I just...knew

I woke up Wednesday morning at 3 am. Divine awakening, I suppose. I was ready. I was done. I was tired. I was as peaceful as I was ever going to be about my little Everett. Cramping soon started, not contractions, just intense cramping. I had cancelled an induction just the day before. We had an appointment that afternoon. I just knew. One way or the other... That day was the day.

Cramping and random back contractions followed me all morning. Our appointment revealed no further progression than 3 weeks ago. We knew were approaching a more risky time for meeting Everett alive. As the amniotic fluid begins to lessen and the placenta gets older, the risk increases. We discussed the stress risks of induction at such an early stage and were "common sense" instructed that there would be no more stress from induction than there would be during delivery. The wonderful midwife walked out and let us talk. I teared up and just told Keith I was tired. I was tired of being scared. I was tired of being anxious. And I was never going to be ready, but I was at complete peace with starting the process that night.

My parents were with us and we went to lunch. We got in touch with the "need to knows". I battled with a text message and Facebook post for nearly 2 hours before anything got successfully sent. We were to return to the hospital at 5, so we just decided to hang out in Sandy Springs. The boys were going to be having "Grandma Wednesday" so it would be no big deal if they didn't see us that night. Nothing out of the ordinary.

For the first time in 20 weeks, I wasn't scared anymore. I was just... Hopeful. I wanted to hold Everett. I wanted to see if we would be the recipients of a healing miracle. I wanted to meet him. To kiss him. To tell him that he was already a miracle. My miracle. Miracles change lives. Blessings change perspectives. I was ready to see my blessed miracle.

We checked in at 5. We walked to our cozy room in the back. I held my Everett bear. Cried for a minute and began to nervously get the room set up. I began to have irregular contractions and continued to feel (physically) awful. The most wonderful nurses took care of us, thanks mostly to the efforts of the HEARTstrings Perinatal Loss team. We didn't have to explain anything to anyone, in fact, most had heard of us and were expecting us anyday.

I was checked a 7 pm and to everyone's surprise, I was progressing. The monitor confirmed irregular contractions. I knew. I was in labor. I woke up knowing, today was the day.

There wasn't really of lot of down time to think or write or text, so I apologize to those expecting texts and messages. We had a steady stream of hospital staff visitors, paperwork, and nurses. Cervidil was inserted for all of like 8 minutes. Figuring it would speed labor, and I already have pretty easy labors, it was removed. Mostly because we wanted the boys and grandparents to meet Everett alive if at all possible, which meant not delivering in the middle of the night. And request number 497 of this pregnancy was born: not in the wee hours of the morning, God.

And every request shy of complete healing was honored. Mother's Day. Gigi finished school. Not Kipton's birthday. Not Grandma's birthday. Natural process. Not in the wee hours. Meet him living. No obvious signs of struggle for Everett. Grandparents and kids meet him alive. Peaceful passing. Peaceful moment for his death. I got to bathe him. Change him. Sing to him. Talk to him. That he meet Jesus in my arms.

I am frankly too tired and in a little too much post partum pain to recant our most beautiful moments. And we had many beautiful moments. May 31, 2012 was the best and worst day of my life. It was the most beautifully painful experience. Nothing unexpected except more time than anticipated.

I don't have the strength for details tonight. But know that it was best day of my pregnancy. The best 3 1/2 hours of the last 20 weeks.

I miss face. His body in my arms. He never made a sound. He couldn't grasp my finger. But he looked at me when I whispered to him. He evened his breathing when Kipton would hug and kiss and touch him, my precious extroverted busybody. He watched me. Heard me. Daddy rocked him. Grandparents held him. Aiden watched him from afar, my little introverted intuitive thinker. Pictures were snapped endlessly.

And suddenly, the crowd was just...gone. Doctors, nurses, chaplains, HEARTstrings, grandparents and the boys-- everyone just cleared out. I got Everett back. And I knew. As certainly as I had Wednesday morning at 3 am. As certainly as the day I met Keith. I just...knew. It was almost over. The joy was about to be sorrow. The NICU nurse with us all day confirmed. I cried as I sang Jesus Loves Me to him. As he silently gulped for air sporadically. We cried. His Daddy assured him it was time to be with Jesus, that we were so thankful he met everyone that loves him most. We told him from the moment we touched him that he didn't need to fight, that Jesus would take care of him. Then.

Then. Less than 15 minuted after his grandparents and brothers left.

Then.

He looked at me one last time. Took a straggling few breaths as the nurse listened to his heart and chest. Then.

At 9:53ish, Everett met Jesus.

There is so much more to write so that I will have raw, real moments forever. But tonight I am tired. And as many of my friends will snuggle their infants tonight, I will cry myself to sleep in this hotel, snuggling only my Everett bear, remembering my Everett. And the joy this day held.

Unrelated, but profound nonetheless

I've spent the weekend totally in love with my family. Watching the boys play together. Watching Daddy be wonderful to them and with them. I smiled all weekend. With tears falling down my face. So happy. So peaceful with my life and where it is. And so sad. So very sad that Everett is not expected to be part of it. So sad that nothing has changed; so sad that nothing has happened to give us hope of healing.

I know. Even now. My God can heal him. He can give him a life of fullness and a life of joy. A life of laughter. A life of playing. A life of building and golfing and learning with Daddy. I know He can.

And I don't know why he hasn't. I don't know why some people get healing miracles and others do not. I don't know why some are cured and some are not. I don't think it has to do with the amount of faith or the amount of change that can come from the healing. I think... That's just how it works sometimes.

This morning at Watermarke church Jeff Henderson said something totally unrelated to Everett, but profound nonetheless. He said that conflict CAN be the conduit to a better story. Now he was speaking to relationships and screenwriters at that point, but since Everett is mostly all I think about, anything is fair game to help me cope.

I want my son to live. I want him to fully experience everything about his wonderful Daddy. I want him to fight with his brothers...maybe teach Kipton some compassion. I want him to laugh. I want him to love. I want him to LIVE.

Or I want him to be perfected in the arms of Jesus immediately. Or at least meet him peacefully, without struggle. Knowing nothing but the arms of those who love him while on earth.

I want to make sure we write a better story with our lives. I want to make sure YOU write a better story because you have "known" Everett. Because we have walked this journey together. Because we have cried and mourned and questioned together.

My miracle is knowing the Jesus that will hold my little boy for eternity. My miracle is knowing that Jesus comforts. My miracle is remembering that day in and day out my Jesus gives strength and peace the rest of the world cannot understand. It doesn't quell my pain. It doesn't dry my tears. It doesn't make it easier. It doesn't make it happy. It does t make it better. But it does give me hope. Because one day the tears will stop. The pain will subside. And there will be joy. Joy of remembering his face. His fingers. His life.

I am faced with that impossible choice anyone has of "pulling the plug". We set a tentative induction date of Tuesday night with an anticipated delivery date of Wednesday May 30. I cried all the way home, a 45 minute trip. I cried for the next 30 minutes upstairs in my bed, holding my Evertt bear. Crying tears of weakness all over his sewn on Bandaids. Shaking from the fear of the unknown. Weak from the emotional drain of picking my son's birthday and day of his death. I wasn't sure I could do it, but I set the date. With the understanding that canceling an induction is easier (read:faster) than scheduling one on short notice.

I basically figured that I'd cancel. That I'd stop it. Or rather Everett would just come. And I wouldn't have to make the choice. *I* wouldn't have to make the choice. The thing is... I've been in so much pain the last 2 days I'm almost not opposed anymore. I am weak from worrying about the unknown. I am exhausted from the fear. From the sadness. From the hurt. I am ready for the joy of seeing his little face. I am ready to hold him and kiss him and tell him that Jesus will take care of him. To tell him that no one loves him more than I do, but that Jesus could heal him and Mommy cannot.

I somehow remembered something I learned from my wise sister: I am not big enough to screw up what God can do. No matter what it is (or isn't), He will accomplish it. So if I pick a date to experience the only real joy I will ever know of my son, I will not be missing his miracle healing. It will happen or it will not. Time will not change it. Our hearts have given up control. I am nearly useless to my husband at this point. I can barely be a minimal loving Mommy. Walking or standing more than about 10 minutes at a time brings on incredible pain in my pelvis. With the development of external hemrrhoids from the pressure Everett has been exerting on my pelvis over the last 3 days, there is NOTHING that isn't painful. Intermittent contractions have turned to contorting back contractions. I will never be ready to give up my little boy, but I am....done with pregnancy.

So I am thankful that I cannot screw up what God can do. I can only screw up how I handle it. I can only screw up my response to what my Jesus has filtered through his hands for my life. May I choose to write a better story. May I choose to plant a garden. May I not ignore the hurt of this life by trying desperately to cover it up with Chrisitan sentiment, and in so doing alienate others... And myself from the true comfort that can be found in Jesus. May I choose to make relationships my priority, not my bank account. May I choose to love others rather than judge them. May I choose to live transparently, for all to see, and maintain integrity. Through it all.

Through it all. May I write a better story. Because of Everett. Because of his unexpectedly long life, not just his tragically short one. May I love better. May I love more fully.

Whether I choose his birthdate or he chooses his birthdate... My faith is not swayed. My hope is not deterred. Even now Everett's life is defying all odds, though no medical change has been found. Even now there is peace when chaos should abound. Even now my Jesus can heal him fully to live in my arms instead of His. And yet, my Jesus may choose to weep with us all as we lose our little miracle child.

Either way,my body is growing tired. My heart is weary from fear, hurt, and worry. My heart is at peace all at the same time. Strength to make a terrible decision or strength to make it another indefinite time period until his natural arrival. His healing, complete. Only complete. Nothing less. My only prayers.

Reality. Smothered and Covered.

It seems in this journey that there are so many emotions to feel simultaneously. And none of them really make any sense at all. Except the sad ones and the scared ones. I have long felt an overall peacefulness with Everett's prognosis. It is the unknown that remains so fear-full. And I've read it and heard it and had it prayed that the fear would disappear. That Jesus' perfect love drives out all fear. And the thing is, I really do believe that.... and yet, I'm still a little fearful. I'm still a little scared.

I have been so blessed to have my Mother's Day prayer answered. I am grateful for all who prayed us through that. I have really only asked for one other thing in this process. I wanted to feel anticipation-- excited, loving, happy anticipation-- to meet my son. I wanted to feel at peace with his life and ready to see his face. Ready to hold him. Ready to feel him in my arms. I didn't know if I'd reach that point. Or if it was even possible. How do you hope to see your baby and know that he will likely die the same day? How does that fit together? How does that work in your brain and in your heart? How do hope, love, and reality collide?

I haven't the foggiest clue how they collide. All I know is that they do. At some point, some where, hope and love meet reality and nothing makes sense. And none of it has to. Because it just.... is. It is what it is. And it's lovely and hideous all at the same time. And we get to pick what we see more of. We get to decide which part we will see: hope, love, or reality. I happen to think a little perspective of them all is really the only healthy way to live. A grip on real life, but covered in hope and smothered in love. When we see ONLY reality, it seems that we see only the negative, the hurt, the fear, the shit. When we see ONLY hope, it seems that we spend much of life crying and disappointed, looking for flowers forgetting that you must have fertilizer and rain to make them grow. When we see ONLY love, well, I don't know that we CAN see that-- we're too short sighted by nature, too unforgiving, too caught up in ourselves. But when you somehow let yourself see the whole picture, life becomes more beautiful. And less "explainable".

I hate being pregnant. I hate gaining weight just to have to lose it again, requiring even more effort than the last time. I hate peeing constantly. I hate slowing down. I don't relish in the kicks to the lungs and bladder. I don't love feeling like the creature inside is trying to claw his way out. I don't enjoy swelling in all sorts of places. That's reality. With Aiden and Kipton that's pretty much how I felt. I just wanted to have the baby and be DONE with pregnancy. I can't say ALL of that has been true for Everett's pregnancy. For the first time, there's been a connection. Maybe not the kind "really good moms" feel, but the kind where I think about him by name, I don't constantly complain about pregnancy (please don't read "don't complaint at all", 'cause that's just a lie). But I feel better at 41 wks pregnant than I did at 38. Granted, I haven't adjusted/seen patients in a week and a half, but still, I don't *hate* pregnancy this time like I did before. Reality, smothered in love.

I dread the moment we drop Everett off at the funeral home to be cremated. I'm not sure how I will survive that moment. I'm not sure I can handle it... Maybe I should just go there intoxicated to numb the painfulness of that day. I have a sinking feeling of fear and anxiety when I can't get Everett to rouse. I get nervous when I consider the possibility of an impending stillbirth. I can't bear the thought of hearing Everett struggle to breathe. Watching him gasp for air, watching him turn bluer than we already expect him to be. I lose myself in the pain of thinking about a precious little newborn, albeit MY little boy, suffocating with no way to help. There is something terribly, terribly wrong with newborns in distress of any kind. And knowing that nothing can be done....nothing can be done... It is heart wrenching. That is reality. And yet, I long to see his little face. I want to hold him so badly sometimes it hurts. In those moments, there are no deformities. In those moments, there is no imperfection in his body. In those moments, he will be mine for always. In those moments, even though they are brief, I forget the pain. I forget the tragedy. I forget about the funeral home. And I just...love my little boy. And my heart overflows and explodes with unconditional, everlasting love. Reality, smothered in love.

I have prayer cloths from several churches. We have prayers from all over being lifted for our family. I have a few newborn diapers on hand, leftover from Kipton. I know where the newbie baby stuff is downstairs. We have been given no chance of coming home. No chance of survival longer than a few minutes. We've asked the "what if" question and have been summarily yet lovingly assured that there is no "what if" without a miracle of healing. And the ultrasounds continue to show the same problems, many of them just getting worse. And I am still fearful/hopeful/worried that the doctors don't know everything. It is unrealistic at best to even be concerned. He doesn't have enough brain to have cognitive function. He doesn't have enough lung capacity to exchange oxygen. His digestive system is in his lung cavity. His kidneys are dysfunctional at best. That is reality. It is UNREALISTIC to be fearful that he might live. But because I am fearful, I suppose there is hope. Hope of an absolute, full on, unexplainable, impossible miracle. Reality, covered in hope.

And so they collide. In this wildflower pasture. With plenty of fertilizer. Plenty of sun. Just enough water. Colors and kinds all intermingled together creating a beautiful landscape. Reality. Hope. Love. You just have to see them all. Embrace them all. And know that you have no idea what flower comes up next. What emotion will grip me that day.

We wait. Somewhat impatiently, somewhat reluctantly for Everett's arrival. We consider making it "convenient for everyone"-- make sure it's not on a holiday or that the service won't fall on a holiday weekend. Make sure the church will be available for the service. Make sure grandparents have cleared schedules and no conflicts and can work "peacefully" until the circled date arrives. Make sure we don't get stuck in traffic. Make sure we get the room we want at the hospital. Make sure it's not on Kipton's birthday. Or Grandma's. Make sure the service is on a date that is best for everyone while not having a big gap of time, but enough time to get everything we want done for the service accomplished. Make sure the photographer has her schedule cleared. Be able to tell patients exactly when I'm coming back and go back to work until then. Give Keith ONE day to freak out about instead of being a little anxious EVERYDAY :)

And all those things make sense. They work well for our overly scheduled, self-centric, intertwined lives. But I look back at all the things I've tried to make happen and I am a bit displeased with much of how it turned out. Few things I've tried to control have flourished. Few things I've tried to fully direct have gone according to idealistic plan. And this...Everett's arrival, is just not something I think I really want to screw up by trying to control it and make sure it's "right" for everyone else. Babies are born on their birthdays. And my baby will likely die on his. How do *I* choose that day based on getting the best room at the hospital? How do I choose that day because it will be convenient for all involved? How do *I* choose to cut short his life, even by a second?

And it all collides. Reality. Hope. Love. We have everything we need now. We found his receiving blanket. We found a matching outfit-- 2, one to keep and one to take him to the funeral home for cremation. We have the urns. Mom sewed a blanket together for him. I stitched his initials into one of his prayer cloths. We have "Brother Bear Everett" who has band aids sewn into his head, his heart, and his tummy. The bags are fully packed. They are in the car. The birth plan has been distributed to all the doctors. We have planned as much of his service as possible. We have an email distro, a text message distro, and Facebook to keep everyone in the loop. There is nothing left TO DO.

So this is me, God, telling you I'm as ready as I'm going to get. This is me "giving permission" for my son's birthday. I've fought it. I've cried about it. I've feared it. And now I'm anxious for it. Excited about it. Ready for it.

The unexplainable peace of reality, hope, and love colliding.

I am irrationally afraid....

A month ago, I laughingly "determined" that Everett would not be born until Mother's Day or after so all of my children would be alive for this one Mother's Day. No one, not even me, really thought it would happen. And here I sit, May 13th, 2 days after my official due date, Everett still rolling around, sinking further and further into my pelvis. On Mother's Day. And in the midst of being so incredibly thankful, SO incredibly thankful, I am still terrified.

My daily devotional aptly reminded me that nothing is impossible with God... And the scripture reference wasn't even the typical "Nothing is impossible with God"' it was about Sarah having a son in a year, despite the seeming impossibility. And I thought immediately "Stop messing with me God". I somehow feel like other mothers who are better mothers than I am would take the fact that i am still pregnant and the devotion as a sign of God's promise to heal Everett. I see it as a sign of love and faithfulness. Of His compassion towards me and Keith.

Because I can't hang my hat on a miracle. I can't bank on it. I'm sure that makes my faith weak. I'm sure that means trust is not one of my strong suits. But I'm not sure my heart can take anymore breaking.

Most everything is ready. All the bags are fully stocked, they simply need to go in the car. The urns are here. The birth plan is set. My living will is written. But I can't bring myself to buy Everett's receiving blanket or "go home" outfit. I can't look at them without tears. I can't find something pure enough. White enough. Without stupid safari creatures. Without lace. That's soft as fleece. Nothing is good enough for him "to go to heaven in". So I keep putting it off, sure that God won't let him be born if I don't have the outfit. And I'm terrified to get it.

I'm irrationally afraid that as soon as the debit card is swiped, my water will break and "it will all begin". I can't begin to describe how much I want to hold him. Much like any other expectant mother. For 22 weeks I envisioned my perfect family of 3 rambunctious, loving, blonde headed little babies. For 8 or so of those weeks I wondered if I could actually handle another baby. And then for about 6 weeks I was overwhelmed by the thought of another baby. And then for about 6 weeks I was really excited. I've always wanted three kids. I've always wanted a bigger-than-average family.

And for 18 weeks, I've been preparing to meet my Everett and know him on earth for only a few minutes, if we get that. So I'm petrified to be "Chrisitianly hopeful and expectant" of a miracle. There is nothing like losing a child. Nothing that hurts so deeply. Nothing that destroys a part of a parent. Nothing that aches so intensely. Nothing that feels more like punishment.

I wonder if this is my penance. Is this what I get for my sin? Is this what I get for my doubt? Is this why I get for my "prodigalness"? Is this my fault? I know it isn't. I know it isn't. I know it is Satan planting seeds. Yet the thoughts still appear.

And the I wonder if this is God affirming what a terrible mother I am. Could I seriously not handle another child? Am I such a bad mother that my son's life has been stripped away or cut excruciatingly short? Have I not loved my 2 boys enough so this is my lesson? Take a son away and see how you like that? Am I such a bad mother that I couldn't love Everett the way he should be loved? Am I? And if not, why take him? Why steal my baby? I can love him, Lord, I promise I can. I can love him. Please, please, please. Please don't steal my baby's life. I can love him. I can.

And I am irrationally afraid of buying his receiving blankets. Or buying his "go home" outfit. I've cried in TJ Maxx, Target, Babies R Us, WalMart, and while online. I want desperately for the last few days to be only happy. To be only joyful. And yet I find myself sad and scared. Thinking every move will induce contractions. Thinking every sneeze will break my water. Thinking buying the stupid outfit will somehow signal to God my readiness.

So I haven't done it. I haven't found it. I haven't bought it. Because I'm not ready to face this. 18 weeks in and I'm not ready to face it. Boot Camp makes Marines in less than 18 weeks. Students complete classes in 18 weeks. Couch potatoes run 5Ks with training that is less than 18 weeks.

But I am not a Marine. I am not studying anything. I am not training for a race.

I am a mother.
Holding on to the last few days of her son.
And there is no amount of time that prepares you for that.

But that doesn't change my hope

39 weeks. 2 days. That's where we are today.


At 22 weeks 6 days we were told Everett would not survive life outside the womb. There was nothing to do. There were too many complications. Too many deformities. None totally "incompatible with life", but when combined, his survival rate was nearly zero. We had been warned multiple times of early stillbirth. There have been no visible improvements in any ultrasound. There are no interventions available for him. Genetic testing has thus far shown nothing.

We have signed cremation papers. We have searched memorial keepsakes. We have ordered urns. We have picked songs for his memorial service. We have gotten outfits for his brothers.


We have fought. We have cried. We have been peaceful. We have been restless. We have been sad. We have been...content. We have been annoyed. We have been thankful. We have been grateful. We have been humbled. We have been social. We have been disengaged. We have been emotionally pretty healthy. We have been nutritionally void of health.

We have run the gamut of emotional states. We have done what no one wants to do; what no parent can fathom having to do.

And there are only a few things that remain constant for me.

No matter the preparation. No matter the foreknowledge. No matter the mental acceptance. I am not ready. There are moments I just want it to be over.... Just done.... So it can stop hurting so much. So we can take the next steps with our family. And yet, I'm not ready to go through it. I'm not ready for my water to break. I'm not ready to go to the hospital. I'm not ready to hold him. I'm not ready to give him away. And the Christian answer is always "he was never mine to begin with; he was on loan from God." Maybe that makes more spiritually sound people feel better. Maybe that makes people who are better than I am feel better. It doesn't do anything ANYTHING to make me feel better right now. Maybe it will later. But right now, I just want my son to be made whole. I just want him to be made perfect. I just want him to lack nothing physically. I just want all the 'wrong' to be made right. Either in the womb or immediately upon birth. I don't want Everett to struggle in anyway. I don't want him to experience anything that remotely resembles pain. I don't want him to gasp for air. I don't want him to suffocate. I don't want a single tube, cannula, or surgery to be discussed. Heal him or hold him, Jesus, those are the only options. Heal him . Or hold him. Because no parent is ever ready to watch, hear, or feel your newborn struggle. Heal him or hold him, Jesus.


Fear. Fear of that day. Of my water breaking. Of feeling no movement. Of contractions. Of pushing. Of receiving a blue baby. That isn't crying. That isn't grasping my finger. Scared. Of losing it. Of losing my mind and heart and composure and manners when it's time to give him away. Terrified. Of being in so much pain after delivery that I can't enjoy the few minutes I may get with my son. Of being so selfish that I don't want to let anyone else hold him. At all. Petrified. That the doctors may be wrong. That Jesus doesn't heal him or hold him. That he may survive. As a human vegetable. Incapable of anything more than digestion, defecation, urination, and supported respiration. Because I am reminded that there are some things worse than death.


And in the midst of these fears I am plagued with hope. Hope that God will indeed at the last minute show off. That He will decide to bring about more than changed perspectives. That He will bring restoration to faith in inconceivable miracles. That my 13 weeks, my trimester of preparing, would be nothing more than a lesson in growing faith. That these 10 extra lbs of depression would be pointless and simply annoying. There is this hope. This idiotic hope. That plagues me. That tortures me.


And yet, we do not have an infant carseat to take to the hospital. So how much hope is that really? Is that just a testament to my lack of faith? Am I as certain as Abraham that God will provide the sacrifice so I don't have to? Am I as certain as the centurion whose daughter needed healing? And the answer is a disappointing no. No. I am not certain. I am not sure my faith is that strong.


But that doesn't change my hope. Or its sincerity. It just makes it all the more frustrating.


And so I continue to pray. Heal him or hold him Jesus. There is nothing in between. Heal him or hold him.


Because Jesus, we are tired. For 13 weeks we have been preparing our minds, our family, our friends, our careers, our marriage, our LIVES for this day that looms ever closer. We are drained from these decisions. We are emotionally exhausted from planning. We are getting stretched at the seams. Because we are still parents to small children who are all consuming everyday. We are still professionals with responsibilities. We are still spouses who have to shift focus from our own needs/wants to what the other needs.

We are parents facing the almost certain death of our third son.

And we are only human.

And we are tired.

And we are scared.

And yet, we are hopeful, even if it not be for a miracle of healing. We are hopeful and expectantly waiting the birth of our third son. Everett Connor. To hold him. To kiss him. To introduce him to his brothers. To bathe him. To wrap him in a swaddler. To create wonderful, cherished memories with him. As a family. Whole and complete if only for one day. If only for one hour. If only for one minute. To hold all of my children. For just one moment. For just one picture.


Hold us, Jesus. And for my little one, heal him or hold him. Nothing in between . The day is coming. Soon.