Many concerned friends and family have been asking how I am doing
and wondering what exactly happened.
Although we will never know exactly why our baby left too soon,
I can share with you what I do know and
maybe it will help someone else who has or will go through a smiliar loss.
As I laid on the bed at the midwife's office while she tried again and again to find my baby's heartbeat-- I cried. It had been a while since I had felt the tiny movements and even longer since I had felt the connection between us that was once so strong. I knew she wasn't going to find a heartbeat. Less than an hour later an ultrasound confirmed it. My baby was no longer living.
On the 45-minute drive home I tried to fight the wall of grief and sadness as my sweet Melody cried with me and held my hand while I drove. I felt sad that this poor 9-year-old daughter of mine had to witness such a painful moment with me but I was grateful beyond expression for the love that poured from her and helped bring me comfort.
When I was home at last I succumbed to the pain that was waiting for me. No longer able or wanting to push it aside I let it envelop me as I clutched my pregnant belly and sobbed over the loss of the little body still inside of me , one that I would not get to know while on this earth. I cried because I loved him. Because I had felt so close to him. Because I wanted him so badly and knew I would have to let him go soon.
The next morning we arrived at the hospital. I tried to be strong and tell myself that I had been through this before and I could handle it again. But the truth was, I may have lost a baby before--my sweet angel, Elisabeth--but I was losing
this baby for the first time and the pain was as raw and fresh as though I had never done it before. Or maybe it was magnified because I felt like it wasn't fair to have to go through it again.
I didn't know it then but God had sent an angel to help me through this horrible time and she came in the form of a nurse named Cherri. She had several early miscarriages and was more compassionate and genuine than any one else ever could have been. She embraced me when I cried. Held my hand when I was in pain. She talked to me like she understood what I was going through and she brought in every available resource she could think of to help me get through it.
Shortly after my labor induction began I was introduced to another nurse from the hospital's TLC team. She came quietly into the room, looked me in the eyes with such sincere sorrow that it moved me to the very core. She gave me a scented oil pillow for my eyes and led Jimmy in giving me the most loving, tender, touch massage. She spoke lovingly of River, calling my baby by name, and expressed love to both me and the baby. She encouraged me to feel, to breathe, to accept, and to love. She left with a prayer and tucked a cotton ball infused with essential oils into my gown.
The next eight hours consisted of tablet after tablet of labor-inducing pills followed by painful contractions and back labor-- both of which were unbelievably painful and neither of which seemed to be doing anything for the delivery. Finally after a large dose I went into hard labor and remembered from the last time what a miracle morphine can be. And also how long eight minutes really seems when that's only as often as the pain-relieving drug could be administered. At 10:22 p.m. my tiny little River was delivered after one push.
"A boy." Jimmy whispered.
My heart stung. A boy.
My boy. My baby boy. I had known in my heart all along I was carrying another son and when I held him in my hands and gazed at his perfectly-formed tiny little body I felt as though I was beholding the scene from somewhere else and that seemed to be so much more painful than just experiencing it for myself. I saw in my mind this poor, sad, wreckage of a mother crumpled on the bed, crying as she held the lifeless form of her son. I saw her husband standing at her side, quietly looking down at them both with pain and fear in his eyes. My heart tore for them all. How sad for them! How could this mother possibly bear it? The loss of this boy they had hoped would someday come. Such heartbreak. Such sadness.
And the worst part of all was knowing that broken mother was me.
Now, two days later, I am home again. River lies peacefully in the cemetery next to his sister and grandmother and other family members who have gone on before him. I know I will carry on. I know the searing, tearing, clawing pain that hovers near me will come and go in waves. There are moments when I can smile and enjoy my children as they tease and joke with eachother. And there are moments when I remember the image of that poor woman--me!--and how she looked and how she felt as she held her baby. I remember the softness of his blanket and the way he looked tucked inside his tiny white burial gown. I remember how he felt in my arms for the last time as I said goodbye to him. And then the pain moves right back in. I can do nothing but surrender and let the tears come. I know they will cleanse me and I know the tide will go back down and allow me to feel at peace again. I know the surges of sadness and guilt and anger will slowly start to come farther and farther apart. But until then I am tumbling and tossing with the waves this trial has brought, knowing someday I will be able to sit on the banks and just gaze peacefully at the memories of the River I love so much.
...little monsters! 
In the morning Hali and Mykaela made cinnamon crescent rolls for us!
