Sabbath Eve Thoughts

My little bundle of energy is finally asleep.  

Whew! 

Finally!

This business of moving from two to one naps is wearing both of us out, but one of us is not willing to admit it at all. ;)  But when she goes down for the night, she is out!  And I have some time to, well, usually clean.  Or collapse early into bed myself.  Or wait up for my dear husband.  Or surf the web looking at fabric and patterns and reading other random blogs and homeschooling information. :) 

(And, by the way, I must apologize for the dearth of pictures lately!  Nate did show me how to get them from my phone to the blog but... I kind of forgot.  And haven't taken the time to figure it out again.  But I will soon! And you will be refreshed in the visual department, and delighted, as I am daily, with our beautiful, growing girl, and maybe even a shot of the growing baby belly too!)

Anyway, tonight, as I was laying there in the dark bedroom, putting Eden to sleep, feeling her little hands twining through my hair, I was pondering.  My phone was playing a recording of "Fishers of Men," and the beautiful music and testimonies both soothed my spirit and ignited my own chain of pondering.  The voices of the prophets diminished in my hearing, and I began considering the various parts of my life, questions I wanted to ask Nate about the Priesthood (as a side note, it is fascinating to me to learn from a priesthood holder all sorts of details about the priesthood and priesthood service that I never learned!) and opportunities to serve in various capacities that have been given to me.   

I have to admit, probably to my shame, that when I'm given a new calling, my first thought is not always joyful and excited.  In fact, oftentimes the first thought that comes into my head is, "Really?!  Why me?!"  Why me, sometimes in that I've-already-got-a-lot-on-my-plate, are-you-sure-you-want-me type way, but more often why me in the sense that I know very well my own limitations, struggles, and lack of experience and I know that there are other people who are much more qualified and better able to do this job!  

So I wonder, "Why me?"

But I say yes, because I'm not going to say no to the Lord, no matter how much I want to. (Please tell me I'm not the only one who has struggled with this!)

Well, tonight I realized that my YES is all He wants.

He doesn't need my skills.

He doesn't need my time.

He doesn't need my particular talents.

I'm not so special that He only wants me to fill this calling 'cause nobody else could do it, or do it better.

In fact, to mortal eyes, my own included, my serving in this calling might have no important effect.

He is able to do His own work.

He doesn't need me to do it.

What He needs, for His work and His glory, (that is, my immortality and eternal life) is my yes.  What He needs for His work and His glory (that is, the immortality and eternal life of all His children) is that some of us say yes.  He will work through us.  But we must say yes.

Of course, saying yes includes giving my skills, my time, my talents, everything I can and need to, to the particular ministry with which I am entrusted at the time, but beyond that, it lies in His hands.  The outcome, outside of me, is up to Him.  The outcome, inside of me, is up to me.  If I say yes to Him, regardless of what He asks and does with my offering, His work will be done in my heart and my life, 

and isn't that what I want?

I said yes when I was baptized.  And I meant it, with all my eight-year-old heart.

I had the opportunity to say yes again as I passed through the temple to receive my endowment,

and I did so, with much fuller understanding and intent.

So why does it matter now?

Why do I need to say yes when the Lord asks me to do this thing?

Because those yes's must be lived out every day, or in reality, what do they mean?

Anyway, just some thoughts on the eve of this week's Sabbath.  I can't do it all, sometimes I think I can't really do much, but I can say yes.  He'll do with it what He wants.  

And I'll get some pictures up tomorrow, I promise!

A Corrupting Influence (a break from all the heavy stuff)

I just had to share this little experience!

On Thursday, Nate brought home the mail at his lunch break.  I was SO excited to get the Ensign for this month, and eagerly ripped off the plastic cover to flip through it while the girls ate their lunch.  H, of course, was intrigued by my interest, so I told her we'd look at it together after our quiet time.

She didn't forget, and as soon as we were up and at 'em again in the afternoon, she wanted to get it out and read it.  We didn't get any farther than the inside of the title page!  There we found a lovely painting of the five wise virgins, and since she wanted to know what it was about, I began to tell her the story of the 10 virgins.  

"Once there were 10 beautiful girls.  They were all good girls, but five of them were wise, and five were foolish.  Wise means kind of smart, someone who thinks ahead, and foolish means someone who doesn't use their head - someone who doesn't get ready and think ahead.  Anyway, these girls were all invited to go to a very special party, a wedding party where someone was going to get married.  They  were so excited!  They got on their best, prettiest clothes - see, beautiful dresses and flowers on their heads!- and then waited for the time to come.  Each one of them had a special little lamp in her hand,  a lamp that they could hold up and light the way for all the special people coming to the wedding when the bridegroom came.  See those little lamps?  What else to they have in their hands? See those little bottles?  Those are bottles of oil.  The wise girls thought ahead and made sure they brought extra oil to burn in their lamps, but the foolish girls did not.  

While they were waiting, guess what happened? It got later and later, and pretty soon, they all fell asleep.  It was dark, and they were all sleeping when suddenly, far in the distance, someone yelled, "The Bridegroom cometh!"

They were all still kind of asleep, but then they heard it again!

"The Bridegroom cometh!"

Hurry, hurry, everybody, straighten out your clothes!  All your lamps have gone out!  Quick, let's light them!  But remember, what was the problem?  The five wise girls brought extra oil, but did the foolish girls? No!  Oh, no!  Their lamps were gone out and they had no oil to light them!  They asked the wise girls, "Please, please, let us borrow some of your oil!" 

But the wise girls said, "We can't give you any!  Then there won't be enough for any of us!  Run, run quickly to the store and buy some!"

But while those foolish girls were gone, guess what happened?  The bridegroom came!  And there was a whole group of people, cheering and dancing and playing music, and the five wise girls got to run in the front with their lamps burning brightly! (a little poetic license;) Everyone was cheering, "The bridegroom cometh!  Hurray! Hurray! The bridegroom cometh!"

They all went along to the bride's house and then they all went inside! And because it was night, they shut the big gates, boom!, and locked them so no bad guys would sneak into the party.  It was such a great party!  There was light and tasty food and music and dancing, and everyone was so happy!

After a while, those five foolish girls came running up to the door, and they knocked on the door, bang! Bang! Bang! 

"Let us in! Let us in!" 

But the bridegroom said,"I'm sorry, I don't know who you are! I can't open the door!"  And those foolish girls were left outside.  They didn't get to go to the party at all.

This was all told in half-narrative, half-dramatized voice, and H. loved it so much that she had me repeat it three times in a row!  Her favorite part was hearing me shout, "The Bridegroom cometh!"  and then running around and dancing and holding up her "lamp" while cheering and shouting it herself. ;)  Lots of fun!

Awhile later, her mama came to get her.  Of course, at that moment, the adults are all in a hurry and the children are all like molasses.  I hustled H. upstairs to get the blanket she'd brought, and we found Eden in the spare bedroom, investigating a box of prepackaged alcohol wipes.  (Nate was nearby.)  H. wanted to know what those little things were, so I told her. 

"They're alcohol wipes.  Come on, lets go!"

"Can I have one?"

Aaahhh! Let's go! "Sure! Here, here is one for you.  Now let's go!  Your mama is waiting downstairs!"

"Oh! OK.  I'll save it til I'm grown up!"

What?! That's strange. Whatever! 

She still dawdled.  I tried to gently hurry her along.  No luck.  At the top of the stairs, she totally stalled.  You know how little kids' pockets and hands never quite seem to fit together properly?  She was trying to stuff it into her pocket without success, and would not go until it was safely stowed.  I told her to just go downstairs and her mama would help her, but she started to hyperventilate and lock her knees so I offered to just put it in her pocket myself.  That calmed her down.

"And so my mama won't know.  It will be a secret!  She can't know!  Hide it from her!"

Again, what?! 

"Honey, its ok! You can show it to her and she'll help you use it!"

"No! No! We have to keep it a secret!"

Ok.  Whatever.  It was in her pocket, we finally made it downstairs and they were out the door.  

Fifteen minutes later, as Nate and I were getting ready for a date, I heard my text alert ding.  It was from H.'s mom.  Apparently, H. couldn't hold her secret in any longer and so she confided to her mother that I had given her alcohol to drink, and it was hidden in her pocket!!!!  

AAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!

That was why she told me she'd "save it until she was grown up!" That was why she wanted to keep it as secret from mommy! and why she freaked out about taking it downstairs in the open!

So here I am, a corrupting influence, teaching my little charge bible stories in the afternoon and then sending her home with a little alcohol in her pocket.  Yep, that's me!

(Thankfully her mom trusts me, and carefully explained what I'd actually given her and how it was used.  I'd hate to think what kind of memories of me she'd carry through her life if not!)

Women of Character

First, thank you to all of you who have left comments on various posts!  I love to know that someone is reading my thoughts, and your words uplift and encourage me.  I may not reply to your comments specifically, but please know that I read and treasure them.  They mean so much to me!

A few weeks ago, I received an unexpected package in the mail.  I always like to get mail, even those random catalogs that come from LL Bean and the like, :) and this proved to be much better than a random catalog!  A dear friend who has known me nearly all my life very thoughtfully sent me some words of encouragement and a book entitled "Women of Character."  Its full of the stories of LDS women, from many backgrounds and through many choices and circumstances, from the early pioneers to today's women.  The essays are just the right length for a busy, tired mama (or anyone else!) to snatch up and read during a baby's nap, a bathroom break, or a brief moment of quiet on the couch, and then mentally chew on throughout the rest of the day's duties.  Its been a blessing and an inspiration!

The other night, after a particularly difficult day, I lay in bed and this book came to mind.  I was having a conversation with myself, arguing back and forth between self-sacrifice and insistent discontent, between bad attitude and stuffing emotions, between wanting to be a good wife and wanting to have things my way...  The mental club kept whacking me upside the head, "This shouldn't be so hard for you... Just suck it up and be happy!...Come on, 'daughter of the pioneers,' what happened to cheerfully living with your decision?..."  I don't know why those things even come to my mind to say to myself; I'd never say them to someone else who was struggling!

So this book came to mind, at first as more ammunition to launch at myself - they did it, why can't I? They even had it worse, what am I complaining about?  Look at all my blessings, why can't I just be content?  It was not pretty.  But then I started to see things differently.  Yes, they were great women.  Yes, they overcame difficulties and persevered and demonstrated faith and love and sacrifice.  BUT! I was reading their stories after the struggle, on the other side of the difficulty, when the trials were passed.  Of course what stands out is the fact that they made it, they did it, they got through with grace and went on!  That's why we read such stories for inspiration!  It suddenly struck me that these women surely had their moments of inner turmoil, that being mortal, they had their moments of weakness, that there were undoubtedly moments when they wished things were, or could be, different, and probably even times when they (*gasp*) had to vent or complain or even burst into tears!  Yet those moments didn't diminish the greatness of their lives, the truth of their triumphs.  I doubt any one of them thought of herself as a heroine or someone who was going to be set apart in history as an exemplar of certain virtues, but here I am, reading their stories for encouragement and inspiration in my struggle.

I don't think of myself as a great heroine or some exemplar to stand on a pedestal.  I know too well my inner (and sometimes outer!) struggles and faults to presume that role even if I wanted to.  But it was a blessing to realize that having these struggles does not mean I am bad, or unable, or weak, or even particularly selfish.  Hard things are hard, regardless of why or whether they "should" or "shouldn't" be.  The point is to get through them the best we can, with forgiveness, faith, and a healthy measure of God's grace to see us through.

Yes, I've been really struggling.  Yes, there are days when my attitude needs pretty constant adjustment.  Yes, there are times when things are not so good.  But I make it through, day by day, and when I can humble myself enough to accept it, the light of heaven gently shines through in small and unexpected ways to ease my burden and help me along.

Random Updates and Thoughts on Grief

Well, sometimes the black clouds roll in and blot out the sun despite our best efforts.  Hopefully we see more clearly after the rain...

Anyway.  So now I'm 15 weeks along and if I can lay quietly (without falling asleep) for long enough, I can occasionally feel the little popping squirms of my new baby inside.  I was so grateful to pass the 12 week mark and find the nausea at first not so constant and now quite rare!  Although I do still throw up if I go long enough without eating.  Blech.  I don't like throwing up at all.  I'm adjusting again to being in Alaska and learning much about myself in the process, and am so very thankful to have a husband who is on my side, who cares about and wants to know how I really feel, and who is willing to sacrifice for me, for us, and for the good of our family.  Nate is truly a blessing to me.

Eden is growing so fast, both in her physical and mental capacities.  She's probably just going through the normal development of an almost 1 yr. old, but without anyone nearby for comparison, it all just seems miraculous to me!  Her comprehension of our words truly amazes me - so many things from "where's Daddy/the light/Jesus/your head/etc.?" to "Put your foot down" (at the table) and "That's not for eating!" (books, crayons, and the like) she comprehends and shows it by either complying, pointing, or looking.  She loves to look at books and even turns pages by herself, though we have to supervise that now that we've had a few torn out!  Her favorite things are going outside and seeing, talking about, or being near other children or animals - horses, cats, dogs, and bears are among the most favored.  She says "dad," and "hi" sometimes, and cruises around holding onto furniture, hands, or legs.  She waves hello, but the bye-bye wave usually doesn't come until after the intended recipient has truly gone bye-bye.  She's even started giving kisses - the open mouthed, gentle "touch my lips to you" type which sometimes turn in to a bit of a sucker fish imitation. ;)  She is amazing to me!

-*-*-*-

I've been thinking about what I have written concerning the miscarriage.  Although the actual experience and the time leading up to it were the most trying physically, and were confusing, difficult and heartbreaking, it was definitely the aftermath and dealing with the emotional, mental, and spiritual effects for the following months that were the most trying.  I remember driving home in silence from the ER, both of us totally exhausted, feeling flat and empty and cried out.  For the first time in months, I was physically hungry.  Famished, in fact.  We stopped and got a doughnut, and when we got home I devoured a small chicken pot-pie some kind ward members had brought over.  Then, despite it not yet being noon, we lay down for a nap.   Nate was hoping to go to work for the afternoon shift, and we were both completely worn out from the morning, not to mention the early mornings, late nights, and constant stress and worry of the last week.

Nate was out the moment his head hit the pillow.  He was so tired!  I, on the other hand, could not sleep, although I was worn out as well.  I was so tired, so exhausted - I needed to sleep - but I couldn't let it come.   Somehow, although I knew our little one was already gone from us, I could not just let her go and go to sleep.  It was the same feeling I'd had in the hospital room - please, hold my baby, so I can leave.  I cannot leave and just abandon this little body on the bed, all by itself.  There, the nurse took my precious bundle and I barely made it out the door, my whole being rebelling.  But who can take the little one you carry in your mind and heart?  I lay there, knowing she was gone but unable to leave her and let unconsciousness take me away.  Hot, agonizing tears slid down either side of my face, pooling in the cups of my ears, soaking into two unpleasantly wet spots on the pillow below.  The physical pain was over - I felt the best I had in months physically - but the mental and emotional agony were almost unbearable.  I didn't want to wake Nate, so I lay rigidly on my back, weeping in silence, struggling within.  I remember finally crying out in my mind, "Jesus, I know she's already with you.  But please, just hold my baby for me so I can sleep.  Please, Jesus, please hold my baby for me.  Please... " over and over and over again.  I had never felt so alone.  Finally, after I'm not sure how long, I saw in my mind's eye a glimpse of my Savior in a white robe, cradling my tiny baby in his arms.  I saw that he held her, and I saw his love.  And I fell deeply asleep.

The bad thing about sleep when you are grieving is that you have to wake up and come to terms with the new reality all over again.  I cried more than I knew it was possible to cry over the next week or so.  There were times when my eyelashes felt strange and I reached to touch them only to find them stiff and white with salt from my tears.  I read online about other women's miscarriages and how so many of them still mourned years after the fact.  I often felt unreal, as if in a dream or some alternate reality.  I sometimes felt crazy - had I really ever been pregnant?  Was I a mother, now, or not? And what about when my milk came in?  Not generally supposed to happen at 16 weeks, but by then it seemed that the medical establishment (midwives included) really knew nothing about what was really happening or going to happen with my body.


Imagine, if you will, a town on the edge of the ocean.  It is busy with life and activity and people and purpose.  There are wharves and docks, and even some boats.  But this ocean is like those on medieval maps - there is no end.  It doesn't go anywhere.  It just extends, and extends... out into nowhere.  Far out, away from the noise and bustle, is a lone dock extending into the waves.  One rope is tied to the very end, and on the end of that rope is not a boat, but a bubble, a fragile transparent bubble, about to just float away on the next strong wind.  The only thing connecting it with the rest of the world is that lone rope. That is the image I have had of myself during that period of time.  I was that bubble, and I felt lost to real life.  Nate was my only connection to reality, the only safe place, the rock I clung to desperately.  Thankfully I had him.  It was several weeks before I lost the unreal floating feeling and began to sink back into a more normal daily life.

Visit Home

I stepped out of the car.  The night was dark, sky speckled with glittering stars, soft sweet dusty fragrance of California summer rising to meet me.  A great elemental peace fell upon me, as if in my whole self were sighing in organic relief - home! Roots reach up again to connect with thirsty branches, and a sense of ease and completion settles over me.  People talk about having a sense of "place," and I feel what that means every time I return to visit my parents home.  I feel like rejoicing in the smallest, most mundane things - turning my eyes upon the arch of sky in its particular shade of summer blue, savoring the toasty warmth of sun on my face and arms, walking over the soft, slippery gold of mown weeds - I cannot express how it fills and grounds and lifts me.  I even find nostalgia in my heart for the neglected fields behind the clay factory that I walk by on my way from the dentist's office to the park.  

Of course, as I realize, it is easier to feel those things when being there is a privilege instead of a necessity, when my visits are by choice and eagerly anticipated instead of by circumstance and unexpected.  But oh! I simply love that combination of people and place and feel in my very being every nuance of season and space.  I so wish I could have it all there! :)

On Friday, much of the family gathered for a dinner and visiting.  Things have changed since our last visit - babies are older, new babies born, all growing and changing and experiencing new things.  There is so much to talk about and catch up on, and its hard to do all at once! We catch each other in little aside conversations, over changing diapers and setting the table, asking and listening, sharing the tidbits that make up our daily life.  And then it gets late too soon and babies must be put to bed and long drives home undertaken far too soon to have our fill of the visit.  We were able to fit in some music though, with accompanying laughter and tears.  Laughter, because of the sheer hilarity of certain family members in combination with each other...

My brothers, egging one another on in lusty harmony (and sometimes disharmony!) with "Let Me Be Your Salty Dog" and other old favorites thrown together into silly medleys of mostly bluegrass with a few nursery rhymes and hymn refrains thrown in for good measure.  I am trying not to wake my sleeping baby on my lap, trying not to wet my pants, laughing so hard I am crying and struggling to breathe.  Its not just the comedy of the moment, great though that is.  I am transported back 15 years to sweaty homeschool days, remembering those same two brothers whanging away on fiddle and banjo, blasting out trumpet duets, experimenting with mandolin and voice and style in the downstairs bedroom between 4:30 and 5:30pm (sometimes even earlier if algebra and civics were particularly dull that day!) while I studied spanish and browsed the chicken catalog upstairs.  

Tears, because having the family all together brings tender hearts and easily touched feelings quickly to the surface again.  Singing hymns in sweet melody, blending our voices in praise and song, brings the angel band close around us and fills my soul with a "peace that passeth understanding," sets my heartstrings to reverberating in celestial chords and choruses, even the kind I "cannot sing."

I also love to be home to watch my parents parent.  They were wonderful parents to me, and I can only hope to be as wise as they have been.  It is a unique situation at the moment, because my mother has the opportunity to watch two grandchildren full time some days while their mother, my sister, goes to school.  Eden is somewhat behind them in age, but I love to see her in action, so to speak, as the caregiver of these young ones and learn from not only my memories but directly from her example.  For one thing, I so very much appreciate seeing her wisdom in its real-life application!  But for another, it helps me not to romanticize her mothering.  Mom is, and has always been, a wonderful mother - couldn't be a better - but it helps me to remember that even so, she is not perfect nor was she as we were growing.  And its ok! Heavenly Father gave us imperfect mothers to bless us!  She has very definite ideas, principles she bases her parenting choices and actions upon, but it is not a formula or in any way a rigid plan - this is living parenting!  It helps me to relax and breathe and be at once more flexible and more determined about my mothering.  I try to observe and absorb all I can while I'm there.

Yes, it was a truly wonderful visit, for many reasons even beyond these, but now we are back at home in Alaska.  And while I am so happy to be reunited with my dear husband again, I can feel the dark clouds of discontentment and depression hovering at the edges of my mind, just waiting for the slightest breeze to sail out and blot out the light.  I won't look at them!  I know they are there, but I am determined to choose the happiness that is here for me and let the light continue to shine.  This is a good life, too! 

As for sharing my experience with the miscarriage - I do not share it to say "poor me," or to in any way to compare it to anyone else's experience, grief, or healing.  I do not share it to hang out dirty laundry.  I do not share it to have a juicy story to chew over.  There is more I will share, partly because this is my blog and I can if I want to, ;) and partly because I think that we share very easily the small, sound-bite smiles and trials of our lives, somewhat less easily the big bright sunbursts of joy, and, paradoxically, too easily and yet not enough, the big struggles and trials.  Too easily the complaints, the self-pity, the blaming and anger.  Not enough, the depths, the changes that come, the new understanding that you can only come to after being broken.  The comfort that can be found even while in the mists of sorrow and struggle.  I do think that the first has to come out somewhere, especially if its been held in for a while, like pus out of a festering wound. And I do think that the second can only be shared in appropriate times and ways to be truly communicated at all, especially in person.  But there is a wonderful and strange effect when it can be shared.  Somehow it is healing, both to the hearer and the speaker.  Honestly shared, it allows us the courage to continue living as imperfect beings in a fallen world.  I never wanted to be a part of the secret club of women who have lost a baby to miscarriage.  But how grateful I was for the understanding of those who had also gone through that valley when I found myself there.  It was, as much as anything, the knowledge that I was not alone.  So, if one person reading my experience is going through, has gone through, will go through a struggle and can find hope and light in sharing or knowing mine... well, I would be honored.  

Baby Mine III

Friday morning.  The last day of round the clock, nausea inducing antibiotics.  A week since it began.  I woke up to an odd feeling.  It was early, around 5am, and I thought maybe it was that I needed to go to the bathroom, but then I realized that my pad was soaked, and the fluid wasn't stopping when I stopped urinating. (Sorry for TMI, this is the whole story.)  In confusion, I put on another pad, and went back to bed.   I still felt strange, so I rolled over to get comfortable and immediately sprang out of bed with a full-on gush of liquid.  Now that, I knew was not supposed to happen.  I changed, woke up Nate, and we called the midwives.  One answered the phone, half- asleep, and told us to go to the nearest ER, and let her know what happened.

She did say the nearest ER, so we got in the car and drove north.  How many times I have wished we had gone south.  Not that anything would have changed, necessarily, but the whole experience, the whole demeanor of staff and personnel probably would have been different.  Oh, well.  We drove north.

There were no contractions on the way there.  I wasn't in pain, I wasn't sick, but I remember sitting as still as I possibly could, not even praying that the baby would be alright as I had the other times, just asking, "Please, be with us! Please, help us!"  As if by not moving, I could keep the future from happening.  We arrived in the beautiful July sunrise, a hot and humid Florida summer day already foreshadowed by the feeling in the air, and walked into the deserted ER.

I will say this - if you have to go to the ER, 6am is a way better time than 6pm, or even 12 midnight.  No one was there.  An oldish EMT with stringy red hair and a few missing teeth helped us with the intake.  He looked a little sketchy, but he was the nicest and most professional of any of the people we interacted with that day.  There was no wait, since we were the only ones there, and they immediately took us back.  By this time, contractions had started up a little, but not seriously and not regularly.  It was obvious by their questions and attitudes that they didn't think my water had broken.  They kept implying maybe I had just wet myself...you know, its ok, pregnant ladies do that sometimes.  Right.  I kept insisting I had not.  A doctor walked in, and without as much as an introduction, did a rough internal exam and told us that there was no dilation.  They checked the baby's heartbeat.  It was extremely elevated, and the baby was very active, causing them to lose it several times.  An ultrasound was ordered.

The policy at this medical center was to put in a catheter for all ultrasounds.  (At least that's what they told us.)  We tried to explain that I had already ingested over a quart of water and not urinated in the last several hours, besides the fact that I was recovering from a UTI.  Nope.  No excuses, in it went.  OH MY GOODNESS!  It was agony. Of course, the nurse says, "Does that hurt?  It shouldn't hurt.Anyway, it won't when you get all filled up." No, of course it doesn't hurt - why do you think I am gasping and tears are rolling out of my eyes? Why do you think I just started to cry? But you're the professional, you know what you're talking about, what you're doing... If this will help my baby, do whatever you have to.

The doctor and nurses left the room, and Nate and I were alone.  Peaceful music was playing from our computer, which Nate had thought to bring. (Several ER visits in one week have a way of letting you know you had better bring lots to do if you're not the patient, or even if you are, because you are definitely going to be waiting.)  The contractions started up again, in earnest, getting stronger, more intense, closer together.  The catheter was agony.  I lay flat on my back, still as possible to avoid the pain that came from jostling the catheter, and tried to relax through the contractions.  At some point I began moaning, loud through the pressure, and then dwindling to soft in-between. It was the only way I could think of to deal with the intense and even overwhelming sensations flooding over me, all the while lying perfectly still on my back.  Nate rubbed my feet, not sure what else to do.  He later told me I made less noise during Eden's labor and birth than I did than.


Eventually, a lab tech showed up.  She was young, and somewhat brash, and informed us that Nate couldn't come.  It was against "policy."  That was enough to make me take a break from my moaning and gasp out a plea for him to come.  She didn't say anything to that, but Nate just stated that he was coming, and he'd wait outside the ultrasound room if he had to.  We wheeled through the halls; my eyes were mostly closed as I tried to hold it together, but I saw the looks on the faces of nurses and people in the halls as we passed.  "What is wrong with her?!"

Sure enough, there was plenty of room in the lab, and faced with a very present and calmly decisive Nate, the actual ultrasound technician let him in with no problem.  She began to "fill me up."  We assured her that it wouldn't be necessary.  I think I actually said, "I don't think I can hold anymore!" and when she checked, sure enough, there was more than enough fluid already in my bladder to see clearly.  I began to feel some relief, as if the contractions had stopped.  As I lay there, eyes closed, trying to regain my equilibrium, I was vaguely aware of her taking measurements, looking at the screen, and then suddenly stopping the ultrasound. Without any explanation, we were rushed back to our ER room, and I mean rushed!

They parked the bed back in our tiny corner room and left, without a word.  A nurse came in and for the first time in my life I really, really wanted to swear.  "Get this (bleep) catheter out of me!" was what was on the tip of my tongue, but thankfully habit protects even in times of great stress, and what I actually said was minus the profanity.  She didn't say much and went about her duties without any explanations.  Although I had a pretty good idea of what she was doing, I felt as if I were supposed to be ignorant and silent.  Any comment, question, or even wincing and crying out were met with a critical and somewhat exasperated attitude.  I felt completely disempowered, if that's a word.  There was instant relief when the catheter was drained and removed, and the contractions had stopped, but I felt an odd pressure.  Hoping against a pretty clear idea of what was really causing that, I told the nurse I had to go to the bathroom.  I mean, honestly, what was I supposed to say? "Um, I think my baby's going to come out now?"

She brought in a commode, basically a grown-up potty chair, and left us alone again.  I climbed off the bed and sat on the commode.  Within a short time, with no real effort I can remember, our tiny little baby slipped out.  Disregarding the mess of blood and fluid, I knelt on the floor and scooped up my little baby, cradled the tiny body in my hands.  It was perfect.  Beautiful.  Not weird and alien-looking like some illustrations make fetuses look.  It was our beautiful, fully formed, just-needed-a-little-more-time baby.  The little legs were curled up, and from head to little bum, it fit snugly in my hands, filling them from fingertips to wrist.  The amniotic sac and placenta were still wrapped around like a protecting blanket, and we didn't know if we were supposed to change anything.  We didn't know if we were supposed to even touch and hold our own baby, let alone remove anything, so we didn't.  We just marvelled at the perfection.  One tiny arm was thrown up over the head.  The tiny mouth was slightly open and the other hand half covered it, as if in mild surprise at the way things had suddenly gone wrong.  Tiny perfect hand, just the size of my thumbnail.  Too soon, we felt constrained to replace the little body, still warm from mine, so recently alive, in the pool of blood, and climb back up where I "belonged."  A nurse and the doctor came in.  In some awkward way, they told us that our baby was not going to make it, that the ultrasound revealed that the heart was no longer beating.  Um, thanks for letting us know.  (When we got the records, we found out that the tech had actually seen the baby in the cervix, and that was probably why she had stopped the scan so abruptly.  No one wants a dead baby born in their lab!) We indicated that we knew and that the baby was in the commode.  I think then they felt super awkward then, because I don't really remember them saying anything else meaningful before they left.  The nurse began to tidy up, and suddenly the door opened again, and a social worker walked in, holding up a baby blanket and saying that someone told her we might need this...

Up to that point I had been so overwhelmed, so exhausted, so absorbed in dealing with the intense physical sensations and uncomfortable psychological situation that I literally felt very little.  I was absolutely in the moment, dealing with whatever came as it came.  I felt wonder and awe at the perfection of that tiny body, and a kind of disbelief and inability to comprehend what had happened, but when that baby blanket was held up, I suddenly was totally engulfed in a wave of the deepest sorrow I have ever known.  It was as if every fiber of my being was overcome with grief.  I covered my face and the tears and weeping poured out of me. It would not be stopped.  I could not stop it.  Even writing this now, going back to that moment in my mind, tears prick my eyes and my throat aches.  I cannot put into words the depth of pain and grief I felt, even more extreme than at my own brother's death.

They lifted our tiny baby's body into the blanket, and wrapped it up a little, and then handed it to me.  It was all I could do to curl up on my side around my baby on that hard, narrow hospital cot and mourn.  Everyone again left us, and Nate and I stayed there with our little one for nearly an hour.  My crying stopped, and I just talked to that little one, telling him/her how very much we had loved and wanted and waited for their precious self, how sad we were to let them go... Somehow it was a comfort to just lay there with my baby, even knowing that he or she was not really there anymore.  We said a prayer together with our baby cradled between us, a prayer so heartbroken and grief-heavy, so raw and painful and utterly submissive and crushed.   And then it was time to leave.

Thankfully there was a nurse who was willing to hold that precious bundle as we walked out the door of that room.  I don't think I could have left if we'd had to just leave our baby there on the bed.  Even so, as the door shut behind us, I couldn't help it - I just broke down weeping and wailing again.  I heard one of the nurses murmur something about me "sure taking it hard." Yes, I was.  I definitely was.  But there was nothing to be done.  We had to leave.  Empty womb, empty heart, empty arms.  Empty.

Baby Mine II

The fever still didn't go away.  Nate had to get up and go to work as usual, so I just lay on the couch and drifted through the day in half doze.  That evening, while showering, I began to shiver again, all my muscles cramping and quaking.  But this time there was a strange sensation, a feeling in my lower abdomen that I had never before had and yet knew immediately was not supposed to be happening right now.  It wasn't painful, but it was wrong, and the fear came rushing back in.  We drove to the ER south of us - we'd had a negative experience at the ER to the north, so although it was slightly closer, we decided it was worth the few extra minutes to go south.  I, having started the pregnancy slender and then lost quite a bit a weight, did not look pregnant, I'm sure, but some ladies sitting next to us in the waiting room inquired about why we were there and why I was so worried.  I will never forget their kindness in letting us go before them, although we had arrived some time after.  The nurse took us back and after taking a sample, left us to wait.  I'd begun to bleed a little, but eventually it stopped.

After what seemed like a very long time, a doctor came in and told us that I did indeed have an infection, in fact such a serious one by this time that they wanted to stop the prescription antibiotics and immediately administer some more powerful drugs by IV.  Thankfully we asked if they were alright for pregnant moms - he had missed the fact of the pregnancy somehow, and had to adjust his prescription a bit, but they got it started and gave me some other follow-up antibiotics to take for a week.  To humor me, they checked internally and reassured me that everything was as it should be - no changes in the cervix to be concerned about.  We even got to have an ultrasound and see the squirming, kicking little baby inside my uterus, which was visibly (as I had suspected) contracting.  But all was well, they said, so we went home.

The intermittent bleeding and contracting continued over the weekend, but I just took it easy and tried to trust that all would be well.  By Tuesday, the midwives said we should go have an ultrasound at a special women's hospital in Orlando, so we drove out there and spent forever waiting in their foyer, finally to be called back for another ultrasound.  Again, the internal exam seemed to show no worrisome changes in the cervix, and the ultrasound showed that, although the little one was head down and very deep in my pelvis, it was active and apparently healthy.  Relief.  But still irritation.  If all was well, why was I still bleeding?  Why was I still contracting?  Why could no one seem to do anything about these things or tell me how to stop?

At this point, I get a little fuzzy on the details.  I think we went south to the ER again, and ended up having another ultrasound, but I don't remember exactly why, beyond the same reasons we had gone before.  All I know is that they showed, and told us that all was well and the baby was fine.  That was what I wanted to hear, and seeing the little legs kick and arms wave was a balm to my mama heart.

Poor Nate.  I was having a tough time of it, but he was still going to work every morning at 6, and at least three nights was up past midnight with hospital runs, while the others he had to take care of his invalid wife.  But he never complained.  He was always kind and considerate and supportive, willing to take my word for any symptom, any worry.  He was my rock.