Our Judah Story-Part 6-The Aftermath

I remember little from the rest of our stay at the hospital. I was on so much medication and my body was so drained, I slept more than anything else. A few people came to visit us, and I was so tired, I would wake up just barely enough to see who it was, and then fall back to sleep, mouth open and all, without even caring. There were times I tried to stay awake and visit, but I simply could not keep my eyes open.

I remember talking with our grief nurse, Debbie. She was amazing. I don’t think I would have made it through those few days without her. I think we stayed there two more days before they told us I was well enough to go home. They offered for us to stay longer if we wanted, but left the final decision to us. We thought it would be best to leave that room behind. I got out of bed and took a shower. For the first time since our arrival I looked at myself in the mirror. My color was starting to return, but I looked way too skinny. Never had I imagined I would think that about myself, but there it was, hanging in the air. I was too skinny. I had only gained about 10 lbs during my pregnancy, but I lost around 35 pounds in fluid during the delivery. I hadn’t weighed so little since the very beginning of high school. It ached to see the empty spot where my full belly had once been. I would have gotten pregnant again that day if I could have.

We stayed with my parents over the next few weeks. I still needed to be watched closely-I wasn’t out of the woods quite yet. I was placed on strict bedrest. Because my blood pressure was still so high, I was told I had to keep the lighting in the rooms I was in really low. I could watch t.v., but nothing stressful or too intense. I certainly wasn’t allowed to drive, or do any lifting, or cleaning, or even a lot of mothering, for that matter. That was the part that hurt the most. I wasn’t able to take care of the sweet baby I did have.

Shortly after leaving the hospital, we made arrangements for a memorial service and burial. Debbie had somehow managed to get us a spot in a nearby cemetery that was specifically for babies and small children. There technically weren’t any spots left, so I’m not sure how she swung getting that spot for us. We chose a tombstone. It had lambs on it, with the words, “Little Ones to Him Belong.” In case you don’t remember. We still thought our baby was a little girl. We had named her Ruth Abigail. Her name was going to be engraved on the tombstone as well.

In the midst of planning everything, Blake received a phone call. “We have the final lab results from the amnio and CVS in” the voice on the other end informed him. She confirmed that our baby had Triploidy (three full sets of chromosomes), which we already suspected. “There is one other thing I have to tell you” she admitted. She apologized profusely before finally letting Blake know that the little girl I had given birth to was actually a little boy. As soon as Debbie had heard the results, she insisted they tell us the truth, which we so appreciated.

I had been outside when Blake got the phone call. I knew the news wasn’t good when he called me in. There is a lot he doesn’t remember about this season in our life, but he remembers this specific instance with great clarity. Having to deliver the news to me and the rest of my family just about killed him. For me, I had spent my entire pregnancy bonding with a little boy. It wasn’t a huge shock to me. I was sad, yes, and I was a little bit shaken. But my biggest fear was that it was going to be my only chance at having a little boy. For everybody else, however, they had spent time bonding with and grieving over a little girl. It was a pretty hard hit. I never blamed the ultrasound tech. We should have known it was too early to really be able to tell. We never asked for confirmation when he was born. In fact, going back and looking at pictures, we saw the boy parts. We were simply too grief stricken to even think about it. We were so close to the memorial and burial, and now we had to change everything from girl things to boy things. Thankfully, Debbie helped with the bulk of that. We returned pink flowers and got blue ones. I decided on a blue dress instead of a pink one. Those types of things. It was certainly not what we needed at that time. But we pulled through. We made it.

The memorial service was beautiful. Our worship leader sang, and our pastor spoke. Blake and I each shared a little bit. I was absolutely overwhelmed by the amount of people who came out to love on and support us. There were so many people packed into that room-we didn’t even have enough seats set out. And so many of them had traveled to be there, some people I hadn’t seen in a very long time. To say I was surprised would be an understatement. I felt so loved and cared for. The burial the next day was much more intimate, but still so lovely. Our friend, Jimmy, who had spent countless hours at the hospital with us, spoke for it. Some of our dearest friends took time off of work to be there with us. We felt so blessed. It was a beautiful day, and while I felt so sad, I started to feel a little bit of hope. We had named our baby boy Judah Joseph. Judah means “Praise” and Joseph, “He will add.” There were so many promises packed into those two little names. My heart held tight to that. My heart still holds tight to that. And my heart needed all the hope it could get to hold me together for the months to follow.

Our Judah Story-Part 5-Labor

My doctor greeted us as soon as we got to the hospital to brief us on what was going to take place. They would insert the medicine into my cervix every 6 hours (I think that’s right). The medicine takes 3 to 4 doses before it starts to really work, so we shouldn’t expect anything to happen until the next day, at the very least-sometimes it even takes days. I just remember thinking that I could not stay in that hospital room waiting to deliver this sweet little baby that I wanted so badly, but didn’t get to keep.

After our talk with the doctor, there was a buzz of activity. Blood had to be drawn, IVs inserted, X-rays, blood pressure, and temperature all taken. I sat there on the bed, while everybody kept hovering around me, asking me this, inserting a needle for that. I don’t actually know how many people were in and out of that room, but it felt like hundreds. I was sitting there, kind of in shock, praying my heart out to keep my head on my shoulders and one of the nurses mentioned that I seemed to be doing exceptionally well for somebody going through what I was going through. I shrugged and said, “I’m trying.” She looked at me with compassion in her eyes and tenderness in her voice, “Oh honey, you don’t have to try and do anything.” I think it was the first time in my whole experience that somebody actually gave me permission to not be strong. I know nobody expected me to handle everything-I had placed those expectations on myself, but there was something so freeing in her words. I so needed to physically hear those specific words. I think about this instance often, even to this day, even when it’s something not at all related to Judah. Even now, those words still speak to me, breath life into me. Amongst the muddle of everything else, this was a moment of clarity. A truly Divine moment.

We had some time to invite people into our room. We were really selective about who we wanted to be there. We called our pastor to come out, along with one other close friend. I had worked with our pastor’s wife, Sandy, for years at Starbucks. Despite the 20 some odd years difference between us, she was one of my best friends. When we had worked together, I saw her 5-6 days out of the week. Sandy had lost babies before, and I told Blake to ask her to come too. I needed her to be there with me. When they arrived she sat down on the bed next to me. We didn’t talk much, but she grabbed my hand and told me she knew the pain I was feeling. And it hurt. She prayed with me and cried as she sat beside me on that cold mattress. That was the greatest comfort I felt our whole time at the hospital. Knowing that another momma saw me, knew my pain, and felt it with me. She did the best thing she could have done.

When things finally started to die down, they had to insert my IV. My body was so shriveled up and dehydrated, and I was shaking so badly, that they had the hardest time hitting a vein. I don’t remember how many times they stuck me, or how many nurses they called in to try and get the job done. All I remember was how painful it was and how inconceivably cold I felt. Finally, after several failed attempts, they called in the anesthesiologist, who numbed my arm, and then used an ultrasound machine to find a vein. I was so relieved. After my IV was successfully inserted they had to give me magnesium to keep me from seizing. I was on it the entire time we were in the hospital, and it was miserable.

The night was getting later and I was exhausted, so after my second dose of medicine was inserted, we decided it was time to try and rest. I had asked for some medicine to help me sleep, because, despite my exhaustion, I was restless. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, but I started to feel my body tighten. I was having contractions. My nurse had just told me that even though it was my second dose, I wouldn’t start to have contractions yet. I called her in to let her know. “Yeah, that can be normal. Nothing is going to happen tonight, though, so try to get some rest. If you keep having more, let me know.” She left the room, and the contractions started to get stronger. I told Blake there was no way I could sleep, I was far too uncomfortable. A few minutes later, I called her back in. “That can be normal,” she said, “call me back in if you start to feel something like you’re wearing a tampon.” A few minutes later, I got that tampon feeling. I called my nurse back in and told her what I was feeling, “It’s probably nothing, you won’t be going into labor tonight. Let me know if it doesn’t go away.” A few minutes later, I felt a slight trickle down my leg. I called my nurse in yet again, “I think my water might be breaking.” “I don’t think so, it’s too soon, but I’ll check.” Sure enough, she checked and thought she maybe saw the sack. Since it was so unusual, she called in yet another nurse to check, just to make sure she wasn’t seeing things. The other nurse, also baffled, said she was pretty sure it was the sack, but they should call my doctor and have him check.

Probably about 30 minutes later, my doctor arrived and confirmed what the nurses suspected. My water hadn’t broken, but it had torn and was leaking. He explained that I wouldn’t need an epidural for the delivery, but they had to get my placenta out, and that part could be excruciating, I might want one for that. It wasn’t a hard decision for me. I wanted that epidural. I had had one when I was in labor with Lane, and I remembered it didn’t hurt nearly as badly as I had expected it to. However, when you don’t have serious labor pains to distract you, an epidural is outrageously painful. I remember somebody saying to me, “Good for you for getting the epidural. Your heart is hurting enough, you don’t need your body to feel anymore pain.” For some reason, I really appreciated that comment.

Before long, they asked if I wanted them to break my water the rest of the way. I said yes. I wanted this terrible experience to be over as soon as possible. My doctor broke my water and before we knew it, the time had come to push. I pushed twice, and delivered my sweet, lifeless, tiny baby. He was 7oz. I was so out of it, I remember only a few things: I threw up, I heard fluid gushing and spilling, and my doctor told me he was so glad I had gotten that epidural. He was having a really difficult time getting the placenta out, and the pain from that would have been unbearable. At some point, they got the placenta out and everything cleaned up, then everybody left the room. Blake had gone out to get our parents from the waiting room. I was laying in bed, holding our baby, still and breathless in my arms. I remember being unable to keep my eyes open because my body was so shot, and I felt guilty about it. When everybody was back in the room, I offered for somebody else to hold him. I don’t know who took him. But as I lay there, with everyone crying and laying their hands on me and speaking love to me, I felt like I was having an out of body experience. I’m sure it was the medication, or the trauma I had experienced, but everything felt so unreal, so dream-like. It was probably 3:00 in the morning before I finally fell asleep. I don’t remember. All I remember is wishing it was a different time and I was in a different place.