We have a baby in heaven…And that is how life sometimes goes. But let me tell you that no matter how many babies seem to be popping out of my uterus at this stage of my life, there is not a single day that goes by where Rich, Adelyne, and I don’t mention our baby…Our Baby Sam.
To be truthful, the very day that I was in labor with Maxwell, and Rich and I actually had the delivery room to ourselves, we each took a moment and cried.
Not because we weren’t thankful for Maxwell—our precious boy fighter that was about to enter our world. But because it is the day when we allowed ourselves, after the last year, to feel the unspeakable pain of our loss…Of our loss of Sam.
You see, they would be a year and a half apart. And as much as we wanted Maxwell, we wanted Sam.
And there was that moment for both of us in the labor and delivery room that we sat crying. Together. In pain. Even though great joy was around the corner.
Resurfacing were all of the questions: could we have done something differently? What if we had been in the States? What if Rich hadn’t traveled to America? What if we hadn’t lived in the that horrible house with the rusty pipes and moldy walls? What if I had remained still-er and moved less? What if…what if…what if…
You, at this moment, are probably ready to engulf us in your arms and say, “Oh children…This was just God’s timing.”
But I would like to stop you and say…”Please don’t.”
Anyone that has ever lost a pregnancy or a baby does not need you to tell them about God’s timing. Maybe we will come to those conclusions on our own.
All we ever need is a hug and a “I’m sorry.”
For you see…the minute that test turns doubly pink, your heart expands and your lives change. And ready or not—life will never be the same.
And that even means IF the baby doesn’t make it.
Your heart has already changed. Your very existence too. So even if the baby does not make it does not mean that your life will ever…ever…ever…go back to the way that it was. And that is just the way that life works.
For the longest time after we lost our baby I kept a journal. Everyone heals differently, and I like to write. No, I don’t normally journal. But this was not a journal for me. This was a journal for my baby. I would start with, “Today was your actual ‘birth’ day. Your sister got all dressed up and wanted to make cupcakes to celebrate you today. And so we all got gussied up, made cupcakes, sang happy birthday to you and read a book about babies. You are not here, and yet you are always near…”
Each entry was raw. And each filled with a memory or a lesson that we had learned from our loss. And many were filled with scriptures that were carrying our souls.
And time.
And not being silent about one of the most silent subjects in the world.
Loss.
Today I think about all of these babies popping out of me. And I stand in utter, humble awe. I know to be able to get pregnant and keep the baby is a gift.
And my gifts have all come wrapped and delivered differently—but none of them will ever out value the other. Even if I don’t have the privilege of raising all of them here on earth.
October. It’s a month of golden sunshine and crimson leaves. It signifies the changing of the seasons. And it’s beautiful. Just like the memory of my baby.
***
Related Article: http://assemblethemins.blogspot.com/2012/10/it-was-necessary.html
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