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.