Hope.
Out of the blue, a gift. A longed for, hoped for, wished for, dreamed of, gift. A surprise. Two little pink lines. And then two more lines. And then two more. Because for whatever reason, the first test is never believable. Neither is the second, but as they say, third time's the charm.
Ten weeks went by. Ten secret weeks of silent excitement. Ten weeks of whispers after bedtime, talks of tiny sleepers and diapers and little hands and feet. Ten weeks of secret list making, names and dates and ideas and plans. Ten weeks of smelling everything, eating less, needing spice and feeling sick.
The night of my younger daughter's fourth birthday, we knew.
An emergency trip to the obstetrician confirmed the bad. And we were sent home to wait. To wait.
Nobody talks about what happens to you when you lose a baby.
No one tells you what will happen.
No one tells you about the utter awfulness of it.
There were some vague instructions from the nurses, and hugs and many quiet 'so very sorry' whispers, and one ugly, abrasive, "I can't help you, have a nice day" from a member of the frontline staff, and that's it.
We went home into the unknown, an unknown that turned out to be dark and hard and painful, physically painful, emotionally painful, utterly awful, and secret. Secret like the first ten weeks. This time a secret sorrow, that time a secret joy.
Our baby died and we watched life go on around us. Two different friends had babies that week, and we could see their newborn pictures in our news feeds, tiny little hands and feet, tiny little baby sleepers, tiny little diapers. Another pregnant friend complained about her growing stomach, all the while my own seemed to grow smaller and more empty with every minute's passing.
On Sunday, two people stood next to me and asked me if we were trying to have a baby. Was there anything coherent in my stammered reply: "no, not really, well, not right now, I mean, we would love a baby, but no, I guess not really now". And in my mind, 'bite down hard. don't cry. smile hard'. So that's what I did.
Our children do not know yet. When they ask, "Mommy, why are you crying?" we just reply with a vagueness of our own: "Mommy's heart is just sad, honey. Sometimes grown-ups have sad days, too".
The other day the words came out, out loud, to a friend. And that night to another. They cried for me. They knew, too. They knew the utter awfulness, too.
Our baby died.
My dear friend sent this poem, along with her love and prayers and the kind of hope that only comes from knowing the truth of life. It's page has been open since she sent it; I read it and read it and read it.
Our baby died, and is gone, undiminished, to the other shore. We know the One who stands there, receiving those lives, receiving our tiny gift, our little undeserved surprise, the never-dying-soul we knew for a secret ten weeks, and so we have hope.
Ten weeks went by. Ten secret weeks of silent excitement. Ten weeks of whispers after bedtime, talks of tiny sleepers and diapers and little hands and feet. Ten weeks of secret list making, names and dates and ideas and plans. Ten weeks of smelling everything, eating less, needing spice and feeling sick.
The night of my younger daughter's fourth birthday, we knew.
An emergency trip to the obstetrician confirmed the bad. And we were sent home to wait. To wait.
Nobody talks about what happens to you when you lose a baby.
No one tells you what will happen.
No one tells you about the utter awfulness of it.
There were some vague instructions from the nurses, and hugs and many quiet 'so very sorry' whispers, and one ugly, abrasive, "I can't help you, have a nice day" from a member of the frontline staff, and that's it.
We went home into the unknown, an unknown that turned out to be dark and hard and painful, physically painful, emotionally painful, utterly awful, and secret. Secret like the first ten weeks. This time a secret sorrow, that time a secret joy.
Our baby died and we watched life go on around us. Two different friends had babies that week, and we could see their newborn pictures in our news feeds, tiny little hands and feet, tiny little baby sleepers, tiny little diapers. Another pregnant friend complained about her growing stomach, all the while my own seemed to grow smaller and more empty with every minute's passing.
On Sunday, two people stood next to me and asked me if we were trying to have a baby. Was there anything coherent in my stammered reply: "no, not really, well, not right now, I mean, we would love a baby, but no, I guess not really now". And in my mind, 'bite down hard. don't cry. smile hard'. So that's what I did.
Our children do not know yet. When they ask, "Mommy, why are you crying?" we just reply with a vagueness of our own: "Mommy's heart is just sad, honey. Sometimes grown-ups have sad days, too".
The other day the words came out, out loud, to a friend. And that night to another. They cried for me. They knew, too. They knew the utter awfulness, too.
Our baby died.
My dear friend sent this poem, along with her love and prayers and the kind of hope that only comes from knowing the truth of life. It's page has been open since she sent it; I read it and read it and read it.
Our baby died, and is gone, undiminished, to the other shore. We know the One who stands there, receiving those lives, receiving our tiny gift, our little undeserved surprise, the never-dying-soul we knew for a secret ten weeks, and so we have hope.
.................................................
I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.
Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone."
Gone where?
Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.
Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone,"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"
And that is dying...
H. Van Dyke
.................................................
My frame was not hidden from You,
When I was made in secret,
And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth;
Your eyes have seen my unformed substance;
And in Your book were all written
The days that were ordained for me,
When as yet there was not one of them.
Psalm 139:15-16
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