REDEEMED: Hard to write, hard to read, hard to see

I woke up early on Friday morning. Something seemed wrong. I thought my water might have broken. I was wet and that had never happened before. I called the doctor. The nurse told me he wasn’t in, and to go to the hospital for a check. At the hospital, the nurse put the monitor on my belly, found the heartbeat and said, she thought everything was fine, but I needed to stay to be monitored for an hour. He moved and kicked and I heard his heartbeat for an hour. Before I left the nurse said, “he’s really happy in there.” She thought he was pressing on my bladder and that’s why I was wet.

Thinking back, that’s not just the last time I heard his heart beating, that was the last time I remember feeling him move like that. I went to work, I came home, I ate dinner and I went to bed. He didn’t move all the time, I didn’t worry about it.

On Saturday we went to my aunt’s house. We played outside and chatted and had lunch. When we got home I realized I hadn’t felt him move- but sometimes when you aren’t thinking about it you don’t notice or remember. I drank some cold water; I laid down. I was having contractions- painful ones, but not consistent. I thought maybe he wasn’t moving because of the contractions.

On Sunday we watched to Super Bowl. I thought I felt him move, just a little bit. I was still having contractions.

Early Monday morning, about 3:00 I was wet again. I thought it was the same thing. I tried not to worry about it. At 4:30 it happened again, and I got dressed and told my husband I needed to go to the hospital to get checked. I told him it was probably nothing, but I wanted to be sure.

I went to the same room I had been in just a few days before. The nurse put the same kind of monitor on my belly. She couldn’t find the heartbeat. She tried several different ways. She called in another nurse to try. She couldn’t find it either. They called in a third nurse.

My doctor came in and said, “I won’t say good morning until we are sure it is a good morning.”

They took me to get a sonogram. Although I couldn’t see the picture on the screen I knew as soon as they saw it. Their faces fell.

I couldn’t do anything. I felt the tears, but I didn’t make a sound. I didn’t cry out, I didn’t scream, I didn’t move- I could hardly breath. My only thought was “Why?!” I couldn’t even ask.

The doctor said, “I’m so sorry, it is not a good morning.” He said, “I know the only thing you want to know right now is why, but I don’t have any answers for you. I may be able to tell you when I take him out, but even then may never know why.”

We will never know why my perfect baby’s heart stopped beating.

I needed a cesarean section. He was 37 weeks. He was full term.

My husband was finally able to cme. I had told him on the phone that our baby was gone.

We cried and stared blankly. It couldn’t be real.

The doctor said he would try to get us in as soon as he could, but there were already surgeries scheduled.

The nurse gave us information to help us make decisions. We had to contact the funeral home, did we want a photographer? Should she call the chaplain? She had already called social services. She handed us paper work and a gift basket from another grieving mother.

I stared at the paper work and basket for a while hoping they would just go away.

My husband had to contact our families and tell them.

They started showing up within the hour. I wanted them to have a chance to see and hold him, Michael Eugene- my beautiful lost baby boy, my first son, my heart.

The anesthesiologist came in to talk to me. He told me what would happen, and he asked if I wanted something to ‘help me forget.’ He said, “We can’t offer this in a normal delivery, but in this case I can give you something so that it won’t be so vivid.”

I said, “Yes.”

What did I forget- I don’t know. I remember most how quiet it was.

When my girls were born I remember the doctors and nurses chattering, I remember country music on the radio. With Michael is was quiet. No music, not chatting, no baby crying.

I was shaking uncontrollably. I was so cold. Did I cry the whole time? I think so- I suppose I did forget something.

The nurses cleaned him and handed him to my husband while they finished with my incision.

When I held him for the first time he was still warm from my body. He was pale, but still looked like a sleeping newborn, so still, so quiet, so amazing. He looked like my second daughter. He was tiny, only 4 pounds 5 ounces. I loved him with all of me. I needed him.

Our family came in and everyone held him for a while and cried.

Before our daughters came in the room my husband had to explain to a four year old and a two and a half year old that their much-anticipated baby brother was dead.

“Why did he died?”

“I don’t know why baby, he just did, and we are all really sad about it.”

“Do you want to see him? Do you want to hold him? Do you want to give him a kiss?”

“After today we won’t see baby Michael anymore.”

“Where will he go?”

“He’ll go to heaven with God and the angels.”

“How will he go there?”

“They angels will take him.”

“I don’t want him to go.”

“I don’t either, baby.”

We held him for twelve short hours, and we said goodbye to our tiny son, brother, grandson, nephew, cousin. We said goodbye to our expectations, our hopes, and our dreams for that little boy.

After he was gone I felt empty, my belly was empty, my arms were empty, but I can’t say my heart was empty. My heart was full of love and sorrow. You don’t stop loving someone just because he is gone. My heart will always be full of love and sorrow for my baby Michael.

I wondered when I had my first child how I could make room in my heart for a second child, it felt so full. When I had my second child everything just multiplied, it was magic. When I had my third baby- when I lost my third baby I gained perspective. He taught me things I never wanted to know.

He taught me I’m stronger than I ever thought I was. I’m not angry at God. I’m not bitter or depressed. I don’t feel guilty or jealous. (As some books indicate that I might feel.) I feel sad. I feel sorrow. I feel loss. I feel sorry for myself sometimes, and I feel it’s okay to have all those feelings.

He taught me how much you can love someone you never met.

He reminded me in the biggest way that we don’t get everything we expect to get, no matter how much we want it.

He showed us how much our friends and family love and support us.

He reminded me how important it is to how my girls how much I love them as often as I can.

It’s been just over a month and my girls still ask about him almost every day.

We did have a photographer come in, and I look in the mail box everyday for pictures of that little prince.

I’m usually okay, but it strikes me at random times. “I should have a baby right now.” “How would this be different if I had Michael right now?” I wonder how long this grief will keep me on the verge of tears. I’m worried it won’t go away, I’m worried it will. I wonder if I will ever be able to smile when I think of him.