"...your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be."
(Psalm 139:16)
(Psalm 139:16)
What comfort to know that God, the master Creator, knew each day of this precious baby's life before even one of them had occurred! Psalm 139 is a beautiful portion of Scripture that speaks of God's intimacy in each and every one of our lives and is especially comforting to a grieving mother, like me, who never had the opportunity to really know her child. But God. He knows this child. He created this child. He loves this child.
For those of you who are just joining us, I am writing about my most recent miscarriage. Please read the prior posts, starting with You Are Still My God, which will get you up to speed.
After knowing that a D & C was my only option and making the arrangements for it on Friday morning, I was really having a hard time. I won't go into the details of what the procedure entails, but I will share what was most disturbing to me about it all. Even though my child was a fully formed baby, whose hands and face I could see even on ultrasound, I would not be able to hold that precious child or see my baby outside of the womb. There would be nothing physically left of my child after the procedure.
I was so thankful that Pastor Dave reminded me of a portion of Scripture (2 Corinthians 5:1-10) that describes our bodies merely as a "tent", longing for our heavenly home. And truly, this child was already there. That which made my baby special, the person of my baby, the part of him/her that made me fall so deeply in love before even having the chance to hold that baby in my arms...that part of my child was already safe in the arms of God. So, while it was and is difficult to know and experience the medical procedure that had to take place for proper disposition of my child's body, that precious baby was already home.
And here I was, embarking on a necessary "surgery" in absolute dread. A million things were going through my mind, but I felt as though I did not even have the energy to move a muscle or say a word. When we arrived at the hospital, we had to wait for what seemed like eternity (really only about 20 minutes) before even being checked in. It was early. 7:30 a.m. We watched the morning news, with the top local stories being comprised of two women, separate cases, being sentenced or convicted of crimes for murdering their children. Just what I wanted to see. Then the tears. Not too long after that, an obviously full-term pregnant woman had just checked in and was being pushed in a wheelchair through the lobby to go deliver her baby. Her face showed an eager anticipation, with moments of wincing through the pain. I was happy in my heart for her, though my heart longed to be in her place. Soon my barely swelling belly would be no more.
They finally called us back and I remember taking that dreadful walk into the pre-operating area where I would be prepped for "surgery." After the changing and the weighing and the taking off of jewelry, I lay snug in my bed with freshly warmed hospital blankets. Soon, the anesthesiologist came and asked me a range of questions (which I had already been asked at least twice already!) about medical history, allergies, etc. Then he asked me, "How is your stress level?" I don't even remember the words that came out of my mouth, but I know that I just burst into tears! I may have said something along the lines of "I'm just having a really hard time." Who knows? I initially declined his offer for some drugs to "take the edge off" but he informed me that he would go ahead and authorize the orders in case I changed my mind. Not long after, his partner, the anesthesiologist who would be with me during the actual surgery, attended to my bedside and very frankly said, "I'm here to talk you into taking the drugs." :) It didn't take much convincing. After a nod from my husband and reassurance from Ann, the perinatal bereavement coordinator at the hospital, whom I had come to know so well from my previous losses, the drugs were flowing.
Others were in and out of the pre-operating room as the preparations were being made. I spoke with my doctor about the procedure, my desire to see the baby on ultrasound again, and arrangements for disposition of the remains, which we decided would be handled as an individual cremation through Hamilton's. Shortly thereafter, Kendra, a wonderfully kind and caring sonographer, was at my bedside with an ultrasound machine on wheels. Justin came right alongside me and for the first time in person, he was able to see our baby on that screen. Sadly, as expected, there was no heartbeat and the eerie silence of the machine when she pushed the button to "hear" the heartbeat was just devastating. In all honesty, I was holding out for a miracle and imagined the possibility of seeing that little baby's heart beating once again, proving the doctors all wrong! In thinking more about it, that baby was a miracle regardless of how long he/she lived. Kendra was so compassionate as she showed us the images, graciously printing off several for our keeping.
During this time Pastor Dave and Charlie were there, right along with Ann. I felt special to have four people in the room with me, when the policy only allowed two. I think they knew better than to mess with me that day. I must have been giving off that vibe. :) But in all seriousness, it was a blessing to have them there, as Pastor Dave shared Scripture and prayed for us, the procedure, the doctor's expertise and precision, all the while thanking God for the hope we have in Christ. Yes, my hope is in Christ and in Christ alone. Because I know Him, I will see this child again. And because Justin knows Him, we will all be reunited. Praise God for this living hope we have!
With that prayer, they wheeled me back into "surgery" and after hearing the anesthesiologist explain that I may feel a sting or tinge as the medicine goes in through the IV and hearing her say "we'll see you when you wake up," I was gone...
Waking up brings forth yet a whole new chapter in this journey.
For those of you who are just joining us, I am writing about my most recent miscarriage. Please read the prior posts, starting with You Are Still My God, which will get you up to speed.
After knowing that a D & C was my only option and making the arrangements for it on Friday morning, I was really having a hard time. I won't go into the details of what the procedure entails, but I will share what was most disturbing to me about it all. Even though my child was a fully formed baby, whose hands and face I could see even on ultrasound, I would not be able to hold that precious child or see my baby outside of the womb. There would be nothing physically left of my child after the procedure.
I was so thankful that Pastor Dave reminded me of a portion of Scripture (2 Corinthians 5:1-10) that describes our bodies merely as a "tent", longing for our heavenly home. And truly, this child was already there. That which made my baby special, the person of my baby, the part of him/her that made me fall so deeply in love before even having the chance to hold that baby in my arms...that part of my child was already safe in the arms of God. So, while it was and is difficult to know and experience the medical procedure that had to take place for proper disposition of my child's body, that precious baby was already home.
And here I was, embarking on a necessary "surgery" in absolute dread. A million things were going through my mind, but I felt as though I did not even have the energy to move a muscle or say a word. When we arrived at the hospital, we had to wait for what seemed like eternity (really only about 20 minutes) before even being checked in. It was early. 7:30 a.m. We watched the morning news, with the top local stories being comprised of two women, separate cases, being sentenced or convicted of crimes for murdering their children. Just what I wanted to see. Then the tears. Not too long after that, an obviously full-term pregnant woman had just checked in and was being pushed in a wheelchair through the lobby to go deliver her baby. Her face showed an eager anticipation, with moments of wincing through the pain. I was happy in my heart for her, though my heart longed to be in her place. Soon my barely swelling belly would be no more.
They finally called us back and I remember taking that dreadful walk into the pre-operating area where I would be prepped for "surgery." After the changing and the weighing and the taking off of jewelry, I lay snug in my bed with freshly warmed hospital blankets. Soon, the anesthesiologist came and asked me a range of questions (which I had already been asked at least twice already!) about medical history, allergies, etc. Then he asked me, "How is your stress level?" I don't even remember the words that came out of my mouth, but I know that I just burst into tears! I may have said something along the lines of "I'm just having a really hard time." Who knows? I initially declined his offer for some drugs to "take the edge off" but he informed me that he would go ahead and authorize the orders in case I changed my mind. Not long after, his partner, the anesthesiologist who would be with me during the actual surgery, attended to my bedside and very frankly said, "I'm here to talk you into taking the drugs." :) It didn't take much convincing. After a nod from my husband and reassurance from Ann, the perinatal bereavement coordinator at the hospital, whom I had come to know so well from my previous losses, the drugs were flowing.
Others were in and out of the pre-operating room as the preparations were being made. I spoke with my doctor about the procedure, my desire to see the baby on ultrasound again, and arrangements for disposition of the remains, which we decided would be handled as an individual cremation through Hamilton's. Shortly thereafter, Kendra, a wonderfully kind and caring sonographer, was at my bedside with an ultrasound machine on wheels. Justin came right alongside me and for the first time in person, he was able to see our baby on that screen. Sadly, as expected, there was no heartbeat and the eerie silence of the machine when she pushed the button to "hear" the heartbeat was just devastating. In all honesty, I was holding out for a miracle and imagined the possibility of seeing that little baby's heart beating once again, proving the doctors all wrong! In thinking more about it, that baby was a miracle regardless of how long he/she lived. Kendra was so compassionate as she showed us the images, graciously printing off several for our keeping.
During this time Pastor Dave and Charlie were there, right along with Ann. I felt special to have four people in the room with me, when the policy only allowed two. I think they knew better than to mess with me that day. I must have been giving off that vibe. :) But in all seriousness, it was a blessing to have them there, as Pastor Dave shared Scripture and prayed for us, the procedure, the doctor's expertise and precision, all the while thanking God for the hope we have in Christ. Yes, my hope is in Christ and in Christ alone. Because I know Him, I will see this child again. And because Justin knows Him, we will all be reunited. Praise God for this living hope we have!
With that prayer, they wheeled me back into "surgery" and after hearing the anesthesiologist explain that I may feel a sting or tinge as the medicine goes in through the IV and hearing her say "we'll see you when you wake up," I was gone...
Waking up brings forth yet a whole new chapter in this journey.
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