The Significant Life by John Burton

The Significant Life Celebrating the Significance of a Life Lost through Miscarriage, Stillbirth or Early Infant Death

Amy Burton

Significant Publishing Colorado Springs, Colorado

THE SIGNIFICANT LIFE Copyright ÂŠ 2006 Amy Burton ISBN 0-6151-3679-6 Cover design by John Burton www.johnburtondesign.com Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible. Public Domain. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means- electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise- without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. Significant Publishing Colorado Springs, Colorado Printed in the United States of America

TO ALL WHO HAVE LOVED AND LOST A SIGNIFICANT LIFE

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments 11 Preface 13 1. A Daughter 15 2. Loss 25 3. Stillborn 35 4. The Significant Life 45 5. A Siblingâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Prayer 53 6. Faded Rose 61 7. Restoration 69 Epilogue 77

The Significant Life

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book was made possible not only by those who aided in honing my craft but also by those who assisted in healing my heart. Here are some of those people: Mr. Kurtz-Your passion for writing inspired mine. Did I use too many passive verbs? Penrose Hospital-Thank you for treating my babies with respect. Give Rosemary a raise. She’s an amazing woman! All my friends at Pikes Peak Share- I knew I could always turn to you for support. We journeyed through grief together. Thank you for walking with me. My many prayer warriors-You never gave up, and thanks to you, neither did I. Dr. Weary-Thanks for always offering a listening ear and compassionate heart and for facilitating my miracle (the safe arrival of Jet). Mom and Dad-You are my pillars! Thank you for including my heavenly babies in the “grandchildren count.”

The Significant Life My boys, Skylar, Parker and Jet-You are my treasures and my joy! My heavenly babies, Elizabeth, Abigail, Rebecca and GabrielYou have made this book possible. Thank you for teaching me so much in such a short while. How I love and miss you! My husband, John-We have built an incredible family together. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have asked for a better co-laborer. My Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ-You are the ultimate source of healing! Thank you for crafting this broken vessel into something useful.

The Significant Life

PREFACE

I delivered the lifeless body of my baby girl on December 27, 2003, after a routine ultrasound on Christmas Eve revealed that her heart was no longer beating. If you are reading this book, chances are that you have been affected by the tragic loss of a child through miscarriage, stillbirth or early infant death. While each of our situations is unique, we share a common bond. We have been touched by a life that, although brief, has made an eternal impact. As you journey through this book, you will read my account of loss, grief, hope and restoration. Each chapter begins with a poem reflecting my emotions during a particular stage of my experience, follows with a piece of my story and concludes with thoughts to you, the reader. It is my intent that this book points you toward healing, grants you the comfort of shared backgrounds and, most of all, celebrates the significant life of your little one.

The Significant Life

A DAUGHTER She stretches forth a tiny hand As I cradle her in my arms. I love the way she looks and smells And all her little baby charms. She takes my hand and walks beside, For she trusts me like no other. Although she is a toddler now, She still clings tightly to “mother.” I wait beside her for the bus And give a kiss and hug goodbye. She is starting school today. I wipe a small tear from my eye. I help her dress and smile at her. I tell her, “Honey, you look great.” I’m nervous and a little sad That she’s going on her first date.

The Significant Life She looks so beautiful in white As she’s given to another. I tell her she’s a gorgeous bride And I’m proud to be her mother. She stretches forth a tiny hand As she cradles her in her arms. She loves the way she looks and smells And all her little baby charms.

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MY JOURNEY The summer of 2003 was full of new life. Revolution Church, of which my husband, John, was the senior pastor, was experiencing conversions, baptisms and financial and numerical growth. Spiritual vitality was not the only new life that surrounded me that summer. It seemed that everywhere I looked, someone was recently pregnant. Two of my closest friends Sarah and Carolyn, who also happened to be part of our church staff, had just announced their pregnancies, and several other members of our small congregation were reveling in the joyous news of their newly discovered expectancy. Nearly four years had passed since the birth of my youngest son, Parker. Since then, John had stood firm in his decision to have no more children. I yearned for another baby but refused to press the issue. During times of prayer, I asked God to change John’s heart if it was His plan for us to have another child or, if not, to change mine. In late July John came to me with unexpected news. “God has been telling me recently that He wants us to start trying to have another baby.” I was ecstatic. “Let’s get started,” I said. I downloaded an ovulation calendar and plotted the days when I would be most likely to conceive. I even researched 17

The Significant Life ways in which I would more probably conceive a girl, as we already had two boys and I had always wanted a daughter. I then waited, somewhat impatiently, for a positive pregnancy test result. In early September I stared in disbelief at the second line on the pregnancy test strip that I held in my hand. I had started testing much too early and several days before had obtained a negative result. “This is too good to be true,” I thought. “I have a positive result, and my period isn’t due for another week.” Still, the second line, although faded, was definitely there. We had been trying to conceive for just one month, and already, I was pregnant. I knew this child was meant to be. I paced around the house with nervous anticipation, wondering how to tell John and our two boys that we were expecting a baby. I assumed that this would be my last pregnancy and wanted the announcement to be special. When everyone awoke that Saturday morning, I said, “Let’s have a special family day together. Get dressed. We’re going to The Royal Gorge.” I could hardly contain my excitement during the hour or so drive. When we arrived at the gorge, we bought some ice cream and then walked to the middle of the suspension bridge, overlooking the river below. I videotaped John and the boys, the beautiful, tree-covered mountains and the rushing, foam-capped river as their backdrop. Then, with the film still rolling, I proclaimed, “John, I brought you out here to tell you that you’re going to be a daddy again.” John’s eyes opened wide in amazement as he continued licking the chocolate ice cream that was dripping down his fingers. “Holy crap!” he said. “I’m excited. I just didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.” 18

The Significant Life I later wrote in my pregnancy journal about that day: “I took John and the boys to The Royal Gorge and videotaped John’s reaction when I told him on the bridge. He was shocked but very happy. We spent the day basking in the great news.” Since my period was not due for another week, we decided to keep my pregnancy a secret. The next day was Sunday, and we arrived at the church early to prepare for the service. I was speaking with our children’s minister, Carolyn, who was also pregnant. “How are you?” she asked. “Oh, fine,” I responded, determined not to share the news, no matter how badly I wanted. My five-year-old, Skylar, interrupted us, declaring, “My mom has a baby in her tummy!” “Congratulations!” Carolyn said, and she hugged me. After swearing Carolyn to secrecy, I updated Sarah, who had overheard Skylar’s announcement while preparing her Sunday-school lesson in the next room. Thinking I had everything under control, I resumed my Sunday-morning mingling. Skylar had seated himself at our church’s coffee bar, the proverbial watering-hole of our place of worship, where first-time-visitors, friends and acquaintances gathered to help themselves to coffee, tea and pastries. Before I could stop him, he told the crowd, “I’m going to have a baby brother or sister.” We had been at church only a few minutes, and already, the word was out. We gave up trying to keep our news under wraps and announced my pregnancy to our congregation, friends and family. During the service that morning, John welcomed me to the stage and said, “There are not two people here,” referring 19

The Significant Life to him and me. “There are three.” Everyone clapped. We called our parents soon after. I wrote in my pregnancy journal concerning their reactions: “All the grandparents are very happy. I told my mom over the phone since she and my dad were just returning from Germany. She’d had a dream so had expected it.” Summer concluded and fall dawned, the changing colors of the season reflecting the transformation I felt within me. Sarah, Carolyn and I spent many staff meetings discussing breast pumps, maternity clothing and Lamaze classes. On one occasion we took pictures of the three of us standing together sideways, showing off our expanding bellies. We dreamed of the day when we would be able to photograph our three babies together. I interviewed several midwives. A home birth seemed reasonable, as my previous pregnancies and deliveries had been problem-free. I selected a competent, considerate woman but was unable to continue seeing her due to a glitch in my health insurance coverage. A friend referred me to a superb, Christian doctor, and 12 weeks into my pregnancy, I visited my obstetrician for the first time. John and I heard our baby’s heartbeat, pounding at 170 beats per minute. That beautiful sound established the firm realization that there was a life growing and thriving inside of me. John and I brainstormed possible names, including Kennedy, Macy and Katrie. Skylar insisted on “Princess,” while Parker suggested “Jet Fusion.” The pregnancy was a family event. Skylar would hand me the book Your Pregnancy Week by Week and ask about the baby’s size and appearance. The boys called the child “Our Baby.” 20

The Significant Life I began collecting infant clothing, mostly in pink and lavender, as I was certain I was having a girl. I daydreamed of ribbons and bows, her first date and even the day when she would become a mother herself. I believed that I finally had the daughter for whom I had long hoped and prayed. I greatly anticipated the ultrasound, scheduled for Christmas Eve. “What a wonderful Christmas present,” I thought, “a dream come true.” I had no idea what that day would hold. I will always remember Christmas Eve 2003 as the day that forever changed my life and dreams.

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TO THE READER You had dreams for your child. Whether or not your pregnancy was intended, you began envisioning plans for your baby from the moment you knew of his impending arrival. Perhaps you were disappointed or fearful when you discovered that you were pregnant. Nevertheless, as the reality dawned so did the dreams of caring for a baby, raising a son or daughter and experiencing the many blessings of parenthood. Maybe you were unaware of your hopes for your child until you lost him. It makes no difference whether you carried your baby for nine days or nine months. The impact of losing a child is the same. You experienced more than a pregnancy loss or fetal demise; you lost a child, a son or daughter, and your dreams have been forever altered. I could easily write of vanished hopes and shattered dreams. Instead, I speak of altered dreams. Why? Something that is shattered or vanished is usually forever lost, useless and unproductive. Something altered, on the other hand, has encountered change, growth and perhaps, increased effectiveness. I am not suggesting that you should not grieve for your former hopes and dreams. The grieving process is a journey. You have lost someone of unspeakable value. Change is not easy, and modifying the dreams that you had for your child will 23

The Significant Life be one of the hardest things that you will ever do. However, letting your grief point you toward new expectation will be helpful, and in the long run, needed. As you seek a new reality following the death of your baby, ask yourself how the hopes that you had for him can be altered, instead of shattered, to fit your new situation. You dreamed of holding him. Now, with Jesus as your Savior, you look forward to a heavenly reunion. You dreamed that his life would be effective, make an impact. Now, you realize that he has eternally transformed your life and that of those around you. My daughter, for example, taught me more in a short 19 weeks than I had learned in my previous 27 years. You dreamed of introducing him to friends and family. Now, by telling them your story, they understand his significance. Your life need not be void of hope. The expectation will be more difficult to discover. Nonetheless, it is there. In what ways have your dreams been altered since the loss of your child? How can your hopes be changed instead of shattered?

The Significant Life

LOSS Tears pooled in my eyes, Demanding attention. I anguished. My resentment simmered, Erupting into fury. With survival hanging in the balance, I surrendered. Then came a clear impression. I sensed God.

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MY JOURNEY I clasped my hands and tried not to scream as every second, the elevator brought me closer to my destination. Surrounded by John, my two sons and my parents, our entire family had gathered to discover the gender of our unborn baby. Strangely, I had awoken that Christmas Eve morning with a disconcerting sense of dread. “How shallow I am,” I had reasoned. “I should be excited to know whether we’re expecting a boy or a girl. Do I want a girl so badly that I’m dreading the ultrasound?” Instinctively, I must have known that something was terribly wrong. I had begun sensing movement on Thanksgiving Day and had since felt jabs, twists and turns from my growing babe almost daily, until a week or two before. I had wondered once or twice if there was a problem but had told myself that I was being paranoid. “After all, the movements at this point in pregnancy are so slight that I often wonder if I’m just imagining them,” I had thought. In bed at night, I had tried intently to notice any kicking. Upon feeling nothing, I had reasoned that it was just too early and that the movements that I had previously felt were only pretended. I had also been aware that my stomach had recently ceased expanding. In fact, it had almost seemed to have shrunk. 27

The Significant Life Assuming that I had reached some sort of pregnancy growth plateau, I had dismissed my concerns as illogical. I signed my name on the roster at the big circular in the middle of the waiting room. “They’re running a bit behind,” said the girl at the counter. “They had an emergency, so they’ll get to you as soon as they can.” I spent the next hour chatting with my family and trying to ignore my full bladder. When, at last, the ultrasound technician called my name, I jumped to my feet, anxious to complete the sonogram and have the surprise revealed. Skylar and Parker remained in the lobby with my dad, but I assured them that they would soon see the baby on the ultrasound screen. The technician led me into a small, dark room and instructed me to lie down on the paper-covered examination table and unbutton my pants. John and my mom seated themselves to my left in hard, plastic chairs. “This will be cold,” said the sonographer, applying a clear gel to my belly. She began moving the transducer over my abdomen, as I watched the monitor to my right. I saw my baby’s head on the screen, and, as the technician adjusted the transducer, I saw her arms and legs. “Hmmm. The baby’s not moving,” I thought. “She must be sleeping.” The sonographer continued the exam in silence. Having been told earlier not to ask her questions, I waited quietly for her to point out my baby’s various body parts, heartbeat and gender. She set the transducer on a shelf and stood to her feet. “I’m going to see if the on-call doctor is still here,” she said. Most of the obstetricians and staff had left early to begin their Christmas holiday. She left the room in a hurry. 28

The Significant Life “It concerns me a little that she wants to go find a doctor,” I told John and my mom. I had had several ultrasounds during my previous pregnancies, and had never experienced such a thing. “And, I didn’t see the baby moving on the screen.” The sonographer returned with a tall, dark-haired physician, an associate of my primary obstetrician. She briefly introduced the man in blue scrubs. “Hi,” I muttered, sure, by now, that something was wrong. The technician resumed her position at the scanner and began shifting the transducer over my stomach. “The reason I asked the doctor to come is that I can’t find a heartbeat.” My mind whirled as I tried to make sense of what was happening. I watched as the doctor and sonographer examined the ultrasound screen, taking measurements. I felt a hundred emotions at once: shock, disbelief, anger, guilt, dismay and so many more. “But I want this baby,” I said, sobbing. The doctor patted my leg. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I just heard the heartbeat at my last appointment,” I said, referring to my 16-week examination. “I know. The fetus is measuring 17 weeks or so.” “You mean my baby’s been dead for two weeks?” “It looks that way.” John patted my head and smoothed my hair. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s going to be okay.” My mom was crying. “The question is, ‘What do we do now?’” the physician said. “We could induce you today, but then, you’d be in the hospital on Christmas. If you’d like, you can wait until you go into labor on your own. At this point, there is no risk of infection. Or, I can make an appointment for induction on Friday morning, so you can spend Christmas with your family.” 29

The Significant Life “What should I do?” I asked John and my mom. They stared at me blankly and shrugged. I somehow determined to arrive at the birthing wing of the hospital at 7:00 a.m. on Friday, the day after Christmas, to have my labor induced. “I’ll make sure the hospital knows you’re coming,” said the doctor. “We’ll leave you all alone now,” the technician said. “You can stay here as long as you’d like.” She and the physician exited the room, leaving the three of us in silence. “Would you like me to go get Dad?” my mom finally asked. “I’m ready to go,” I said, hopping from the examination table and buttoning my jeans. “I just want to leave.” We rejoined my dad and the boys in the now-empty waiting room. John sat beside my dad and whispered the news. My father lowered his head, pursing his lips as he digested the information. “Is it time for us to see the baby now?” Skylar asked excitedly. “Can we go back now?” I looked at John. “You have to tell him something.” “We’re not going to be having a baby anymore,” John told our five-year-old. “The baby died.” Skylar threw himself to the floor, kicking and screaming hysterically. “It’s not fair, he yelled. “It’s not fair!” “He’s right,” I thought. Parker, who was too young to understand the ramifications of what had just happened, repeatedly asked, “Grandma, why are you crying?” I longed to scoop my children into my arms, comfort them and tell them that everything would be all right, but I sud30

The Significant Life denly felt numb and unsure of myself. “Will everything be all right?” I wondered. The six of us sat in the waiting room for some time, crying and conversing in hushed tones. We finally boarded the elevator to take the short ride back to our cars, homes and lives that, in a few short minutes, had been so drastically changed. Shock and disbelief had substituted the excitement that we had experienced that morning. The hopeful expectation that we had previously felt had been replaced by the nervous anticipation of our baby’s delivery.

The Significant Life

TO THE READER Take a moment to review your story. During the moments, days and months following the discovery that you had lost or were losing your child, what emotions did you experience? Dismay, horror, disbelief, shock, anger, resentment, guilt are all common reactions. On Christmas Eve, prior to our ultrasound, John was aware of a seemingly awkward, even inappropriate feeling: peace. Just minutes before stepping into the examination room, He was overwhelmed by the presence of God and knew instinctively that God was preparing him for a crisis. Upon learning that our baby had died, he attempted to resist that feeling of calm, thinking it improper. However, he was unable to shake the sensation that God was there, upholding him, quieting him. During the weeks following our daughter’s delivery, I pondered countless questions, many of which will remain unanswered until I reach the Place where I see clearly. Why did this happen to us? Why didn’t God, in His sovereignty, prevent it? Did we do something wrong? While my search for answers proved futile, I did find something much more valuable. Surrounded by a gamut of emotions, there was one I sensed more clearly than all the others: God’s comfort. I felt His presence more poignantly then than at any other time of my life. I under33

The Significant Life stood that He, too, was heartbroken, grieving with me for my lost child, whose life was significant to Him. How about you? Rummage through your array of emotions. Do you sense the peace of God? Have you, like John, been attempting to resist His presence? He longs to comfort you. He knows how you feel, for He, too, lost a Child. Will you surrender? Will you allow His peace to permeate you? Will you let Him grieve with you?

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STILLBORN I cradle your tiny body, gently nestled in a hospital receiving blanket. I explore your tranquil face, your full lips resembling your older brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. I hold your delicate hand, so small, yet each fingernail so intricately detailed. I capture a final likeness, your image forever imprinted on film and on my heart. I whisper sweet confessions of my love, knowing my words reach heaven. For a fleeting moment, I am simply a mother proudly examining her newborn, And through the smiles and tears, I marvel at the magnificent creation of you.

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MY JOURNEY I arrived at the birthing center of our local hospital early Friday morning, feeling apprehensive. I had been in such a state of shock on Christmas Eve that I had neglected to obtain answers to my many concerns. “Will I be able to see and hold my baby?” I wondered. “Will I be conscious during the delivery? Will I deliver her vaginally or will I have surgery? What will happen to her body afterwards?” My mind raced as John announced our entrance to the hospital staff. “We have an appointment.” “Are you here for an induction?” a nurse asked, eyeing me. “We had a miscarriage,” John said, and I burst into tears. Another nurse rushed to my side and escorted me into a nearby birthing suite. She helped me change into a hospital gown. “I don’t know what to expect,” I told her. “Does the baby come out whole?” My question must have sounded brash, but the young, dark-haired attendant only nodded. “Usually,” she said. “I’ll give you medication to soften your cervix. Then, after delivery you can spend as much time with your baby as you’d like. The hospital will take pictures, free of charge, and we have a certifi37

The Significant Life cate for hand and footprints. I’ll explain more later.” She led me to the adjustable bed and pulled back the sheets. “How far along are you?” “Nineteen-and-a-half weeks,” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. I desperately wanted to see my baby but had been afraid that the hospital would not allow it. How wonderful to know that I could take pictures and footprints! My mother joined us. “I was there for the births of my other grandchildren,” she had said. “I want to be there for this one, too.” The nurse helped me into bed and stepped me through some routine paperwork. She left to prepare my medication, and shortly after, the hospital chaplain entered. He handed me reading materials on miscarriage and stillbirth as I apologized for my tears. He then explained the burial options available. “You can arrange your own, private burial, if you’d like.” He handed me a sheet of paper. “Here is a list of funeral homes that offer infant cremation at no charge. If you choose hospital disposition, the Catholic Archdiocese has donated two plots, where we will bury your baby with the others who have been lost this quarter. We’ll hold a memorial service in January, and then, you can visit the grave site.” I thanked him and said I would make a decision after discussing the options with my family. The nurse returned and administered my medication. Shortly after, my father arrived, and my family settled into a waiting pattern. All the hospital personnel who entered my room conveyed their condolences and expressed sympathy for my loss. The postcard on the door depicting a teardrop falling onto a leaf, a symbol of bereavement, alerted them to my situa38

The Significant Life tion. My body reacted negatively to the medication, and I endured a fever and upset stomach. By early evening the contractions had become unbearable, and I requested an epidural. At 9:30 that night, my nurse informed me that my cervix was only one centimeter dilated. John and my dad left to attend a citywide prayer meeting that assembled weekly, Friday nights, from ten until midnight. My mom and I tried to rest, while every few minutes, the nurse returned to adjust the beeping machine that alerted her to my dropping blood pressure. The men had just returned from the prayer gathering, when I called the nurse to report that my epidural was no longer effective. “I can really feel the contractions,” I said. She stated that before she called the anesthesiologist, she wanted to check to see if I had made any progress. “I think I’m only feeling your bag of waters,” she said. “Let me get my supervisor to confirm.” The older nurse agreed. “You have no cervix.” “I have no cervix?” “You’re dilated to ten. It’s time to push.” “I have been feeling pressure,” I said. “Let me call the doctor and get a couple of things ready.” After the women left, I was impressed by the reality of the circumstances, and I began to weep uncontrollably. During my previous deliveries, the announcement that “it’s time to push” had brought feelings of elation and joyous expectation. This time, I felt scared and overwhelmed by the fact that I was about to deliver a dead baby. The nurse bustled about the room, carrying blankets and 39

The Significant Life supplies. “Will you want to hold your baby?” she asked. “Yes.” “Okay. I have the receiving blankets ready.” The on-call physician, entered and checked me. “What you want to do is hold your knees, put your head on your chest and push,” he said. I did, and our daughter, Elizabeth Hope, was born on December 27, 2003, at 1:12 a.m., measuring 9 inches and weighing 7.4 ounces. The doctor removed her from the surrounding amniotic sac and proceeded to unwrap the umbilical cord that encircled her neck several times. He stated the obvious: “This looks like a cord accident.” The obstetrician placed Elizabeth in a hospital receiving blanket and handed her to me. At that instant, a serenity, which I cannot explain, engulfed me. It was as if the anguish of the previous few days temporarily dissolved. Although for only a moment, my daughter was in my arms, mine to hold, love and admire. I stared at the body of my baby girl. At nine inches long, she was much bigger than I had imagined. She had ten fingers and ten toes, complete with ten tiny fingernails and ten tiny toenails. Her full lips so closely resembled Parker’s that I could picture how she would look as a smiling four-year-old. I took her little hand in mine, and John took a picture. After a few minutes, I passed Elizabeth to her daddy and grandparents. We prayed over her, dedicating her back to God, who had formed her so beautifully and magnificently. We all said goodbye, telling her how much we loved her. Afterwards, I handed Elizabeth to the nurse, who left to take pictures and handprints and footprints. 40

The Significant Life I held my daughter once more before my hospital dismissal on Saturday morning, memorizing her face as tears streamed down mine. I then did the most difficult thing that I have ever had to do: I left the hospital without her.

The Significant Life

TO THE READER My child was one of God’s superlative creations, and so was yours. Perhaps you never had the opportunity to hold your baby as I did, or perhaps your child was too small to see with your physical eyes. Regardless, your son or daughter was a portrait of God’s handiwork. From the moment of conception, the spirit of your baby was wholly viable and his body began to take form. If you were unable to see your child after your miscarriage or delivery, purchase a book that tells of your baby’s growth at his particular stage of development. You will be amazed at the miracle that was taking place within your womb even before you discovered your pregnancy. While examining the body of my stillborn daughter, I became keenly aware of God’s amazing ability to create. Elizabeth was perfect, not a blob of tissue or cells, but a fully-formed little girl. Before He opened His arms and received my child, Almighty God, the Creator of the universe, took the time and energy to mold her into a magnificent, unique creation. He did the same for your precious one. How awesome!

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THE SIGNIFICANT LIFE Some have said and meant it well That you werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t meant to be And the reason for your tiny life Remains a mystery. But seeing the finality And knowing what I do, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d happily accept the pain And still give life to you. Your grave existence, I esteem, Though it was just a while. The great reward of your brief life Was surely worth this trial. The moments spent together, I appreciate them all, For you left footprints on my heart, Though they are very small.

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MY JOURNEY I arrived home late Saturday morning feeling numb and exhausted from the events of the previous few days. John and I lay in bed, and he held me until I cried myself to sleep. I awoke several hours later, anxious to get out of the house and do anything that would take my mind off the searing pain that overwhelmed me. Our children staying with friends, John and I decided to go to dinner and then visit the mall for the after-Christmas sales. We sat in the Italian restaurant, holding hands across the table and crying. I found it disturbing to see life continuing as normal around me. I wanted to scream, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Stop chatting and eating as if nothing has happened! Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you know that my baby died?â&#x20AC;? I felt as though the whole world should halt and grieve with me, but it did not. At the mall I returned a bundle of maternity clothing that John had purchased for me for Christmas. I walked aimlessly around the stores. My back ached at the point where the anesthesiologist had inserted the needle for the epidural, and I wanted to go home. On a clearance table, I chanced upon a little doll, about the size of Elizabeth, wearing a green nightie like the one she had worn at the hospital. I was greatly tempted to purchase the doll, hold her in my arms and rock her. Feeling as though I 47

The Significant Life was going crazy, I fled to the van and wept. The next morning I stayed home while John directed the Sunday-morning church service. I had asked him to announce our loss to the congregation, so that I could avoid questions such as, “Why are you skinny now?” or “How’s the baby?” While telling of Elizabeth’s death, John broke into tears. Members of our congregation gathered around him and prayed. After the service we were amazed at the outpouring of love and concern. My friend Sarah coordinated meals for our family for the following week. Another friend gave us a gift certificate for a dinner and one-night’s stay at a nearby luxury hotel. We were showered with flowers, cards and gifts. Friends and family members joined John and me for the hospital memorial service, during which we lighted candles and remembered Elizabeth’s brief life. They then accompanied us to a nearby cemetery, where Elizabeth had been buried in accordance with our wishes for “hospital disposition.” There, we viewed the communal grave marker that read: “IN LOVING MEMORY OF OUR BABIES – I will never forget you. I have written your name in the palm of my hand (Isaiah 49:16).” Several weeks passed, and the sympathetic words and gestures ceased. Afraid to upset me, friends and acquaintances rarely mentioned Elizabeth. But I wanted to talk about her. I had spent months preparing for her, happily discussing my plans for her, shopping for her and proudly telling others about her. “How am I supposed to act as though she never existed?” I wondered. Much of the well-meant advice served only to further distress me. “You can have another baby.” I did not want another baby. I wanted Elizabeth. “There was probably something 48

The Significant Life wrong with it.” I would not have loved or wanted her any less. “You should be happy that she’s in heaven now.” I was thankful that I would see her again, but I desired her with me. “What is wrong with me?” I thought. “Am I making too big of a deal about this? Should I have “gotten over” it by now?” I simply smiled at the hurtful comments, knowing that the contributors were speaking from a desire to ease my pain. “Why are their remarks so upsetting?” I questioned. One evening I was reading a devotional companion on the topic of neonatal and perinatal death in which the author explained the difference between minimizing and validating. At that moment I understood the reason for my offended reactions to the well-intentioned comments of others. Those remarks were minimizing Elizabeth’s existence, telling me that she was insignificant, replaceable. I longed for anything that would validate her life and prove her reality meaningful. With tears flowing, I penned the poem “The Significant Life.” I gave a copy to my mom, who sent it to many of my relatives. Some of my aunts shared it with their Bible-study groups or emailed it to their friends. People were beginning to understand Elizabeth’s significant impact. In late January a bereavement counselor phoned, saying that I could pick up Elizabeth’s “first photos” at the hospital. She told me to call her when I arrived, so that she could accompany me as I viewed the pictures. I had been so impressed by the concern and support of the hospital, doctors, nurses and staff that I purchased a thankyou card and a box of chocolates on my way. I entered the hospital lobby and called the counselor, who promptly joined me. 49

The Significant Life She escorted me into a nearby room and handed me an envelope. I cried as I examined the photos of Elizabeth, and the counselor listened as I explained my emotions of the previous few weeks. I handed her a copy of “The Significant Life,” and she read the poem in silence. Afterwards, she asked, “May I keep this?” “Yes,” I said. “I have other copies.” “Is this something I could share or is it personal?” “If you’d like to share it, I don’t mind.” She set the paper on the table and covered it with her palm. “I’d like to put a copy of this in all the packets we give to parents experiencing a miscarriage or stillbirth. That way, they’ll know the feelings of someone who has been there and experienced what they are.” “I would like that,” I said, realizing that even I had just begun to understand the significance of Elizabeth’s life and the critical way in which her existence would impact others.

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TO THE READER Have the comments of others ever made you feel as though your child was irrelevant? I have found that the earlier the loss occurred the more often it is minimized. The age at which your baby died has no impact on his eternal significance. Help others understand the value of your lost child. Name him. If you are unsure of your child’s gender, you may have a sense of whether your baby was a boy or a girl. Naming your child will give you a way to relate to him and will enable others to more easily recognize his worth. Refer to him by name. Instead of telling people of your miscarriage or stillbirth, tell them of Caleb or Emily, etc. Do not be afraid to correct the inappropriate comments of others. If someone tells you, “There was probably something wrong with it. It’s for the best.” Politely say, “If there were something wrong with her, I would not have loved Elizabeth any less.” Again, be sure to use your child’s name. Recognize that most badly chosen remarks are coming from a desire to make you feel better. There is no need to be mean or hateful. Simply assist the person in understanding that you want them to authenticate the life of your child. When I wrote the poem “The Significant Life,” I wanted people to comprehend that I was thankful to have conceived and 51

The Significant Life carried Elizabeth. Yes, having her with me also meant that I had to bear extreme pain when she was gone. However, the great joy that her brief life brought was worth the hurt that I later endured. John and I have three children. It is true that, in this lifetime, we will never see our daughter run and play, smile or laugh, but we look forward to an eternity spent with her. I am so pleased that God used my husband and me to create an undying spirit, who exists in heaven with Him. I would much rather have known Elizabeth for a short while and look forward to seeing her again than to have never known her at all. Take comfort in the knowledge of your baby’s relevance. Your grief is appropriate because you have lost someone of great worth. Although his stay was brief, your child left very definite footprints. Compare your life following your loss to your life before. Perhaps, now, you more fully understand the fragility of life. Your child left a footprint. Maybe, now, you place greater value on time spent with loved ones. Your child left a footprint. Possibly, now, you can further empathize with the losses of others. Your child left a footprint. Take some time to identify some of your child’s “footprints.”

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A SIBLING’S PRAYER Please, tell me, God, Why did our baby have to die? And why, at night, when I’m in bed, Do I hear Mommy cry? Please, tell me, God, What did I do to make her go away? Please tell me was it something That I did or didn’t say? Please, tell me, God, Why won’t I have the chance to hear her talk? Or hold her hand and help her While she’s learning how to walk? Please, tell me, God, My sister is so pretty, isn’t she? Can You tell her that I love her And give her a kiss for me?

The Significant Life

MY JOURNEY Days after delivering Elizabeth, I woke early and decided to take advantage of the early-morning silence. I picked up a book entitled Supernatural Childbirth. The cover featured a beautiful, baby girl, comfortably cradled in a white bassinet. After thumbing through it, I set the book on the coffee table and bustled around the house, attending to various chores and household duties. When John awoke half-an-hour later, he found Skylar sitting on the couch, looking morose. “What is it?” he asked. He received no response. “Skylar, are you okay?” Our five-year-old buried his face in John’s lap and wept. “It’s Mommy’s baby book,” he said, pointing to the book on the coffee table. Soon after, on a Sunday morning, a children’s ministry volunteer found Skylar crying in the corner. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “I’m sad that our baby died,” he whimpered. She explained that one of her bunnies had recently died and suggested that Elizabeth was playing with it in heaven. Satisfied, Skylar left the corner to play with his friends. Later that day I gathered him onto my lap and asked, “How are you feeling about the baby?” 55

The Significant Life “Okay,” he answered, squirming in an attempt to escape my embrace. “You know, it’s okay to talk about her, and it’s okay to cry.” Skylar nodded, scooting from my lap. Choking back tears, he picked up a basketball and aimed at our over-the-door basketball hoop. He pursed his lips to keep from crying but turned his back to me, pretending to be engrossed in his play. Several days after my talk with Skylar, Parker announced, “I’m going to be a big brother.” “No!” Skylar screamed at his younger sibling. “That’s not happening any more!” I realized at that moment that John and I had made a mistake. Initially, we had tried to shield the boys from the pain we were experiencing. We had left them with friends during the delivery and following my release from the hospital. We had accepted baby-sitting offers and had declined to take them to the memorial service. I suddenly understood that the boys had lost someone, too. Our sons had greatly anticipated the birth of “Our Baby.” I had written in my pregnancy journal: “Skylar and Parker are very excited, Skylar especially. We were going to keep the news a secret for a while, but he had told half the church before I could stop him. His teacher says he talks about the baby often.” I had been so consumed with my own grief over losing a daughter that I had forgotten that Skylar and Parker were mourning the loss of a sister. John and I beckoned the boys to the couch beside us. “I want to show you something,” I said. “But first I want to tell you that Parker is a big brother. You do have a little sister. It’s 56

The Significant Life just that she’s in heaven instead of here with us.” I pulled out a decorative box that the hospital had given me. I opened it and showed Skylar and Parker the outfit that Elizabeth had worn, a miniature, crocheted hat, hospital bracelets, a tape measure and the certificate with her hand and footprints. Our sons delicately handled the items, exclaiming over each one. “Look at that little hat! She was so tiny!” “They measured her with this! How long was she?” I had been concerned that recalling Elizabeth would upset them, but the boys talked excitedly, smiling at each memento. On my next visit to the cemetery, John and the boys accompanied me. Skylar and Parker placed flowers next to the grave marker as John read the inscription on the headstone. We had lost a member of our family, and grieving as a family was important. I knew that Elizabeth would always have a place in my heart and cherished the fact that her father and brothers had a place for her, too.

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TO THE READER To whom was your child significant? Your baby mattered to you, of course, and to God. How about your spouse, your children, your parents, your friends? You may be surprised at the impact that your son or daughter had on those around you. Many families suffer strain following the loss of a child. It is true that men and women grieve differently. Perhaps your spouse is not mourning in the same way that you are. You should not assume that the life of your baby was any less important to him or her. Men tend to grieve through doing, while women often grieve through being. A man may throw himself into his work, accomplish formerly neglected household tasks or engross himself in his hobbies. A woman may cry often or become irritable, angry or emotional. Both are expressing sorrow over their loss, simply in different ways. Purpose to develop a stronger marriage during your period of bereavement. Respect your spouseâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feelings and emotions. Understand that his or her way of grieving may be different than yours and should not be interpreted as indifference. Spend time with one another and pursue intimacy. If you have living children, consider that your baby mattered to them. Even very small children may sense their parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; sorrow. Work through your grief together. Let mourning be a 59

The Significant Life family event. Find ways to enable your children to express their emotions and remember their sibling. Children should be reminded that they are in no way responsible for the loss. If a child felt envious or jealous of the new baby, he may feel that he somehow caused the death of his sibling. Insist that it was a result of nothing he did or did not do or said or did not say. Include your parents, friends and relatives in honoring your baby. Invite them to a memorial service or offer them keepsakes. After Elizabeth’s delivery, I mailed announcements to my friends and family that read: “We have sad news to share. Our daughter, Elizabeth Hope, was stillborn on December 27, 2003, at 1:12 a.m., measuring 9 inches, weighing 7.4 ounces.” The response was surprising. My aunts, parents and in-laws proudly displayed their announcements and the picture of Elizabeth’s tiny hand in mine. Perhaps you had not previously considered the grief of others. Your children lost a sibling; your parents lost a grandchild. Take this opportunity to strengthen your family and mourn the loss together.

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FADED ROSE Perfectly framed in the hands of God, The rose, so vivacious, so full of life, Springs into full bloom. Why must we enjoy this gift for so short a time? For the rose, soon after its appearance, Suddenly fades. We grieve Because something so magnificently unique is gone. This rose was like no other. Yet we accept the frailty of life, Even viewing it as something beautiful, For fragile things are those which are most precious. Perhaps the joy we discover in a rose blossom Is just a taste of the ecstasy weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll find In a heavenly garden full of faded roses.

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MY JOURNEY On Christmas Eve after receiving the shocking news of our baby’s death, John and I studied several books, intent on selecting a name for our child. We chose Elizabeth for a girl, meaning consecrated to God, and Joshua for a boy, meaning God is my Salvation. Unable to decide on middle names, I determined that in our situation, a middle name was unnecessary. I cried myself to sleep, dozing fitfully, tossing, turning and dreaming. Sometime past midnight I awoke suddenly and opened my eyes. The details of my darkened bedroom were visible only by the glare of the digital time on our VCR. The word hope was racing through my mind, along with the phrase found in Proverbs 13:12: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick….” I knew immediately that we were having a baby girl and that we were to give her the middle name Hope. The next morning I looked up Jeremiah 29:11, which seemed to complement our daughter’s newly chosen middle name: “For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, says the Lord, thoughts of peace and not of evil, to give you a future and a hope.” Over the next weeks and months, I wondered why I had dreamed of hope deferred. A sick heart seemed to contradict the assurance of a hopeful future. Yet I recognized that God was 63

The Significant Life promising me something and that He had willed the naming of my daughter Elizabeth Hope. A couple months after Elizabeth’s delivery, I received a sympathy card from a family friend. To my amazement she quoted Proverbs 13:12, explaining, “Hope has been deferred and your hearts must be sick with grief, and God knows all about it.” I felt as though I had been given the first piece of the puzzle. My sorrow was appropriate, even expected. God recognized that I had had hopes and dreams for Elizabeth, and He understood and shared my sadness over her loss. The second piece of the puzzle came when I opened my Bible to Proverbs 13:12 and read: “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.” There I read the promise of God. He was granting the assurance of a tree of life, a desire that in its maturity would be productive, bearing much fruit. I set out to find the third piece of the puzzle: defining desire. In late February I flew to Michigan to attend my grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party. After a day surrounded by pregnant women and new babies, I returned to my hotel room, feeling exhausted and somewhat discouraged. I began to consider Elizabeth’s middle name. “Why did I name her Hope?” I wondered. “In what ways am I hopeful?” It was as if the answer flooded over me, providing the final piece of the puzzle and calming my heart and mind. In a rush of thoughts and emotions, I identified four avenues of hope. First, I hoped in the character of God. I knew that my relationship with Him was worth pursuing as never before. I determined to trust my Heavenly Father, Who is so good that because of His love for me, He provided the hope of Salvation. 64

The Significant Life Second, I hoped in the promise of a future. According to Romanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s 8:28, God has guaranteed to work things for my good if I love Him and am called by Him. While I was unsure of my future, I knew that it rested in the hands of a sovereign, loving God, Who desired the best for me. My future would be great! Third, I hoped in the prospect of mentoring others. As God healed me I hoped to facilitate His healing to others. I had a new understanding of grief and loss, but, more importantly, of the love, compassion and healing power of my Heavenly Father. I longed for the day when my situation would bring hope to someone experiencing the loss of their child. Fourth, I hoped in a heavenly reunion. Heaven became a reality, not a fanciful, out-of-reach vision. It became the place of elated reacquainting, where I would hold my daughter again. I could imagine us hand-in-hand, walking along streets of gold and worshipping our Savior together. I could hardly wait! I closed my eyes, filled with a renewed sense of expectation. I slept peacefully for the first time in months.

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TO THE READER God, in His great love, has granted you the hope of an eternity spent with your child. Imagine your son or daughter running along streets of gold, sharing your heavenly mansion or dining with you at a celestial banquet table. God, according to His magnificent character, has offered you the expectation of heaven through His gift of Salvation. Take a glimpse into the heart of God. Envision His anguish as He watched His only Son suffer and die. Picture the tears of a Heavenly Father mourning the loss of His Child. He did it for you. He so desired a relationship with you that He endured the most horrible pain imaginable-one with which you are too familiar: the death of a child. His Son, Jesus, forged the path from earth to heaven. I Thessalonians 4:13-14 reads: “But I do not want you to be ignorant, brethren, concerning those who have fallen asleep, lest you sorrow as others who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so God will bring with Him those who sleep in Jesus.” God has issued an invitation to a grand heavenly reunion. Imagine the ecstatic hugs and kisses from formerly departed friends and family. Picture a small child, running to you, arms outstretched, squealing, “I’ve missed you and I love you!” 67

The Significant Life Envision a face-to-face meeting with the Creator of the universe, Who lovingly arranged this party of all parties. Jesus is the only way to the Heavenly Fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s celestial celebration. When your life is complete, God desires an eternity spent with you. Will you accept His free gift of Salvation?

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RESTORATION When the questions donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have answers And the griefâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s too much to bear, I can rest in the great comfort That my Savior lingers there. When it seems that hope has faded And I cannot see the dawn, He gives promise of a future And the grace to carry on. When my abdomen is empty And my cradled arms are void, He turns mourning into dancing And my sorrow into joy.

The Significant Life

MY JOURNEY I sat in a padded chair in the waiting room of my doctor’s office, feeling weepy and emotional. Surrounded by newborns and expectant mothers, I was there for my postpartum checkup following the delivery of my stillborn daughter. The nurse called my name, weighed me and escorted me and my mother to an examining room. “The doctor will be in in a minute,” she said. The doctor entered and placed his chair directly across from me. He expressed his sympathy for my loss and for requiring me to visit his office, which he knew must be painful. “As you know, our best guess is that this was a cord accident,” he said. “There is no reason to believe that this will ever happen to you again. I don’t know if you and your husband want to have another baby….” “We do,” I interrupted. “Let a couple cycles come and go,” the doctor said. “Then, you can try again.” I returned home feeling that I had just commenced an extended waiting period. It seemed as though my life were suspended in limbo until I could conceive again. I took comfort in shopping for baby and maternity clothes, preparing for another child. I knew that no one could replace Elizabeth, but I longed 71

The Significant Life to fill my empty arms. I assumed that God would grant me another baby by the following December. Surely He would not require me to face the anniversary of Elizabeth’s delivery date without a babe in arms. In late February I purchased several home pregnancy tests, all of which produced faintly positive results. To my dismay, my period came several days later. In late March I faced several negative pregnancy test results and again in early May. “What is going on?” I questioned. “Doesn’t God want to restore what I have lost?” It was then that I realized that perhaps God’s definition of restoration differed from mine. Perhaps His promise of a future and a hope did not necessarily hinge on whether or not I had another baby. “Is it possible that God can heal me without immediately awarding the one thing that I feel I need?” I determined that the answer was most certainly, “Yes!” I had presumed that God would receive glory by giving me another baby. I had imagined dedicating a newborn, telling of how God had turned our sorrow into joy. “Maybe a more excellent testimony would be that I have a life full of joy in spite of my circumstances,” I thought. One evening while driving home from work, I was praying about a future child. I was sincerely impressed to release the timing of the next pregnancy to God. Trying to conceive had become stressful. John and my sex life had lost its intimacy and appeal, becoming more of a chore. I determined that for my health and the health of my marriage, I would let God decide when I should have another baby. I would stop assuming that God should immediately give me what I want and start trusting in his promise to “work all things together for my good.” 72

The Significant Life With tears streaming down my cheeks, I released my life and my future baby to God. I understood that that decision could delay the arrival of my next child, but I was sure that it would advance Godâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s healing process. I felt relief wash over me. I knew that I was no longer in control, but God was, and I could live with that. At that moment I started down a new road, one that would take me through sorrow and grief, past comfort and hope and, ultimately, to joy, healing and restoration.

The Significant Life

TO THE READER Healing and restoration are obtainable. The decision to pursue them or not is yours. Many days, I felt as though I wanted to be miserable and depressed. I assumed that feeling joy or happiness would somehow tarnish Elizabeth’s memory. I had already recognized her importance, but I began to consider the kind of result that I wanted her life to have. Deciding that I wanted her effect to be positive, I used her remembrance to spur me toward growth and health. At some point, I began recalling her with fondness instead of sadness. What has been your definition of restoration? Does it differ from God’s? Allow Him to restore you in His way. That may mean releasing your desires to Him, letting Him fill your empty arms and heart with His Spirit. God promises in Psalm 30:5b: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” Journey through the darkness with Him, for light resides on the other side. You can do it! Pick up your walking stick and take the first step. Do you see it? At first, it is a just a faint glimmer, but you feel drawn to it. As you walk, it becomes larger, a comforting glow, beckoning you closer. At last, the light looms before you, and you drop your staff and RUN! It is hard to imagine that darkness once 75

The Significant Life encompassed you. Dawn has come, and you dance in the light of restoration. Blessings on your journey!

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EPILOGUE

My story contains additional chapters. One is entitled “Disillusionment” and details my feelings of doubt and confusion following the loss of our second baby girl, Abigail Grace, on August 19, 2004. Another is called “Acceptance.” It tells of the miscarriage of a third daughter, Rebecca Faith, on May 27, 2005, after which I chose to relinquish my many questions and, once again, trust in the sovereignty of God. A different section is named “Challenge” and speaks of John’s and my process of deciding whether or not to try again, subsequent to the loss of yet another baby, Gabriel Promise, on October 15, 2005. These chapters remain to be written, projects for a future time, as I am currently preoccupied with the joys and demands of my miracle baby, Jet. His pregnancy and delivery are a chapter unto themselves, a chapter that has many names: “Fear,” “Faith,” “Anxiety,” “Anticipation” and, of course, “Miracle.” Although the sections of my journey possess different titles, their underlying theme is the same. Written beneath every heading, woven throughout each paragraph and inherent in each and every word is one thing and only one thing: the faithfulness of God! My Heavenly Father continues to work all things for my good, a fact at which I am truly amazed.