It's Christmas Eve and it's a silent night. There's family shuffling about getting ready for bed and whatnot, but compared to what it should be, it's silent.
Silent Night has become the hardest song for me to hear this season. The very first verse says, "Holy infant so tender and mild" and I know exactly what that looks like. I have an image that springs to mind of when I was holding William in my arms. His little hands folded; so tender and mild. Then the very next line is "sleep in heavenly peace" and I remember laying him down in his crib and tucking in the sheets for the last time.
When hearing this song and thinking of my son, tender and mild, sleeping in heavenly peace, my heart breaks and the Holy Spirit reminds me that God's heart broke even more. So much so that He sent His son just to come and get me.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Remembering
When they wheeled Rebecca out of the delivery room to the OR a nurse came back and told me to put some scrubs on. If the doctors would let me in, I should be ready, she said. Then she told me to just sit tight until somebody came and got me. So I sat there in the chair having no clue what to do with myself. I called Rebecca's mother, or maybe she called me, and told her they had taken Rebecca in for the emergency C-section. She said something along the lines of, well, that's not what we hoped for, but it's not the end of the world. Then I was just sitting there. I couldn't think of anything else to do, and skydiving taught me panic does nothing but make things worse, so I just prayed for 20 minutes thanking God for everything I have. I thanked him for Rebecca, my parents, her parents, our siblings, our extended family, our health, our house, our church, my business, and all kinds of stuff. I said, God, you have given me all these blessing and if you take them all, I will still trust you. If I had known what was about to happen, I might have done a little more negotiating.
While I was praying, a nurse came in and said the doctor would like to see you now. She didn't look happy, but didn't look sad; just professional, in a soap opera-esque emotive yet emotionless sort of way. We walked down to the OR, which in hospitals is several long halls and corners away. We walked in the final door to the OR and the sea of scrubs just parted before me leading me to a little table with a little baby laying on it. This was not looking like a joyous welcoming party. It took about 2 seconds to realize he's not moving... at all. There were four little red dots on his chest that were puncture holes from the adrenaline they gave him. There was the little bracelet and knit cap on him, and he was looking kind of blue. The doctor standing behind me put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I'm so sorry, there was nothing else we could do."
What's bizarre about that moment is that from then on, there was pretty much zero thought going on, emotion was too overwhelming. They slid a chair in behind me so I could fall down. They asked if I wanted to hold him and I said yes, so I held him close and cried hard. They continued to tell me he wasn't breathing when he came out and they could breathe for him and pump his heart for him, but he never took over and pumped or took a breath on his own. They said Rebecca was doing great and that she was getting put back together. They said I should probably go back to the room and wait for Rebecca to get up to the recovery room. Did I want to leave him here or let a nurse take care of him and clean him up? Not on your life! I didn't let him out of my arms until an hour later I handed him to Rebecca.
While I was praying, a nurse came in and said the doctor would like to see you now. She didn't look happy, but didn't look sad; just professional, in a soap opera-esque emotive yet emotionless sort of way. We walked down to the OR, which in hospitals is several long halls and corners away. We walked in the final door to the OR and the sea of scrubs just parted before me leading me to a little table with a little baby laying on it. This was not looking like a joyous welcoming party. It took about 2 seconds to realize he's not moving... at all. There were four little red dots on his chest that were puncture holes from the adrenaline they gave him. There was the little bracelet and knit cap on him, and he was looking kind of blue. The doctor standing behind me put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I'm so sorry, there was nothing else we could do."
What's bizarre about that moment is that from then on, there was pretty much zero thought going on, emotion was too overwhelming. They slid a chair in behind me so I could fall down. They asked if I wanted to hold him and I said yes, so I held him close and cried hard. They continued to tell me he wasn't breathing when he came out and they could breathe for him and pump his heart for him, but he never took over and pumped or took a breath on his own. They said Rebecca was doing great and that she was getting put back together. They said I should probably go back to the room and wait for Rebecca to get up to the recovery room. Did I want to leave him here or let a nurse take care of him and clean him up? Not on your life! I didn't let him out of my arms until an hour later I handed him to Rebecca.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
The real deal
I've been reading back through my posts this morning and noticed a trend. When God has been working and teaching and when I'm excited and have something to share, I write. When I'm victorious in my struggle or having a breakthrough revelation, that's what I love to share. What there's not much of in my posts, is the other times in between those times, when life isn't so fun.
Now, every time between my posts has not been horrible. There have been many great times as well as trying times that I haven't written about. I just don't know how to, or want to at times, give an accurate description or play by play. Especially when things are bad, I don't have the urge to post, "Life sucks, I don't know what's going on, news at eleven." When life is no fun, I really don't want to be whiny. Similarly, my faith has grown through this experience, and through many other experiences leading up to this, but to only represent that it has always been strong is just untrue. My life this year has not been characterized by peace, tranquility and joy. It's no fun admitting weakness and pain, but along with the victories, that is the real deal.
Now, every time between my posts has not been horrible. There have been many great times as well as trying times that I haven't written about. I just don't know how to, or want to at times, give an accurate description or play by play. Especially when things are bad, I don't have the urge to post, "Life sucks, I don't know what's going on, news at eleven." When life is no fun, I really don't want to be whiny. Similarly, my faith has grown through this experience, and through many other experiences leading up to this, but to only represent that it has always been strong is just untrue. My life this year has not been characterized by peace, tranquility and joy. It's no fun admitting weakness and pain, but along with the victories, that is the real deal.
This has been harder than we expected
This year has been hard. We're over ten months away and it seems like all we do is see how deep the rabbit hole goes; how hard it can get. Thanksgiving and the holidays have been especially hard and it's kind of caught us off guard.
First, we planned a year and a half ago to have Christmas at our house so that we wouldn't be traveling with a youngster. Well, everyone is coming to our house, but we don't have a youngster. It's a kick in the gut every time I think about it.
Second, now that's it's been a while, baby's close to William's age are now old enough to be out traveling and it just seems like we see them all over the place. We know he would have been about this big, he would know his name, he would be close to walking about now, he would be cuddly, he would be so cute and he would be so fun.
Third, It's been really hard seeing our parents be such great grand parents. When we see our parents take care of other kids our hearts cry, "they should be taking care of William!" We don't begrudge anyone else their joy, but we can't help thinking William should be on that wagon, high chair or lap instead.
Fourth, it seems like injustice continues to taunt us. As time goes on we hear of more and more people who don't "deserve" their baby, but they get one...and we still don't. Some people complain incessantly about the pain and inconvenience of having a baby. Some people have one and don't take care of it. Some people don't want the one they have. Some people have one and want one, but don't deserve it. (I understand the danger of using the word "deserve," especially considering the context of some of my other posts, but it best describes the emotions we feel) Sometimes these events put me into a crying, screaming rage! It's just so unfair!
Finally, we're coming up on Christmas. A time of hope, that just seems ironic. We think back to last year and all the fun we had with him kicking; the hopes and the dreams. I remember rubbing Rebecca's tummy, sleeping with the windows open in the winter, trying to keep toilet paper in stock. What do we have to hope for this year? We've lost two babies this year, with even less probability of success now than before. It's just a whole different ball game, that's no fun to play.
As much as we try to be aware of troubling times ahead of time, we just can't predict how awful it can end up being. We try to prepare for times we know will be stressful, or remind us of him, but we continue to be amazed at all the different directions pain can come from. This has been harder than we expected.
First, we planned a year and a half ago to have Christmas at our house so that we wouldn't be traveling with a youngster. Well, everyone is coming to our house, but we don't have a youngster. It's a kick in the gut every time I think about it.
Second, now that's it's been a while, baby's close to William's age are now old enough to be out traveling and it just seems like we see them all over the place. We know he would have been about this big, he would know his name, he would be close to walking about now, he would be cuddly, he would be so cute and he would be so fun.
Third, It's been really hard seeing our parents be such great grand parents. When we see our parents take care of other kids our hearts cry, "they should be taking care of William!" We don't begrudge anyone else their joy, but we can't help thinking William should be on that wagon, high chair or lap instead.
Fourth, it seems like injustice continues to taunt us. As time goes on we hear of more and more people who don't "deserve" their baby, but they get one...and we still don't. Some people complain incessantly about the pain and inconvenience of having a baby. Some people have one and don't take care of it. Some people don't want the one they have. Some people have one and want one, but don't deserve it. (I understand the danger of using the word "deserve," especially considering the context of some of my other posts, but it best describes the emotions we feel) Sometimes these events put me into a crying, screaming rage! It's just so unfair!
Finally, we're coming up on Christmas. A time of hope, that just seems ironic. We think back to last year and all the fun we had with him kicking; the hopes and the dreams. I remember rubbing Rebecca's tummy, sleeping with the windows open in the winter, trying to keep toilet paper in stock. What do we have to hope for this year? We've lost two babies this year, with even less probability of success now than before. It's just a whole different ball game, that's no fun to play.
As much as we try to be aware of troubling times ahead of time, we just can't predict how awful it can end up being. We try to prepare for times we know will be stressful, or remind us of him, but we continue to be amazed at all the different directions pain can come from. This has been harder than we expected.
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