why you are there

I picture your smile and I cry for a while

wondering who I am without you

Then God speaks and He promises me that He loves me

and He knows my deepest hurt

and He knows my heart's desire...that

Someday you--you will come to me

and run into my arms where I'll hold you forever

and someday I'll--I'll get to kiss your face

and tell you that you're mine

and that I loved you

from the moment I knew you were there

and my heart ached for you

when Heaven left my arms bare...

I sit by your bed, thoughts racing in my head

feeling lost and broken

No precious girl to hold, just an ever-growing hole

where you should have been

Then God speaks and He promises me that He loves me

and He knows my deepest hurt

and He knows my heart's desire...that

Someday you--you will come to me

and run into my arms where I'll hold you forever

and someday I'll--I'll get to kiss your face

and tell you that you're mine

and that I loved you

from the moment I knew you were there

and my heart ached for you

when Heaven left my arms bare...

Come to me, run into my arms

and know I'm your mother like you've known me forever

Let me kiss your face and look into your eyes

and tell you that you're mine

and that I loved you

from the moment I knew you were there

and my heart screamed for you

when Heaven left my arms bare...

When I saw your face

and your tiny fingers and toes

I saw God Himself

feeling all my sorrows and woes

and He spoke--and He promised me that He loved me

and He knew my deepest hurt

and He knew my heart's desire...was gone

and He knew my deepest hurt

And Though My Heart is Torn

I was sure by now, God, You would have reached down and wiped my tears away, stepped in and saved the day. But, once again, I say "amen" and it's still raining. As the thunder rolls, I barely hear You whisper through the rain, "I'm with you." And as Your mercy falls, I raise my hands and praise the God who gives...and takes away.

Lord, I will praise You in this storm--I will lift my hands for You are who You are no matter where I am. Every tear I've cried, You hold in Your hand. You never left my side. And though my heart is torn...I will praise You in this storm.

These are some of the lyrics to a song that has truly spoken to my heart as of late, Praise You in This Storm by Casting Crowns. Every now and then I read in the book of Job and I can only imagine that, at some point, he would have sung this song too. Job went through a definite storm and by no means am I about to compare our circumstances, but--I can feel his heart ache. I can identify with his groanings. At one point, Job says, "Why then did you bring me out of the womb? I wish I had died before any eye saw me. If only I had never come into being, or had been carried straight from the womb to the grave!" (Job 10:18-19)

Job was obviously not a mother. He had no idea what sort of pain it would cause him to literally lose a child from his own body. But he did know he belonged to God. Somewhere, down deep, he knew.

In response to Job's cry, a man named Zophar replied:

"Can you fathom the mysteries of God? Can you probe the limits of the Almighty? They are higher than the heavens--what  can you do? They are deeper than the depths of the grave--what can you know? Their measure is longer than the earth and wider than the sea." (Job 11:7-9)

"Yet if you devote your heart to him and stretch out your hands to him, if you put away the sin that is in your hand and allow no evil to dwell in your tent, then you will lift up your face without shame; you will stand firm and without fear. You will surely forget your trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by." (Job 11:13-16)

It's hard to imagine a day when my trouble will be forgotten and I will only think of it in passing.  Especially when I am reminded of it so frequently. Like yesterday at work.

"How old is your little girl?"

"She's six weeks old, born on May 12th. Do you have kids?" 

"Well...sort of. One in Heaven. She was born on May 30th."

"Oh, May 30th...that's---"

"four weeks, today actually..."

"Well...you're holding up really well..."

Yeah. I'm holding up. And I'll keep holding up. I will praise Him in this storm....it's the only way I know I'll survive it. 

Phantom

Sometimes it feels as though you were just a passing shadow, my sweet girl--a figment of my imagination.

A phantom, if you will.

You come and you go but down in the depths of my soul, your mark has been left. You are always with me, yet not at all. I cannot describe the feeling of your delicate presence. I see all of your tiny clothes hanging in your closest and I imagine you in them. I kiss the turtle on the navy blue overalls I bought just for you and I picture them...covered with sand from your first trip to the beach. You giggle and wiggle, unsure of the grainy feeling between your fingers and toes. I see you wearing them with a bonnet, something I never knew I'd grow to love seeing you wear.  You would have been such a hat girl.

I sit now in your room, at a table just recently moved here, and it looks as though a ghost has merely passed through, leaving only a faint trace of you. Your crib, untouched, moans and creeks with the absence of your body. How it longs to hold you, much like my arms, feeling the rhythm of your breathing and hearing the soft coos of your slumber.

Your changing table, stained with the work of your father's and great grandfather's own hands, remains still and lifeless, much like your entrance into the world. Memories sit atop it's carefully crafted frame, gathering dust and waiting for something that is never to come.

I wonder what to do now. The colors of this room bring back fond memories of hope--hope in your future and dreams of ours together--how I imagined rocking you in the middle of a warm summer night, listening to the crickets sing in the breeze while being lit by the moon. I'm wondering how I can ever leave this place without you but knowing I can never stay here with you. All that remains now is your dust--your beautiful ashes we so carefully placed in glass--and your little turtle lamp. It sits here in the corner of your room, remembering you. Sometimes I turn your lamp on and leave it throughout the night, as though it's rays were capable of bringing just a little more life to your memory. I wonder if it will make me feel as though you were just next door, sleeping peacefully between feedings.

My heart aches a low ache, like the deep groaning of the earth. My body feels like a boat being rocked by the ocean waves: disoriented, unbalanced, fragile. I do not feel myself in my postpartum skin. My stretchmarks are just about the only things that feel natural anymore. It is strange, however, to see them shriveled and bare. They are like a wasteland without you to bring them life and character. No precious thumping under the surface to make such an ugly thing beautiful and worth while. No kicks and hiccups to make them complete and whole. I miss you, my daughter.

I long for the night when you will visit my dreams, laughing and gazing at me. I long to see the stars in your eyes as they twinkle with awe and wonder at the sight of me. What will it be like when you say my name, when you touch my hands and look into my heart with those sparkling eyes? What will it be like to dance with you in the fields of Heaven where we walk on rainbows and rest on the wings of angels? What it be like to hold you forever and never let you go? To never let you go...

For now I will wait and for now I will dream. I will cling to the brief moments when your peaceful spirit passes through me like the River you truly are. I will hold you on earth, my phantom child, as long as I can, in my heart.  And I will rejoice the moment the Lord whispers softly "Come home"... because then I will see your face and I will never again carry the sorrow of losing you. We will be together.

And you will never more be my phantom...

"Heaven is for Real"

I started and finished a new book yesterday—“Heaven is for Real” by Todd Burpo. When I began writing this entry yesterday, I felt as though I could only set it down long enough to write what I am about to say. I know it may seem bold to say but this book has changed my life and how I view eternity. Seriously.

I first heard of this book at River’s service. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting reading material recommendations at my daughter’s funeral but somehow, I managed to remember the information. A lady that had gone to the church I grew up in told me her husband, a typical reader of only the Bible, had found it to be compelling. She mentioned the reason for recommending it was because there was a section in it that specifically spoke to the topic of child loss—about a woman who had miscarried her child around 8 weeks. At the time, I thought to myself: How can I do anything but mourn? How can I ever read a book for pleasure? Or do anything for pleasure ever again? I’m so glad God kept that book title in my memory so I could find it on that last-minute trip to Target on Saturday night. And I’m so glad he pulled at my heart strings and encouraged me to read it yesterday.

As I began to read, I was pleased to find the book starting off with juicy details in the prologue. I didn’t have to wait to get to the “good stuff.” It was captivating. To put it briefly, this book is about a four year old boy who leaves his body during an emergency appendectomy and goes to Heaven. In his account of the experience, he talks of meeting God and Jesus and many others. To know the rest, you’ll just have to read it =)

I believe children who haven’t had the chance to know Jesus go straight to Heaven when they die. This is something that has really helped me through this experience and I take rest in knowing my River is resting in the arms of God. I believe firmly that this truth is what essentially drew me to this book. As I looked at the chapter titles, I saw the one titled, “Two Sisters.” My instinct told me it would be the chapter to discuss the little boy’s encounter with his mother’s miscarried baby during his visit to Heaven. I was right. Upon finishing that chapter, I come before you now truly changed.

After Spencer and I came home from the hospital, our pastor visited us. He was there for support and comfort. Before he left, I worked up the courage to tell him some personal feelings I had been having regarding my bittersweet view of Heaven. I know it seems strange to say that. After all we hear about Heaven, who could possibly have mixed feelings about it? I could and I did. Until yesterday.

I told my pastor, just as I have told Spencer, I was sort of afraid to go to Heaven. I was afraid to leave this earth and those I loved. I was afraid because, to date, I had never found anything in the Bible that could tell me for sure if I would have the same kind of relationships in Heaven as I did on earth. This concerned me greatly. I wanted to know if I would recognize my great-grandmother, my friend Steve. And most importantly, I wanted to know if I would recognize my daughter…and if she would know I was her Mommy…

It brought great pain to think of the possibility of my relationship with her being erased. I couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing it was my River who stood before me. The thought of seeing her as just another believer who made it to Heaven really bothered me. I know that Heaven is a wonderful place but all I have ever known is this life and this earth. I have come to cherish the depth of the relationships I have with my loved ones. Well, now I know the answer I have been looking for. And God spoke it through a four year old.

When this little boy was in Heaven, he met his great grandfather, a man who died years before he was even born. And he knew who he was. My eyes began to well with tears as I read about the joys they shared together. I was elated. They knew each other!

Then came the part that confirmed it. The little boy told his parents that while he was in Heaven, a little girl came to him and began hugging him. She hugged him for a long time. When he finally spoke to her, she revealed that she was his sister and that she had “died in Mommy’s tummy.” It was then I felt a peace wash over me. I began sobbing. Not out of sorrow though, out of pure thanks. I thanked God for answering my question. I thanked Him for making me feel worth answering, that my questions weren’t trivial or stupid. I asked Him to forgive me (again) for doubting Him. You see, last week I had a meltdown with God. For the first time in my life, I was actually angry enough to blame Him. The sad part about it is that I was blaming Him for something I did. My own stupid mistake and I was blaming Him. Spencer saw me at my worst. I mean, truly my worst. He witnessed the event that can be no better explained than: “The straw that broke the camel’s back”—The day I drove my in-laws’ stick shift Subaru Forester into my apartment building.

Take a moment to read that again. In fact, I’ll just make it east and copy and paste: I drove my in-laws’ stick shift Subaru Forester into my apartment building. Yep. Last Friday, Spencer and I were going to wash our van and their car while we had it for the weekend. He and I both felt confident I could pull it in to the lot. I started off beautifully—probably the best I ever have with a clutch. Spencer waved me in, giving me the thumbs up and then TERROR. I couldn’t stop. How I wished I could have killed the engine at that moment. I was begging, pleading with the car to stop. Nothing. What my right foot thought was the break…well, it was the clutch. I drove right over the rose bushes and right through the support beam that holds up my roof. Thankfully there are two of them and thankfully no one was hurt. Needless to say, I was mortified. Humiliated. Devastated. Ticked.

As soon as Spencer was able to back the car up out of the beam and I saw that the Subaru was virtually unscathed (a miracle in itself), I ran into the house and immediately began bawling my eyes out.

“I’ve ruined our lives…I’ve ruined everything!”

Spinning in my mind was the anticipated disappointment of my mother and father-in-law, the cost of the damage, Spencer’s disappointment in me. The disappointment in myself. I felt in that moment that my whole word had just come crashing down. I cried and asked Spencer why this happened to us…after all we’d been through.

Why did God let this happen? Why didn’t He whisper in my ear and tell me not to drive the car? Why, when He knew we couldn’t afford to pay for the damage? WHY?

I was so angry at first. I said things to God and about my Faith that I never thought would be in my thoughts, let alone pass my lips. I was lost and truly broken. After I had the chance to calm down and get a grip on things, I asked God to forgive me for the things I said. I didn’t mean all of them but I definitely still had questions that needed to be answered.

It was after I read that chapter in the book that I realized my need for God more than ever before. It wasn’t that He was punishing me, although I have to admit it crossed my mind several times. I didn’t even think I was being punished when River died. (That gives you a little perspective on how irrational I was thinking about the car situation.) But to me, it was just the last straw. What I realized though was my need for God’s love, for His approval and for His guidance. After all that had happened, I really didn’t know who I was anymore or what I was here for. What was my purpose? I didn’t fit the conventional title of “Mother” but I wasn’t just a wife anymore either. Who was I? In that moment, God just gently spoke to me:

You are my child and I love you.

I know how deeply I love River and it was then I realized that God loved me more than even that—more than I can fathom. A perfect parent’s love. Without River, I may have never known just how deep a love for a child can go and I may have never had a glimpse of just how much God loves me. But now that I do, I don’t want take it for granted again. Ever.

Father's Day

I spent a lot of time on Friday making Spencer's Father's Day card. I drew a Daddy turtle on the front with a Baby turtle following it. Draw, erase. Draw, erase. I wanted it to be perfect. Last year I bought him a card, expressing my excitement for the day he would be honored as a father. I told him how much I loved him and how I was looking forward to carrying his children one day. I had always wondered what it was like to be pregnant, always wondered what it felt like to have life inside of my womb. I still can't believe we did it. Sometimes, it doesn't feel real. And then I see her face...then I know she's real. And I remember. 


We weren't trying for a baby when we got pregnant. We like to say that we weren't not trying for one. At that point, neither of us were sure if that was God's plan so we decided we really just needed to leave it up to Him. When the test came up positive, "shock" was the only word we could use to describe our initial reaction. I almost think I was more shocked than he was. We knew this was a possibility but the reality of it was still unfathomable. The first few days with the new title of pregnancy were tough. Of course, we freaked out about bills and finances and what our parents would think. Having enough money for the two of us was hard enough at that point. But we knew that if God gave us this baby, He would provide. It's hard to look back now and know that our story was headed to this ending...right from the very start. To know that when we were given those hospital bills, we wouldn't have our beautiful baby to help soften the blow of the cost, to feel like it was "worth it."
I can't help but think of it in music and movie terms--go figure. I see it as a film with a sad underscore. All the while we were smiling and laughing, the music playing in the background was foreshadowing the devastating event that now looms over us. I know it's fairly dramatic to think in these terms but it's all I know. It's who I am. I can't help it. 


As I prepared for Sunday, my emotions went back and forth between excitement and sorrow, joy and pain. I bought Spencer a new wallet and had it engraved with the words, "River's Daddy" on the front. It brought a smile to my face and a deep ache in my heart. I knew he would be so proud to read those words. He is such a good Dad. It kills me to see him long for our daughter, to see him look at little girl clothes in the store, just as I do. To hear him say things like: "I was imagining pulling her around in a little red wagon...I think she would have liked that." 


I know she would have liked that. And I so desperately want to see him do that. Right now. But, alas, I am pulled back into the knowledge that this will never happen. Not with our River.


Sunday was challenging. Before we left for church, I had him open his gifts (a new shirt, a book of poetry and the wallet, of course). We sat together and cried. Just cried. I was so sad for him. Today was supposed to be much different. Like I said before, I knew the baby would come early. Because of my gut feeling, I told our pastor months before that we wanted to dedicate the baby on Father's Day during the service. What a proud moment that would have been for Spencer. 
As he sat on the couch and I sat at his feet, we looked into one another's eyes and, without words, expressed our disappointment that today would be just another day at church. We wouldn't have to apologize for being late because the baby kept us up the night before. We wouldn't have to make sure to keep her dress clean for the ceremony. We wouldn't have to entertain family while they were in town to celebrate with us. Instead, we did what we do for every holiday: We hit the road, just the two of us. Without a baby, we were mobile and could make the drive to Vancouver and Portland to be with our families on Father's Day. Without a baby, we had no excuse to stay home and play. 
Without our baby we were back to life as it was before. Only this time, we knew what we were missing...

40 Weeks

Today would have marked 40 weeks in my pregnancy with River--my due date. It's amazing to me how, for the last nine-and-a-half months, I had based my excitement all on this very day and now, on this day, all I feel is pain. It was supposed to be my finish line at the end of my daughter's prenatal race. From this point on, it would mark the beginning of her life outside the womb. We all know it didn't exactly happen that way. 


And so begins the long account...


From the moment I found out I was pregnant, I knew River would come early. I just knew it. My guess was in the first few days of June. I was close. I also guessed she would be a girl. And I was exactly right. I remember journaling about her on the day I took the home pregnancy test. I just felt like I was writing to my daughter. I thought she'd be reading it when she was sixteen, learning all of the things that went through my mind while she was growing inside me. How I wish that could be true. Now, my baby is in Heaven. Only her earthly body remains here on this earth. Sometimes I still can't believe the beautiful glass urn that sits in her bedroom contains the precious face I stare at on my computer screen every day. It's so unreal. 


I go back now to the week before she was born. It was Thursday night and I was at Worship Team practice with my church family. Afterward, like usual, I stayed to talk to my dear friend Cindy who is also pregnant. At the time, she was 10 weeks behind me in her pregnancy. We would always chat about what I had experienced during that stage compared to what she was going through. It was remarkable how different our babies were. I remember her telling me that her little person was very active as of late. I made my usual remarks about how Baby Hadduck was active sometimes but usually pretty calm. At the time, I chalked up the calmness to "personality." I feel like now that I was wrong. Or at least that evening I was wrong. River had been pretty quiet in the last few days. I had felt her move during practice but it wasn't as much as she normally moved while I sang. I tried to ignore it and not freak myself out. I thought I felt her move again while I talked with my friend but, with the knowledge I have now, I would have recognized that as a contraction and not fetal movement. In fact, I'd been having contractions for some time but didn't realize it. For the longest time, I thought that baby girl was simultaneously pushing down into my pelvis, up into my lungs and out to the front. To me, it felt like a big stretch. I could feel her little bottom right up against the outside of my belly. The pressure was more intense than what I felt for her usual movements.  Again, I just credited to the fact that she was bigger now and running out of room in there. At one point in my pregnancy, probably around 6 months, I was keeping track of her movements. I did this for a month or more. It was something pretty typical for pregnancy and I did them mainly for peace of mind. It also was a precaution due to her only having two vessels in her umbilical cord instead of three, which can cause issues with blood flow. After about a month or so, I stopped doing them. They seemed pointless because I knew her movements so well...or so I thought.


On Friday, we took her 37 Week belly photo. Our pregnancy weeks began on Wednesdays so we should have done it then but, as usual, we fell behind sometimes and weren't as accurate as we could have been. I remember recording the video and asking if I should turn my belly from left to right again, doing it slower so it was timed correctly. Spencer said it was fine. I could have done better. Then we took the still photos and, of course the battery in our camera was low. It kept dying during pictures and we would wait, trying to milk every last bit of energy it had left. The pictures we got were rushed. After that, we headed to work. Little did I know that the picture I had taken that morning may have been the last picture I had with her alive. I miss her so much. Spencer and I headed off to work. I was scheduled from 12-4, Spencer from 12-6. I brought my breastfeeding book with me to read after I got off. I remember sitting with Spencer on one of our breaks and telling him that I hadn't felt her move for a while. I began to panic. I tried to stay calm but at one point I even said to him I was afraid the cord might be wrapped around her neck...it was. How I had that gut feeling, I'll never know. Just as my break was coming to an end, I finally decided I needed to call my midwife. I picked up my phone to dial and there it was--I felt her move! It was that pressure again where I could feel her move in all directions...in reality it was a contraction and it took my breath away. How I wish I would have known what my body was doing. My body knew. It knew something was wrong. But I set my phone down and went back to work. Nevermind that I never felt her move again after that. Nevermind that it wasn't actually her...my baby was in distress. My baby was dying. 


Saturday was my last day of work. All of my co-workers were getting excited for the baby to come but were sad I was leaving. It was nice to feel loved. Throughout the day, I had been feeling the pressure again, only this time it wasn't just in my belly. I felt it on my pelvic floor. It felt as if the bottom of my uterus turned into a ball and then released. It was then I realized   I had been having contractions all along.  I was so excited. I didn't even think about the fact that I had been substituting my contractions for movement. I was so oblivious. I began to time out my contractions diligently. It was fun. I was working the front desk that day so I had access to email. I texted my Doula to let her know to expect an email from me. It contained the list of my timed contractions. They were coming every fifteen minutes. She was excited. I called her on my last break and, after describing what was going on, she told me she thought it sounded like the beginning stages of labor. Spencer and I were both shocked but elated, nonetheless. We were going to have a baby! Word at work soon got around and people were just as surprised and excited as we were. My dear manager Andy even studied up on childbirth and was prepared to deliver in the case she came while at work. His humor made us all feel comfortable. We felt so loved by our family at the store. They were just as excited about this baby as we were...and just as crushed when they found out about what happened next.


We went home early from work and packed a bag for the hospital. We were supposed to be going to a family dinner in Portland but didn't think it was a good idea since we hadn't even installed the car seat. I called my Doula again and she thought it would be fine to distract ourselves with family. Afterall, my contractions were still only fifteen minutes apart or so. I called my Mom. We made plans to go late to dinner. I had spaghetti and timed my contractions through dinner. Ten minutes apart and increasing in pressure. Nothing spectacular happened that night. I slept well, for the most part, and woke up a few times in the night feeling a contraction. Nothing too painful, just noticeable. 


Sunday morning, I woke up ready to go to church. It seemed as if my contractions had stopped. I was a little discouraged. As we arrived early at the church to practice music for the service, one of the ladies immediately noticed that the baby had dropped. I had noticed a few days ago but didn't realize it could be recognized by others. That excited me. My contractions started picking up again. I began to wonder how I would deal with them during Sunday School, in which I was one of two teachers for the 0-2 age class. Normally we only have two babies. That day we had five. It was overwhelming. My contractions started picking up even more and I found myself significantly stressed. I knew it wasn't good for the baby to be stressed but I stuck it out...almost bursting to tears, but I stayed. Come time for service, I was relieved to be going out for worship when I realized I was also scheduled to stay for nursery. I quickly asked for coverage and told them I just didn't think I could handle it today. During the service, I sang through my contractions. It felt good. It was something I had wanted to try when the time came and I was pleased to know it was something that would help me through them. After church, Spencer and I went home and decided to put up the artwork in the baby's room. I figured since my contractions were coming stronger, we should get in gear and make sure everything was perfect. We finished that and then Spencer began to install the car seat. We had a feeling we'd be making a trip to the hospital that night. It came down to one piece and Spencer couldn't find it. He panicked. I tried to keep him calm. After much searching and breathing, he found the piece he was looking for. It was safe. Things were really ready. We headed into Portland that night for dinner and games with my family this time. Another ploy to distract us. My contractions got much more intense. I was having to breathe through them, no longer able to talk. My family was excited. We played a dice game and I laughed harder than I had in a long time. I think that sped up my labor a little. When it was time to go, I attempted to sleep in the car on the way home, like I had the night before. I wasn't as successful this time. When we got home, it was late and I just wanted to curl up in bed. I tried laying down and no sooner did my body hit the sheets was I was up and moving around, trying to get through a painful contraction. No sleep was coming that night. Spencer and I began to seriously time contractions. They finally reached consistency! Coming every five minutes and lasting for a minute or more, I decided it was time to make another phone call to my Doula. We decided together that it was time to call the midwife on-call. I couldn't believe this was happening. I was so excited. When I finally got through to the midwife, she began to ask me all of the questions I expected. Then she asked if the baby was still moving around...I was so consumed with the idea that nothing could be wrong I told her I had...or at least I thought I had felt the baby earlier that day. She said everything sounded fine, but I  know now that it wasn't. Things were not okay. River was already gone and I was continuing on, unaware of the sad underscore playing along to my story. Heather, my Doula, came over and we continued to labor at home. It was just how I imagined. My water had not broken yet and I was able to stay with the people I felt comfortable with, in my own home, working hard toward bringing our baby safely and naturally into the world. 


After the contractions came to be 2-3 minutes apart, we all decided it was time to make the journey to St. Vincent's. We grabbed Kara, our friend, neighbor and birth videographer, and hit the road. During the car ride, my contractions came less frequently. Heather told me it was my body's natural instinct that kicked in, keeping me from delivering in the car. I laughed and said that was cool. We worked our way to the elevators. It was around 4 or 4:30 in the morning. I had to pee. The one thing I had learned through this process was to pee between contractions. Nothing at that point was more painful than being caught on the toilet in the middle of a big one. We finally made it to the maternity floor. I leaned heavily on the counter, giving the receptionist my information in between contractions. I was smiling. I was so happy to be there. For those of you who know my previous birth plan of a homebirth, saying I was happy to be at the hospital was a big milestone for me. It was something the Lord really helped me come to peace with. As I walked through the giant glass doors, I said goodbye to my life of just Spencer and I. I was ready to be a Mommy. I was proud to tell everyone why I was there at 4-something in the morning. I followed a nurse to triage and found myself trying to lay down on a bed so they could check me. Just sitting was difficult during a contraction but I did my best to lay down anyway. 


This moment is a moment that haunts me still. A moment I replay in my head daily. The moment they couldn't find my baby's heartbeat. The technician strapped a fetal monitor to my belly and began searching. I was used to dopplers and knew it sometimes took a while for them to find the heartbeart but this time was different. She searched for what seemed like hours in what seemed like a million positions. Nothing. She pulled in another nurse. Nothing. I looked at Spencer and began to cry. He said "No, no" and pulled me to his chest. A doctor finally came in with a portable ultrasound. She pulled up our baby on the monitor and at that very moment, a part of me died. My baby wasn't moving. They pulled up an image of her chest cavity. No heartbeat. The little heart I had seen beating just shy of two weeks ago remained still. She was gone. 
I had no amniotic fluid, the very thing my physicians had been keeping an eye on. The very thing that would signal a problem and likely lead to an induction. The very thing that could have saved my little girl's life was missing. I didn't understand how this happened. As soon as the nurses and doctors left to tell my Doula and friend, I began sobbing and wailing harder than I ever have in my life. It couldn't be true. How could this be true?


My smile was gone, stolen from me along with the life of my child. I couldn't bring myself to lift my head. I walked down the hallway somberly to my delivery room. The sequence of events following that moment were somewhat of a blur. My family had just arrived, coffee in hand and smiles to spare. Everyone was getting ready to spend the day waiting for the arrival of our baby. Soon they heard the news. People flooded our room. Tears flooded our eyes and sorrow flooded our hearts. I was still having contractions but not as frequently. My body was shutting down from the grief. Later, the midwife on duty, Jabke (Yab-kuh) came in and expressed her condolences and began to tell me my options of proceeding in my "unique situation." I had wanted to deliver naturally for the sake of the baby but at this point, that was no longer a consideration. I was advised to have an epidural so I could be mentally prepared for the birth and the meeting of my child. I was terrified. But, after another hour or so, I decided to have the epidural. I cried through the last contractions I could feel while leaning over my hospital bed. I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. 


They began my epidural, the beginning of the end of my journey through pregnancy. My freedom was taken from me as well as my dignity. I could't feel my legs. My backside was exposed without my knowledge. People who came in to visit me saw me laying there, vulnerable and broken. My mother fed me ice chips. I began to run a fever. Many times I thought about asking for a Cesarean...I didn't want to do this any more. I didn't want to have to face the reality of giving birth to a dead baby. I was so scared. What did a dead baby look like? I suddenly flashed back to my last day of work. My co-worker Sam and his girlfriend Megan had just lost their baby girl just after 20 weeks. He asked if I wanted to see her picture. I remember asking him if it was scary to see a stillborn child. He told me it wasn't. It was his daughter and he loved her. As I looked at that tiny image, I saw beauty. She was so small but so perfect. And her Daddy was so proud. 


As time went on, I began to feel contractions on the left side of my body. I couldn't move so they began to be unbearable. Finally, the man who did my epidural came back with a large syringe containing a more potent dose of my medication. He inserted it into my spinal catheter and suddenly I welt a wave of numbness overtake the whole lower-half of my body. My midwife said to let her know if I began to feel pressure "down there." I told her that I already was. She checked me. 6 centimeters dilated and the baby's head had moved down. During the course of this, I had also received Pitocin to speed things up and help me progress. No more than five minutes later, I felt an immense sense of pressure. I immediately knew what that was. It was time to push. I started telling people to get my Doula, get my midwife, get my nurse. I knew that it wasn't like in the movies--that I would have time to breathe through that sensation without the baby coming in that instant. I was partially right. It all happened so fast. Before I knew it, people were holding my legs up, telling me to push. My body took over. I knew when each contraction came, despite my being numb from the epidural. I breathed and pushed my daughter gently down the birth canal with every uterine surge. When the time came, I asked if I could feel my baby's head crowning. She had hair--lots and lots of hair! I smiled at Spencer and began my last set of pushes. Before I knew it, I felt her head emerge...then her shoulders and the rest of her body. Spencer and I were shaking. The nurse had put a blanket up so I couldn't see her. I asked her to because I was afraid of what I might see. Then they asked if Spencer wanted to tell me our child's sex. He looked at me and decided to do it--to fight his fear of what might be a horrific sight...


"It's a girl!"


We clung to one another, sobbing and laughing. We were right. We had our baby girl.  I heard them mumble something about three days...they predicted our daughter had passed away three days ago. Three days? But that would mean-----


Before I had the chance to think about it, my angel nurse, Suzanne, placed my baby on my chest.  She was stunning. I was holding my daughter and it was as if I had always known her. She was mine. Spencer and I started to examine her, to see which traits she had inherited from us. After a while, they took her to weigh her, measure her and clean her. We saw them print her beautiful hands and feet. It was bittersweet. I thought it would be Daddy who would help give her first bath. Or me that would comb her hair. But I couldn't. I was still numb. Numb from the epidural and numb from grief. 


Soon after, family and friends took their turns holding her, all remarking at how beautiful she was. And boy, she was. The rest is sort of a blur. People came and went. People prayed. Soon Suzanne laid our daughter, our precious River Ellen, in her hospital crib. I eventually asked if Spencer could drape a blanket over the glass to hide her face. I just couldn't stand to look at my River with her little mouth hanging open, revealing her purple lips and tongue. Especially if the doctors and nurses wanted me to eat. I felt disgusting.


I had a few bites of a grilled cheese and a few slurps of some chicken noodle soup. I had complained earlier that I was starving but somehow food seemed unappealing now. As people began to leave for the night, the all-too consuming reality was starting to hit again. It came in waves. We decided to have River spend the night with us in our room. We wanted to be with her for as long as possible. Morning came startlingly sooner than expected. It was Tuesday, the day after this horrific event. The day we could start to think about going home. What was home now? Before, we thought home wasn't defined by the place but rather the people in it. Well, now our home was empty. Literally. Our family had been compiled of three members for the last nine months and suddenly, we were back down to two. It felt as if we were starting over. We are realizing more each day, however, that there is no way we can ever be as we once were. We will never again be two. River will always be our first child that made us a family of three. 


It's terrifying to me to think about future children at this point. I wonder how any child will ever live up to River's standard. She was perfect. I know every parent brags about their child but I tell you, she was perfect. Everything down to her curved big toe. Perfect. 


Today, I write this account. Today I cry. Today I mourn over the child I have lost, the dreams I have lost. But today I still hope. As hard as it may be, I still hope.

Oceanside Healing

River's service was on Saturday. Leading up to the day, I was dreading it. My stomach would hurt just thinking about it. What was my problem? After all, Spencer and I both thought it would be a good idea--that it would bring us closure. As I found myself in a movie theater on Friday night, trying to do something "normal" for my friend's birthday, I realized I was more afraid to say goodbye than I thought. When the movie was over and I realized it was 12:15 am on Saturday morning, I found myself overwhelmed with the reality of what was to come.


My mind now goes back to that Tuesday at the hospital. The day they took her from us and sent her precious little body to the morgue. What a frightening word: morgue. I thought that was the day I said my goodbye...the day I cried harder than I ever have in my life, silently begging her to take just one breath, make just one subtle movement to prove this was all a bad dream. I thought that was goodbye. 
I figured a memorial service would be easier to deal with than that horrible day at the hospital. I thought it was more to give others a chance to pay their respects. I was so wrong. Saturday was all about Spencer and I. We were the stars of the show, so to speak. This time we were the ones sitting on the front row. We were the parents everyone was staring at and talking about. It was us. Our daughter is dead. 


During the service, I felt a peace running through me. It was strangely natural. With each symbol of love expressed from the stage, I felt my heart melting through the sadness and being filled with a warm calm that I have been longing for since the moment I found out my dear River was in Heaven. I found myself singing. I was singing! This has not been something I've felt like doing as of late. Anyone who knows me knows how out of character that is. It was amazing to lift my voice to the Heavens again. I felt as if I were truly praising our God, something I have also been having a difficult time doing lately. I've said this before and I still hold to this: I am not angry with God and I do not blame Him for what has happened...but, at this point, I've been having a difficult time communicating with Him. It's like when you think you know your best friend better than you thought you ever could and then He reveals something about Himself that changes your friendship forever. It's not that you're no longer friends but that your relationship has drastically changed and you're unsure how to talk about it. That's how I feel. I feel like I am discovering things about God, wonderful, terrifying things about God, and I don't know what to say or how to act upon my new knowledge. During this time, some song lyrics come to mind...


"I don't know what to say that hasn't already been said,
I don't know what to write that hasn't already been read, 
I don't know what to play that hasn't already been heard,
So, here's my song...You write the words."


I long for the Lord to write the words to my new Life Song. He knows me best and can see the depths of my heart. He knows how my story ends and now... I do, too. It ends with peace. And then it begins anew with eternal life in Heaven with my Savior, Jesus Christ. I caught yet another glimpse of that on Saturday. My first glimpse of Heaven was looking at my daughter for the first time. Her perfect face, so full of wisdom and love--it was breathtaking. I felt as if God Himself lay in her still body and shone through with a radiance only He could possess. I felt like Moses when he came down from Mount Sinai, his face shining like the sun because He had seen the Lord.
My second glimpse of Heaven was at the beach. After her service, my family and I made our way to Hug Point to have a private ceremony for River. (Hug Point was the last beach trip Spencer and I made while she was still living inside of me.) Spencer and I took some of her remains and lovingly placed them in the sand near a majestically beautiful rock. This rock had sentimental value to us. It was a place that looked out at the "climbing rock," a rock Spencer had climbed since his childhood. His family had raised him at this beach and he held special memories there. It was also the rock he and I went to back in high school, when our love was just blooming. At the young age of 17, we spent the day together in the sand and sat on a soft, crimson sheet, against that rock, watching the ocean and drinking in the world. 


As we two knelt down in the sand, I watched as my husband began to dig the tiniest hole. His fingers moved the soft earth gently in order to give our daughter the perfect resting place. When he finished, we prayed to the Lord and gave thanks for our darling River. We each took turns placing our small portions of her in the ground. The image of sewing seed came to mind. How amazing to know that the Lord knit her together in my womb, fearfully and wonderfully. When we were ready, we called our family over and, one by one, they began to spread delicate rose petals on her oceanside grave. As I watched each petal fall on her name I so lovingly wrote in the sand, I felt a peace that passed all understanding. My baby girl had finally been laid to rest in the shadow of our Rock. 


For the rest of the day, we basked in the warm sun and played in the glimmering ocean. It was a day I will never forget. A day that brought healing in a new way. 





"A wonderful Savior is Jesus my Lord,
A wonderful Savior to me;
He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock,
Where Rivers of pleasure I see.

He hideth my soul in the cleft of the rock
That shadows a dry, thirsty land;
He hideth my life with the depths of His love,
And covers me there with His hand,
And covers me there with His hand."

Night Owl

Thursday night was rough. If it's any indication as to how I was feeling, I didn't get to sleep until past 3:00 am. Too many emotions to deal with. It's now 12:42 am on Saturday morning so I guess my Friday night is gone now too...but I have higher hopes for rest tonight. I want to be in the best shape I can be for River's service. 


Thursday night, Spencer and I worked on the slideshow for River that we'll be showing at her service. We spent hours organizing pictures that best represented the time we had with her. It's amazing how you can fit someone's life into an array of images that times to around 12 minutes. Part of me felt wrong for doing that, like all we had to say about her could be said in the length of a few songs. As we tried to time the music and make it perfect, we kept having to stop. The tears were overwhelming. I was literally wailing and sobbing. I thought I was past this phase. I thought that my moments of severe grief would continue to lessen with time. But I guess that probably means in the overall picture, doesn't it? It hasn't even been two weeks. At that moment when I caught myself in the depth of my sadness, I could not help but think and feel the things I felt when I first found out she was gone. All of the memories came flooding back and I felt like I was experiencing it for the first time again. I couldn't stop my mind from remembering. I wanted to scream, to make it stop. But I couldn't. So I just sat there while my mind was penetrated by those horrific memories. 


Laughter, contractions, car ride, front desk, triage, fetal monitor, no heartbeat, fetal monitor, no heartbeat, no heartbeat, NO HEARTBEAT. 


No heartbeat? 


Staring into my husband's eyes, I asked again, "Did this really happen to us? Is this real?" By now, he knows the look--the look in my eyes when I'm about to lose it. He softly pulled me closer to him and began to rock me, whispering, "I know...I know..." I began to pour questions. Many I had asked before but some I had not. Some I was too embarrassed to admit I had. I could tell he was shocked by them. He remained calm though. He was a rock in spite of his fear. Something I finally voiced was the thought that things like this only happen to fantastic people, really good people. A ridiculous thought but an honest one, nonetheless. A friend of mine passed away last year and he was only 25. So young. He was an amazing man. You always hear stories of amazing people living short lives but making a world of difference. In a twisted way, it made sense to me that he died. It made sense that he left a fantastic legacy. To me, it didn't make sense that a tragedy like this happened to me. I am not fantastic. My life is ordinary. Things like this don't happen to ordinary people...do they? In some way, I thought this broke the rules. I thought that there were rules to tragedy and suffering, rules like: One storm at a time. It comes, you deal with it, and it passes. It didn't happen that way for us. We were tangled in a storm within a storm. I thought that River's kidney disease was our storm. When we found out her left kidney didn't work, I embraced it and was ready to brave that storm. I even told our families when it happened that Spencer and I were doing fine and were feeling very blessed to have the opportunity to love this precious being, despite the kidney disease. I said, "Ultimately, this child belongs to the Lord anyway and we trust His will." We trusted His will...and we still do. Never once have I thought about blaming God. I've definitely asked my share of questions though. I just go through these intense bouts of confusion, asking all of the "why's" and "how's" I can. I bounce around all the stages of grief in a matter of minutes and feel shaken afterwards.


I don't know what I thought I was going to accomplish by writing tonight but I feel better already just seeing my heart on a page. It has helped me feel cleansed in a way. I hope I will feel the same way after her service tomorrow. I hope I will feel up to sharing my thoughts with all who are reading this (but most importantly myself). I am so thankful for the support system I have. I wouldn't trade it for anything. Good night and I love you.

A Sunny Day Without You

It's another sunny day without my River girl and I miss her more than I ever thought I could. It’s been over a week now and sometimes I still cannot believe she isn’t here with us. I find myself in quiet moments with my arms pulled to my chest, eyes closed, dreaming of what it would have been like to hold her, to kiss her, to smell her sweetly fragranced skin and to stroke her fine, dark hair. Every time I leave the house, I keep thinking, “She should be going with us.” The car seat is gone, taken out of the car more quickly than it was put in. No baby things to greet us when we came home. Just emptiness. And flowers. Flowers not for a “hello” but for a “goodbye.” I miss her.

For nine months I carried her with me everywhere and now, as I sit in the cool grass beneath the blue sky, I feel strange. My body isn’t sure what to do. I have no child to give my milk to or to spend sleepless night rocking, no child to dream for. Never did I think I would be planning her memorial service rather than making her birth announcements, or thinking about what I will do next May when she’s been gone for a year instead of planning her first birthday. It’s so painful to think about those things.

Each day brings a struggle for me. Not a struggle to believe in God and His goodness but a struggle to believe in myself—to believe I am worthy of this life, that I am worthy to be called a mother…to be called River’s mother. She was so perfect. Everything about her was perfect—her eyes, her nose, her ears, her hair, her hands and feet…and those lips. She looked like an angel, full of wisdom and peace.

 I know God is good, that He is near me, but I have no idea what He is doing in my life right now. I do not understand how I could be so close, to come this far to having a child only to have plans change. Her room was ready, filled with meaningful artwork and love. All of the time spent in that place, only to come home to it just the way it was before…without River. Now we are no longer waiting for her in this lifetime but the next. We are waiting for the day when we can see our daughter’s face shine with life for the first time. How l long to see her and to touch her, to hold her and look into her eyes.  I know I will meet her in Heaven but now it seems so far away.

As I look past my tears, I do see a glimmer of hope. River has already touched my heart and I know she has touched many more. She has inspired me to give my all. Before I was pregnant and even during my time with her, I didn’t really give 100%. I struggle with that guilt, wishing I could have done more for my daughter when I had the chance to but I know that ultimately, she was always God’s to begin with. Nothing I could do would ever compare to the heavenly riches our God could bestow upon her. I promised the Lord that I would dedicate her to Him all the days of her life…and I did. All 37 Weeks and 5 Days belonged to the Lord and I cherish them now more than ever. Each morning I wake up, amidst the sadness and reality that she is gone from this earth, I will choose to live for Christ. I will commit to being the best wife I can be and, for now, the best mother I can be to my only baby, River. I resolve to be pressed but not crushed, struck down but not destroyed.  I am determined to live with the life of Jesus Christ within me and I am determined to share His love with everyone. River’s life will not be wasted. Her life will forever be a living testimony to God’s love and goodness.