James Isaac: My "Laughter"

In early 1999, I went back east where my friends and family gave me a wonderful baby shower. I received so many wonderful, thoughtful gifts. There were a few hand-made blankets as well as the typical diaper bags, diapers, diaper cream, and other wonders. It was a wonderful, joyous time of celebration as we all prepared to greet the new little life growing inside me.

Because of all the ultrasounds that I had to have, it was impossible not to know the sex of our baby. Yes, we were having a boy! Even before I had gotten pregnant, I knew that our baby would be named James Isaac. James after his daddy.  Isaac because in the Bible, Isaac is the son of Abraham and Sarah’s promise that they had waited most of their lives for. Not only was James Isaac the son of the promise God had given us, but he was also our little Laughter. Remember, Sarah laughed when God told her that she would have a baby at almost a hundred years old. So when the baby was born, she named him Isaac, meaning “laughter.”

So much about my wonderful baby gave me such wonderful moments of Laughter. Besides, I had always loved to laugh and after suffering from deep depression for a few years, I needed every reason possible to laugh. I was trying so hard to allow God to work in my life and make me His instrument. Being pregnant with my first very beloved, desired, and wanted baby gave me back the laughter that I had been so desperately needing.

I was in about my 36^th week of my pregnancy when the doctor told us that our beautiful baby boy, James Isaac, hadn’t turned yet. He was breech. The doctor spent almost an hour explaining to my husband and me that if James Isaac hadn’t turned by the time I went in for my next appointment the following week, he would have to admit me to the hospital and turn the baby manually.

            I had never heard of such a thing, so we had a lot of questions, the biggest being why would I have to be admitted to the hospital.

            The doctor assured us that they did procedures like that often enough that they knew what they were doing, but yes, there was a high risk that I could go into premature labor. I was far enough along that they were confident the baby would be whole and healthy, but if the baby could stay in and “percolate” (my term, I think) until at least my 38^th week, they’d prefer that. 

I thought it was strange that a week and a few days would make such a difference, but I trusted the

doctors, so I was given a steroid shot as well as the shot new mothers get when their blood type is A negative. My husband and I left, assured that they were telling us what was best for the baby—and me.

            That very evening, I was lying back on the couch, trying to get some rest, when I watched my belly as my beloved James Isaac obviously rolled over into the position he was supposed to be in. I watched his little butt sticking up out of my belly, almost as if it was standing on my back and leaning over, and then it moves from my lower to upper belly! I saw a foot poking out where I could clearly see the imprint, including toes!

There is nothing in the world as wonderful and amazing as having a life grow and move inside of you. We women truly are blessed to be able to hold God’s beloved children inside our bodies. It was such an honor being the temporary home for my precious child. I loved being pregnant.

            Don’t get me wrong, now. By my 38^th week, I was like many other pregnant women who couldn’t wait for the baby to “get out!” We are anxious for the birth in part because being pregnant really is exhausting, but also because we simply cannot wait to hold our Precious in our arms.

            Five or six days after James Isaac turned on his own, I was in class at school when I felt James Isaac drop. I immediately raced to the bathroom because I felt as if I really need to go. When I got there, though, nothing happened. Nothing at all. I was dry as a bone. I thought that was strange considering what I had just felt and the desperate need I’d had to go to the bathroom, but I made my way slowly back to the classroom and finished out the day.

            I thought seriously about calling my doctor’s office, but I had an appointment scheduled for the very next day. I figured if James Isaac had dropped into place unless I was having pains, I might as well wait for the appointment.

            I didn’t worry. 

Why would I worry? Everything had gone so well with my surgery just a few months earlier; there was no reason to worry. James Isaac had turned and dropped. He had done what he was supposed to do. It wouldn’t be long before I would be in full-blown labor.

            I couldn’t wait.          

            In the doctor’s office, I was stripped from the waist down, waiting for the doctor to come in to do his exam to see how close we were to delivery. The nurse came in to listen to the baby’s heartbeat.

            I loved listening to James Isaac’s heartbeat. It was one of my favorite sounds in the world. I always hated that we only listened for a few moments.

            Rather than the fast woosh-woosh-woosh-woosh that we had been hearing for the past six months when we’d listen to James Isaac’s heartbeat, all we heard as she placed that monitor on my belly was a slow, methodical ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum. 

            My heartbeat.

            Not the baby’s.

            She moved the monitor to find a better position in order to hear the baby.

            Still mine.

            The nurse said that she was going to get a different monitor because that one didn’t seem to be working very well. She said something about maybe even letting the doctor listen to get the baby’s heartbeat.

            As soon as she left, I looked at my husband, “Something’s wrong.”

            “What do you mean? She said there’s something wrong with the monitor,” he tried.

            “No, that was my heartbeat we were listening to. We should have easily heard the baby’s heartbeat. We’ve never had any trouble hearing the baby’s heartbeat.”

            “Let’s just wait and see what the doctor says. I don’t think that nurse knows what she’s doing.”

            “No, she knows what she’s doing. There’s something seriously wrong.”

            Deep breath.

            Deep breath.

            You can do it, Polly. Just breathe. Wait until the doctor comes in. He’ll tell you what’s going on. Maybe it’s just what happens when the baby drops and it’s time for labor to begin. It’s going to be okay.

            Lord, help us: “But when I am afraid, I will put my trust in you” (Psalm 56:3, NLT).

            The doctor came in with another monitor and immediately put it on my belly. He said “hello,” but normally he was more talkative. I knew he was concerned.

            Again, we heard ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum… mine, not the baby’s.

            He didn’t take long, “Let’s go downstairs and have an ultrasound. We’ll find that baby,” attempting to sound more confident than he looked.

            I knew.

            I didn’t need the ultrasound to make it so.

            I knew.

            It was over.

            But I went downstairs as asked, laid down on the ultrasound table, and let them do the ultrasound.

            There it was on the screen—as obvious and real as the sound of the screams that were choking me. A heart not moving.

            James said something about it not being real.

            I looked the doctor in the eye and I choked out, “You fix it.”

            “Oh, Polly. I would if I could. I am so sorry,” he patted my shoulder gently.

            “Can we have a second opinion?” James broke in.

            “If you want,” the doctor said as he left us for a few minutes to go get one of the other doctors in the group. 

            We had seen this second doctor before so we knew him.  We trusted him, too.

            It didn’t take long for him to verify what the first doctor had found.

            A different doctor couldn’t change what wasn’t there on that screen. He couldn’t make the baby’s heartbeat any more than our first doctor could.

            The doctor told us our options: he would have to induce my labor so I would have the baby naturally (yes, that means vaginally) but he needed to know whether we wanted to do it right away or wait a day or so.

            James wanted to wait, but I told the doctor that there was no waiting; we would do it right away.

The arrangements were made for me to go straight across the street and be admitted to the hospital. 

            As we were leaving the doctor’s office, the doctor asked me if we should call someone. (This was pre-cell phone days, mind you.) I told him that we probably ought to call my parents but that the call would be long distance. He told me not to worry about that, so we called my mom and dad.

            Mom wasn’t home yet. 

Dad answered the phone.

            “Praise the Lord, Kinseys!” Dad answered exuberantly, as he always did.

            “Daddy? Oh, daddy,” I sobbed.

            And he knew.

            “Is James there with you? Hand him the phone.”

            And James explained that we were going straight across the street to be admitted to the hospital and the doctor was going to induce my labor and that yes, I would have to deliver the baby naturally.

            I guess Dad told James that they would be on their way as soon as they could.

            I was given a room in the hospital in the far back corner, as far away from the mothers on the floor whose babies were crying and cooing. 

            The doctor induced my labor and the wait began.

We learned that there was no heartbeat on March 16, 1999.

James Isaac was born on March 17, 1999.

I can’t even begin to tell you how long my labor lasted except to say that I was induced in the early evening and James Isaac was born early the next morning. 

            Mom, Dad, Katie, and Baba (my grandma) arrived late that first evening. I noticed almost immediately that my mom had a nasty bruise on her wrist. It looked like a hand wrapped around her wrist. She told me that when she had gotten home from work (apparently just a few minutes after we had spoken to my dad), she had walked in and immediately began talking about what they needed to do for the evening and what she had to do for supper and just talking a mile a minute so that Dad was unable to get a word in edge-wise. To get her attention, he had grabbed her wrist. In his anxiety for me, his daughter, he grabbed her much harder than he’d intended or meant to, leaving a hand-shaped bruise wrapped around Mom’s wrist like a bracelet.

My brother and his family came, as well. My youngest nephew, Nate, was only about four months old at the time. We had all been looking forward to having cousins close in age.  

            I was on some pretty powerful drugs that let me sleep through most of my labor, but I was half awake and half asleep off and on throughout the long night. One time I was in between awake and asleep and I knew the doctor was in the room talking with my family. I remember hearing my Baba say that in spite of everything, I looked really good. 

            I also remember my sister sharing with the doctor the story of how she was there to help me after my cyst surgery, but that she was unable to help me when I went to the bathroom. She told him how she’d brought me a spatula.

            In spite of the circumstances, it was still funny.

            It was a surreal moment for me and I wasn’t even fully awake.

            I can only imagine what things were like for my family as they waited and watched.

            Once it was time for me to begin pushing, the doctor realized that the bed I was in was not a break-away bed. I had never heard of such a thing, but apparently, the maternity wards have beds that come apart special for delivery so the Mom can stay in the same bed for both labor and delivery. My doctor was really upset, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. He had to make do with what he had. I was too far dilated and ready to deliver. There wasn’t any more waiting.

            He propped me up on towels the best he could and told me to push when I felt a contraction.

            It did not take too terribly long once I started pushing and my beloved James Isaac was born.

            I couldn’t see, but I listened as the doctor counted as he unrolled the cord from around my sweet son’s neck.

            One.

            Two.

            Three.

            Four.

            I don’t know where it stopped. It was already too much. My husband has said that he heard (and saw) six times. My mom says she remembers the doctor saying seven. Even one was too many. 

            We had our “why.”

            It didn’t make it any easier.

            As soon as the baby was wrapped in his blanket and wiped off a little bit, he was laid on my chest. His precious body was still warm from being snug inside me where my body had been unable to keep him safe.

            He fit in my arms on my breast as if he had been created just to fit right there snuggled against me. 

I loved how he felt.

            My husband and I were not aware of the doctor as he finished removing the afterbirth, stitching me up, and getting me cleaned up.  My husband leaned over me and our baby and we cried as we felt the warmth quickly seeping from the little body in spite of the warm blanket.

            All too soon, the nurse came to take my son away. 

            I slept.

            The nurses brought my son into the room over the next day or so whenever they could.  I was not able to hold him much as I was very weak and in a lot of pain—and on a lot a pain medication.

            I had blood drawn what felt like every hour on the hour. I’m sure it wasn’t that often, but it felt like it. And every single time, it hurt. Bad. I cried it hurt so bad. I couldn’t help but wonder why she was hurting me considering what I had just been through.

            I tried to ask her to stop, but all she said was that she was following orders.

            A friend of mine had come up to see me.  She was a CNA (Certified Nurse’s Assistant); she spoke to the blood nurse and told her to come back at a different time. When the blood nurse left, my friend had my nurse call my doctor and speak to him about all the blood being drawn.

            I did not have any more blood drawn while I was in the hospital.

            (My doctor even apologized later when I saw him in his office. He said that it was simply what he normally did in such situations, but if he had known how much it was hurting me, he would have ordered them to stop drawing blood much sooner. I wonder if that helped him in future situations.)

            James and I both attempted to hold our James Isaac whenever we could. Because of the damage to his neck, we had to be especially careful, so rather than pass him from hand to hand, the nurse actually put our baby on a pillow to be held and transported more easily.

            I sat in my bed, watching my husband as he fell apart—weeping and sobbing—with our son in his arms as the nurse put her arms around the two of them. It took me a while, but I finally was able to get out of the bed and wobble over to take the nurse’s place. 

            The last time we saw and held our beloved baby, I asked whoever was in the room, “Can I kiss him?”

           Can you believe I felt the need to ask such a question? Why wouldn’t I be able to kiss my own son? But I had no idea what we were allowed to do and what we weren’t allowed to do in such a situation. No one came to offer suggestions or to tell us it was ok to love on him just as if…..well, just as if…..

            So I kissed his precious little cheek—his perfect cheek—and laid him back in the bassinet to be removed by the nurse for the last time. 

            It was horrible.

            My husband and I left the hospital that day—just the two of us in a car that had been prepared to be taking home a baby. We went to a home that had been prepared for a baby—baby bed, baby clothes, toys, diapers, bottles, a rocking chair. 

            It was horrible.

            And we still had a funeral we had to get through.

           

            On the day of the funeral, we arrived at the funeral home for a receiving (there would be no viewing) that we had just an hour or so before the actual funeral. I walked into the room where my son’s body was in a tiny box and made a bee-line for that box. I stood before my son’s box and would have crumpled to the floor in my grief had it not been for the loving arms of my mom. She held me up as I wept.

            She finally led me to a chair and the people began filing in. One after another. The line seemed endless. 

            Every single one of my students had come. They were all there.

            I learned later that they were told they had to go to school and were not allowed to leave for the funeral, but every single one of them—and their parents—said that they were going to the funeral and that is exactly what they did.

            While I don’t condone defiance or rebellion, I have to admit that their devotion to me rather than to

the rules warmed my heart as so little at that terrible time did. Even now, fifteen years later, it warms my heart more than I can express in words.

            My doctors came. 

            James, my husband—our baby’s daddy—preached the funeral. All I remember about it was that he kept saying over and over, “I now know the meaning of life. I know now the meaning of life.” I’m still not sure exactly what he meant by that, but it’s what I remember that he said.

            I also remember that during the actual funeral—it was outside at the grave so it was a combined graveside service and funeral, a tiny spider was crawling on my arm and my sister—who is DEATHLY afraid of spiders (if only I could make you understand just how severe her fear is…), swiped it off my arm and killed it—just as calm as you please.

            She had never before and has never since been even half that calm when she sees a spider. It was another surreal moment that stands out amongst all the horrific memories of that time because it was just so odd and unusual as well as so out of character for my sister.

            After the service, we were told to wait because there were people who had not yet had a chance to speak to us. We had a second receiving after the funeral and spoke not only to those we hadn’t spoken to prior to the service as well as many who just wanted to hug our necks a second time.

            It was a long time we had to stand there, but every single person who walked by hugged me and told me how much he/she loved me. In spite of the fact that I was still in a lot of pain and worried about my breasts leaking, it was worth the time and effort it took to keep standing. 

I needed the love.

            Over the next several months, I did whatever I had to do—no more or less. I finished the school year, but the end of that year is a fog. I know I did not work over the summer months, but the only thing I remember is being in my pajamas—a lot. I think I still showered for Sunday services, but beyond that, I don’t think I left the house or showered. 

            I counted down the days—six months—until we could begin trying to have another baby. I lived for the day when the doctor would say that my body had healed enough and we could begin trying.

            This is when I first truly began to feel trapped as if in a deep, dark cave, so dark and so deep that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I was completely alone and scared out of my mind. I had no idea which direction to go to get out of my dark cave. There wasn’t even a pin-prick of light to give me a hint as to where to go.  I had fallen multiple times and had bumps, scrapes, bruises, and pains that made every movement simply unbearable. 

            I made a very conscious decision to sit down on a rock in my cave and stay right there without moving because moving only hurt…..for a very long time.

I grew my heart inside my body

My grief will never end because I grew my heart inside my body 3 different times: 

• James Isaac, stillborn on March 17, 1999
• Panya Ruth, miscarried on November 10, 1999
• Anna Rose, miscarried on November 22, 2005

Now, before you go attempting to correct me and bring out your Bibles and your scriptures and your examples of how things get better as time goes on and so on and so forth, etc., etc., etc., let me ask you a question: Did YOU grow your heart inside your body only to find out at the end of nine months that instead of bringing your heart home and loving him/her and watching him/her grow up to be a wonderful young man/woman, you had to bury him/her into a dark, scary, hole and walk away? And then you had to watch and pray that you didn't flush your baby down the toilet?! Or any of the other number of horrors that come with child loss???

No?

For those moms who are with me, you know and understand that the grief goes on. Forever. Does it mean that we'll forever lie in our beds, never getting up and out and about? Of course not.

What Forever Grief means for us is that as the children of our friends grow up, we are imagining what our babies would have been like "If Only. . ." things had been different for us. Mom, as you get yelled at for breastfeeding in public, we're simply wishing we could breastfeed.

As you get to wipe your baby's face after s/he's eaten spaghetti for the first time and you laugh at the mess, we try to smile through our tears as we think about our son/daughter laughing and enjoying spaghetti for the first time.

Or when your son/daughter makes the ball team and you complain about his/her dirty uniform--again, we are wishing we had a dirty uniform to clean. We'd LOVE to have a dirty uniform to clean. The dirtier the better, in fact.

Is that your little girl/boy squealing in glee on the swing who you're trying to tell to calm down because it's just a swing? We're wishing our little girl/boy could swing on the swing and squeal as loud as s/he wanted. We'd let her/him swing as high as the sky, jump off, and catch her/him while we squealed and laughed right along with her/him.

Did your son or daughter just graduate? Did s/he walk across the stage, lift his/her arms proudly, pumping them to be sure everyone saw him/her and make the principal shake his head with a smirk, embarrassing you while you couldn't help laughing? We're just wishing our son/daughter was here, too. S/He was supposed to be in the same graduating class with your boy/daughter. But s/he's not. No walk across the stage. No graduation. No diploma. No college. No future. 

No marriage. 

So while you're enjoying such things with you're children, maybe for just one teeny-tiny milli-second of a moment, stop and think about all the Mommies (and Daddies) who continue to grieve every time we see you with your son or daughter because you have yours here with you....but we don't.

Yes, you grew your heart inside your body, too, but at least yours is walking around outside your body for you to see. To touch. To hold. To discipline. To cuddle. To watch movies with. To hug. To love. Daily. 

Mine isn't. So a little compassion please when the tears still flow even though it's been 19 years (for me). Or 30 years for my friend. Or 52 years for my sister-friend I've met recently. And it doesn't matter if our babies were infants or older. 

I know that there are those who feel the same way about the death of a loved one who is not a child. I am not challenging that. May God bless you. I am only sharing my heart and asking for a little compassion for those of us (any and all of us) who do continue to grieve our losses. I kindly ask the rest of you to quit making us feel as if we have to put our masks on--to perform--for you because we're having a difficult day. 

You know what?? IT IS OK FOR ME TO STILL BE GRIEVING. Get over yourself. I don't have to "get over it." YOU DO. 

You don't have to be afraid of me when I cry, Friend. Just hold my hand or rub my back or even just hand me a tissue and sit with me. It's ok. I'll be ok in a few moments. Crying is good. It's healing. "It has to hurt if it's to heal!" (The Neverending Story)

Don't worry. I haven't lost my JOY. Remember: I have to experience true sadness in order to know and understand true JOY. So let me experience the sadness. My JOY will be more JOY-FULL as a result. xoxoxo

Remember the Miracles

Seeing God's miracles in the midst of grieving, even after 19 years, is not easy, but it is something I hear Him calling me to do. I'm going to be vulnerable here, folks, so please, be gentle and kind, ok? To this day, I still question, "God, where was my miracle?" concerning my stillborn son, James Isaac and each of my miscarriages, Panya Ruth and Anna Rose. You see, I've heard stories where women went in to have ultrasounds and there wasn't a heartbeat, so they went back to their churches and began a prayer chain. The next time they went to see their doctor, their babies' heartbeats were perfectly normal. Or of women who began bleeding as I did, indicating a miscarriage was imminent, but somehow, miraculously, they delivered perfectly healthy babies. I just couldn't help asking God, "Where were MY miracles?!"

You see, I wanted each of my babies more than life itself. I knew each time I was pregnant that I was pregnant even before I had the proof. I began rubbing my belly immediately and nicknamed each baby. I grew up knowing I would teach (have the career) and be a Mommy. And be the wife of a Pastor. By the time I was pregnant with James Isaac, two of those dreams had come true. The third was about to. God was so good. I knew He was making the third come to fruition. I didn't have the American Dream; I had my God Dream--my God Miracle.

And then I didn't.

And my life was turned upside down and it has never been turned upside right since. In fact, it has been topsy-turvy ever since and all I want is off this roller-coaster. But yet if I get off the roller-coaster, it would mean forgetting my babies, so I here I must stay.

What I must do is begin to remember the miracles God did perform. The miracles I did get from God. It won't get me off the roller-coaster, but it will remind me that God is still in the business of being Awesome and that even if I didn't get the Miracles I wanted, He still performed amazing Miracles in my life that I need to remember. 

So here are just a few of the wonderful Miracles of God in my life, in no particular order:

• My salvation: I became a Believer at the tender age of about 3 or 4 years old. I'm not sure which it was, but I know I was very young. I know a lot of people have trouble with young children's acceptance of Jesus into their hearts because they don't always know what they're doing, but I was quite precocious--if you'll allow me to say so about myself. I knew that I loved Jesus and I gave Him my heart then and I have never wanted to take it back. Have I been perfect in my faith? Of course not. But I have done my best to serve Him with all my heart, all my soul, all my mind, and all my strength ever since I was a very little girl.
• Dr. Steven Merta: the doctor who delivered James Isaac and Samuel and who was there with me through each of my miscarriages. I can't even begin to explain to you what a comfort he was and has been for me then and now. He was an angel God sent to take extra special care of me. Dr. Merta made sure that I was in as little pain as possible during James Isaac's delivery and that I slept through as much of the labor as possible. (Yes, I had to deliver James Isaac naturally even though we already knew he was gone.) When we first saw on the monitor that there wasn't a heartbeat, I cried to Dr. Merta, "You fix it." He didn't get upset; he just patted my shoulder and told me he would if he could. He is the one who reminded us to call home and back then, there weren't cell phones, so we had to call long distance on the office phone; he told us not to worry about it. While I was in labor and sleeping, he even visited with my family. I remember waking up and hearing him chatting with them. I found that to be a huge a comfort. I can't explain why. It just was. After James Isaac was delivered, Dr. Merta immediately laid him on my chest and let me hold him for as long as I wanted. He just took care of me. Dr. Merta even came to our funeral. I'd never heard of a doctor doing that. It meant the world to me that he came. And he was with me for each of my miscarriages. He took care of me each time. When Samuel was born, my heart rate shot through the roof and while all the nurses and everyone else around me went a little nuts, he calmly and coolly delivered Samuel and just took care of us. He was an angel.
• During my first ultrasound with James Isaac, the doctor found a cyst on my left ovary. When I went in just a few weeks later, the cyst had grown a centimeter a week. Concerned that there wouldn't be enough room for both the baby and the cyst at the rate the cyst was growing, I had surgery during my 20th week of pregnancy--between Thanksgiving and Christmas in 1998. I had to be awake for the safety of both Mom and James Isaac. My doctor's name was Dr. Caparossi--another angel sent by God. He had to remove my left ovary and fallopian tube, but everything was healthy otherwise. (Yes, I do wonder why we didn't take James Isaac then. But the surgery was a success; all was well and the longer he "percolated" in my belly, the safer it was for him. How were we to know what would happen just 18 weeks later?)
• When we first got to the hospital to deliver James Isaac, my nurse was the wife of one of the doctors in the practice with Dr. Merta and her name was Angel.
• When Dad answered the phone when I called home to tell them, he knew and all I had to say was, "Daddy."
• ALL of my students at the time came to the funeral. *My heart.*
• My family has always been there for me.
• The fact that I have had Laughter in my life at all even after having a stillbirth and 2 miscarriages.
• Tears.
• David and Phyllis Watson: James' brother David also came when they heard we'd lost our James Isaac. Phyllis had lost a baby, too, many years prior. Our loss was her loss; she had loved our James Isaac, too. They went with us to the funeral when we went to make arrangements. We had been told that it was "free." Once everything was set, the funeral director said, "That'll be $100." James and I just looked at him blankly. David stepped forward with the $100 and told us it was a gift. *My heart.*
• When I left the job I'd been at when I lost James Isaac and Panya Ruth, God provided the next job practically immediately.
• During my quiet time with Him one day, He called me His "Joy Song"
• My Mom--there are no words, but she has been another angel who has let me cry and who has listened to a LOT
• Katie, my sister, who has called and who has sat on the other end of the phone and just listened to me cry
• Songs that have come on the radio or across my Facebook at exactly the moment I needed to hear them
• Every single Hug I have ever received
• I haven't killed myself. There was this one day, in particular when I was driving in the parking lot on campus and I started to speed up towards one of the lamp posts. I didn't slow down, but yet here I am.
• When it was time to deliver Samuel, my heart rate went up to over 200 beats/minute. My wonderful cousin Robin Hodge who has been a neonatal nurse all her adult life was in the birthing room with me (mom made her after what had happened with James Isaac) and noticed the irregular heartbeat. Things got pretty "hairy"--to say the least, during Samuel's delivery. I was pretty out of it, what with the drugs I was allowed to have because, yes, I was too scared not to go through that experience without them. I desperately wanted to have Samuel naturally. You see, I'd had to deliver James Isaac naturally even though he was already gone. It was very important to me to deliver this son naturally, as well. Please don't make me say the words as to why. I just can't do it right now. But Dr. Merta was prepping the operating room for an emergency c-section because of what was going on with my heart. He checked my progress one last time before wheeling my bed down the hall and made the declaration that it was too late. I was just lucid enough to be aware and relieved and ready to push and do whatever he told me to do. Within minutes. my Rainbow Baby, my Miracle--my Sunshine--my Precious, was in my arms against my breast, breathing, crying, warm, and oh, so wonderful. He was HERE. And, like Hannah, God had answered my prayer. He was my Samuel.
• My massage therapist.
• I haven't killed or hurt someone else. (I won't name names.)
• Our trip to Disney World. (Thank you, Katie.)
• Fairhaven Ministries. They even told me to come when I told them I didn't have any money.
• Samuel's joyous laughter.
• Samuel's cuddles.
• Samuel.
• Cardinals. God has sent cardinals to remind me of His Son and His goodness just when I needed them, every time.
• Sunflowers. I love sunflowers. They are another reminder of God and His Son and JOY.
• I survived Mona. (Don't ask.)
• When I miscarried Anna Rose, someone with whom I had a prior connection came and held me--even though I was on the toilet (sorry, Katie) while I screamed and cried.
• Our finances.
• I'm still here. I'm alive. When I was in the hospital in 2009, I seriously almost died. James has told me numerous times that he saw Death in that hospital room. I saw Demons. I also saw Angels fighting those demons for my life. Guess who won?! (For those of you who don't know, I had a severe diverticulitis flare-up/infection. I was in the hospital for a week while they tried to deal with the infection with meds but finally had to do emergency surgery. I had to wear a bag for three months; after three months, Dr. Cox (another angel, btw) reversed the previous surgery and removed 8 inches of colon.) 
• When I was about three years old (or somewhere in there), I almost drowned. Kenny, my brother, and I had been dipping our toes in the water while the pool refilled and I slipped and went in. Dad had been mowing and came flying from the other end of the pool and saved my life. 
• When I was a teenager, I choked on a piece of meat. My brother Kenny had to give me the Heimlich to save my life.
• About 45 days before my wedding 25 years ago, I was in a car accident that rolled my car several times. If I hadn't been so short, I would not have walked away from that accident.
• His High Places Ministries. I went for a week-long session, expecting God to move and Boy, Howdy, did He!!! Praise the Lord!!!

I may not have received the miracles I wanted, but God has performed many wonderful miracles in my life. I haven't even named the so-called "little" miracles!

What about you? What are some of the wonderful miracles of God in your life?

When the Music Begins

"Why are you so eager to die?"--writing prompt (following is what came from this prompt)**Revised**

When the Music Begins

        Frustrated, she screamed and swiped the papers, pens, pencils, knick-knacks, snacks, and drinks off the top of the piano. She repeatedly banged her head on the piano top, screaming incoherently through each pounding. The tears flowed freely. She was powerless to stop her temper tantrum, as she called it; others might have called it an anxiety attack or something more meaningful. She hated herself for her lack of control and inability to change anything, for her weakness.

        As if from out of a tunnel, soft moans of “Mom,” “Mo-o-om,” called her back to consciousness. Taking a quick moment to straighten her clothes and then rushing into the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face, she plastered on her biggest mommy-is-just-fine smile and went in to her son’s room. She fought the catch in her spirit as she looked once again on his too-tiny-for-his-age body. Choking back the sobs, she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her Precious into her arms.

        He sighed contentedly as he relaxed into her, his head on her breast, feeling the solid beating of her heart telling him that it beat for him. “Mom?” he coughed.

        She couldn’t stop the tears, but she could control her voice, “Yes, Sugar-Bear?” She ran her fingers through his hair, snuggling him closer and murmuring soft words of comfort.

        “Why were you screaming?”

        “What?” she was horrified that he had heard her. She had been so wrapped up in her own emotions, she had forgotten how thin the walls were.

        “You have to finish it, Mom,” he croaked.

        “No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. . . .”

She wondered “Why are you so eager to die?”

She knew, deep in her very soul, that finishing the song meant his death. There was something un-namable, something un-identifiable about the connection between her writing this song and her son’s life.

        As long as she didn’t finish the song. . . she refused to finish the thought as she rocked her baby back and forth and her arms, still repeating, “No. No. No. No. No. . . .”

        He hugged her back, whispering, “It’s ok, Mom. It’s ok. Yes. It’s ok. It’s ok.”

         She soon felt his little body go slack in her arms. As she tucked him back in for the night, her tears continued flowing steadily. She leaned over to kiss his adorable, somehow-still-plump cheek and noticed a piece of paper clutched in his hand. She gently unfurled his fingers and smoothed out the wrinkles the best she could.

        Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle her cries even as her mind registered the words written in her son’s baby scribble, “Lord, please tell Mommy that You’ve got this. Jesus, please hold Mommy tight in Your arms as You are already holding me. Tell her it’s ok, Jesus. It’s ok. . . .”

        She crumpled to the floor, grabbed the extra blanket on the bottom of her son’s bed, stifling her sobs. She rocked back and forth, staring at the words on the paper until she could no longer see through her tears.

        After a long time, she gently sat on the edge of the bed and took his slight hand in hers. She kissed each miniscule finger and then held his hand against her cheek as she memorized every inch of her pint-sized Precious.

        Resolved, she quietly stole out of the room and went straight to her piano. She didn’t bother with all the paper and pens. Her heart knew the notes.

        As the angelic music filled the tiny apartment, he smiled in his sleep and dreamed of arms opening wide to welcome him home. . . .

What I really wish others knew about me is...

What I really wish others knew about me is...that I may walk around day in and day out with a huge smile on my face, telling those who ask that I am "Peachy," but the truth is that I am more often than not wearing a mask. Yes, my Lord has anointed me with His oil of JOY more than anyone else, but inside, my soul continues to scream in pain because 3 of my children are not here on this earth with me. Their absence is ALWAYS on my mind and in my heart and soul. 

James Isaac-3/17/99
Panya Ruth-11/10/99
Anna Rose-11/22/05 

No matter the age, child loss is NEVER easy

A close friend of my family lost her grandson over the weekend. He was only 25 years old. Yes, the loss is tragic and horrific. He was the only child of his parents, but one of approximately 7 grandchildren for my friend. 

In spite of the fact that I have lost children myself, I still find it difficult knowing what to say or how to offer comfort to my friend and her family. Hugs simply don't seem to be enough. I know that words right now really aren't as much comfort because so many words can be accidentally hurtful and that is the worst thing we as friends, family, and loved ones can do for those grieving so heavily. 

I know this is how my friends, family, and loved ones felt with each

of my losses, but this time, I'm on that side, too, and I simply feel useless. I know that my friend and her daughter's family are believers, but I also know that as a believer myself, even words of scripture from well-meaning, well-intentioned loved ones could pierce my heart like a sword and make room for the enemy to creep in--to pull me ever deeper into depression and anxiety.

Think of Job's friends and how they spouted scripture at Job and reminded him of things of God, but in the end, only Job was found righteous by God. God even had Job sacrifice and pray for his friends to be forgiven because of their unbelief and lack of true concern and understanding of Job's situation. The best thing Job's friends did for him was sit with him in the early days and grieved with him.

I know it's not much. I know it feels as if we are completely useless if all we do is BE there, but it truly is all many going through the very earliest stages of grief need---or can handle. They don't know how to do handle the wave of emotions that explode through them, so we can't possibly expect ourselves to know any better how to handle things or what to do. Telling a grieving mother that God only gives us what we can handle is a lie from the pits of hell because that mother most certainly has more than she can handle as she lays the body of her beloved child in the cold, hard dirt. 

My heart is broken for my beloved friend and her family. I offer each and every family member and loved one up in prayer and ask God to provide the comfort and peace that passes all understanding that only He can provide. If we're going to mess up when helping our loved ones through their grieving, I pray that we err on the side of LOVE.

Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month--October 2015

As we come to the end of National Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month, I wanted to share a few thoughts.

First of all, I would like to put it out there that one month of attempting to make more people aware of pregnancy and infant loss is simply not enough. People need to be aware of this important subject year round--as we do for so many other vitally important diseases and causes. I am glad that there is at least a time of attempting to make more people aware of something so important. I am thankful that there are those who are willing to do what it takes to stop the silence.

When I lost James Isaac 16 years ago, I only spoken to or known of one person in my life who had ever suffered child loss. The woman I knew had had a stillbirth more than 15 years prior to my stillbirth. She had pictures of her baby throughout her home. She was not afraid or ashamed to share her story. I remember (prior to my stillbirth) being very uncomfortable, yet feeling very sad, around this amazing woman. But she was the only woman who had ever shared with me that she had lost a child.

Once we had our stillbirth, women seemed to crawl out of the woodwork sharing with me about their losses--mostly miscarriages. Because of the fact that many of these women shared their stories with me while I was still in the midst of the shock stage of my grief, I honestly don't remember exactly which women shared their stories with me or even what their stories were. I do know that there were quite a few of them.

My point is that we shouldn't wait until a friend or loved one loses a baby before we share our stories.

We should share our stories with love, pride, and yes, even joy. I loved--love--all three of the babies I lost. I am not a mommy of JUST my living, breathing son, Samuel; I am mommy to James Isaac (born & died March 17, 1999), Panya Ruth (miscarried November 10, 1999), Samuel Josiah (b. May 1, 2001), and Anna Rose (miscarried November 22, 2005).

So secondly, it is important for those of us who are part of this Family to be able to feel free to say that we are Mommy to more than just one child without feeling as if we've brought the roof down or without making everyone around us uncomfortable.

Who do we "fix" or change that? The only way to change the awkwardness around us whenever someone brings up "lost" babies is to be loving and simply let the Mommy (or Daddy) talk. In spite of our desire to say something to "help," saying nothing is typically the best option--except to ask a question or to gently and lovingly let the Mommy know that she is in a "safe" place with a "safe" person. Hugs go a LONG way. As do simple touches. 

Over the past 16 years, I quit sharing with so many people about my losses. The uneasiness that comes into a room says more than any words could possibly say. I don't like or want to make people uncomfortable. But I do want to share about my babies.

I loved--love--them. They were real for me. They ARE real for me. Yes, it is painful for me to talk about my babies, but even more than that, it especially painful to act as if they never were--never to speak their names or to share with others how very much I love each of them.

In truth, writing this blog (and my Memoir) is not easy for me. I am scared to death of how you will receive my story. Not to mention the simple fact that sharing my story is still painful--even though the first loss happened more than 16 years ago. With each post I write, I feel as if I am wearing my heart outside my body, but I've heard that every mother feels that way about her child--whether here on this earth or in heaven.

We're taught about being sensitive, loving, and understanding with those who have physical challenges and disabilities, mental challenges and disabilities, widows/widowers, children who have lost their parents or grandparents or other loved one, and especially with those of a different race. But we aren't taught about being sensitive, loving, and understanding with those who suffer the loss of a baby. We have NO idea what to do with those who have lost a baby.

I'm here to tell you that we need to be sensitive, loving, and understanding with Mommies whose arms are empty. We deserve that, too.

Works Cited

Shen, Jean. "Series 1: Healing of Wounds of the Bride and Growing Intimacy with the Lord." Invitation to His Garden. Prophetic Art. Web. 6 Sept. 2014. <http://www.jbrushwork.com/html/paintings.html>.