The baby you prayed and prayed for and didn’t think you’d ever have. The one you waited longer to announce because at pregnancy #5, the negative comments still stung. The baby you couldn’t wait to introduce to your arrogant family doctor who disapproving, had compared having more than 3 children to the sin of gluttony. The baby you felt moving at 15 weeks. The baby who stopped moving and no longer had a heartbeat at 18 weeks and 5 days. That baby. The wanted, loved, cherished, longed for and hoped for, Watters baby #5. The baby we daydreamed about, daily scouring our endless name ideas list. Our baby. My baby.
Alone in a larger than normal hospital room staring at a familiar scene on a huge screen. The difference this time was the lack of movement on the ultrasound, and the lump in my throat while tears poured unreservedly down my cheeks soaking the pillow. The nurse said my sister was on her way, literally sprinting uphill from three streets over.
“Go home and we’ll induce you when you come back in the morning”, the doctor said as he squeezed my knee. My husband was working out of town for the next three hours. My Mum, sister, and my four 5 and under cried off and on while we waited for him to return and receive the news.
“Because your baby hasn’t been alive now for almost two weeks, I need to prepare you…” one of favourite long-time nurses said as gently as possible. We prayed that the gender would be obvious so that we could choose a name and “move on”, or so we thought at the time. It turns out you don’t “move on” without someone who is part of you. Their memory moves on with you, you carry them with you into your future. I have been changed and am not who I used to be because Isaac Paul is my second son, part of my life story.
After four unsuccessful and abnormally painful I.V. insertion attempts, I began to question God’s goodness. When two days had passed with the knowledge that I was carrying around a dead baby inside of me and it now looked like the baby would be delivered on my husband’s birthday, the thoughts crept in, “Why would a good God allow…” After holding his tiny but perfectly formed body in our hands, the doctor then made a potentially fatal mistake and I started to hemmorhage. While being rushed to the operating room, my unanswered questions of why began to spiral.
Upon waking, white as a sheet with no blood transfusion in my future, being sent home to care for my 4 five and under with no strength or energy, my thoughts settled on “WHY?” Every question I could conjure up began with, “Why…”
Why me? Why our baby? He was loved and wanted. Why did you give a brother to our son only to take him before we even met him? Why did my husband have to lose a son and have the scare of his life thinking he was to lose his wife too, on his birthday? Why was it so drawn out and painful and traumatizing? Why did you allow them to send an anemic home with what felt like next to no blood left? Why did you give me those verses that I clung to as a promise while waiting to conceive again? Why should I believe that this is for my good?
My pastor’s wife wisely told me that I needed to stop asking why and simply believe again that God is good. I wrestled to settle my heart on believing again that God IS good and I struggled, but did eventually stop asking why. God brought much good out of that terrible situation.
A year and a week later, God gave us another son, a brother for our living son. Hindsight is 20/20, and I can now see God’s tender care and infinite kindness and love woven through those difficult days of pain and loss. He was right there the whole time, holding us up and showing mercy at every turn. He was being Himself, He was and is good. He never changes.
Many people prayed diligently with us for a strong and healthy baby #6. There were more times than I’d like to admit during that pregnancy that I called my Mum to babysit so I could run to the hospital to check to see if the baby was still ok.
Trauma, grief, and loss manifest differently for everyone. Please be kind and gentle with those hurting and/or healing, even more so if you haven’t experienced something similar. The pain can resurface unexpectedly, feeling so fresh, and the scars can run deep.
Have you or has someone close to you experienced this type of loss? Would you like to share some ways in which we can come alongside and support people going through this type of loss?
You are not alone.
Living Watters 