The last six months have been nothing short of excruciating for our family. For me. It's just now that we are climbing out on the other side that I can process much of what happened. I can tell more of our story now because I know the unexpected twist and the most precious ending. I did bring my son home. He's here, and he's perfect. I can't type those words without simultaneous tears of joy.
The beautiful thing is that this overwhelming joy of his presence covers much of the grief we experienced before. I'm so thankful for how this miracle has cheapened the devastation. Yet, I can't think of Thanksgiving and not feel the immediate swell of heartbreak. My water had broken. Our son would be born any day, and we would not be bringing him home. Our girls, who didn't even know yet about their new sibling, would not meet him on this side of Heaven. It was an aching, crushing pain.
But, I also can't think of that time without being overwhelmed by love. The kindness that my family was shown humbles me still. Mr. Rogers' mom was right. In the midst of our grief, there were the helpers. Incredible, often unexpected, people who chose to show up and love our family.
I was told that my son would not make it at 1:30 a.m. on Sunday, November 19, as I sat alone on in a triage room on the Labor & Delivery floor. I was in shock and didn't have the strength to talk to each of my family members individually, so I sent a text letting them know the dire situation our little boy faced. Without my asking or my knowledge, my mom and sister showed up at the hospital before my lunch tray was served. They literally woke up, saw the text, and got in the car and drove from states away. In our dark, quiet room with the shades drawn, they didn't give us platitudes, they just sat on that outdated loveseat and cried with us. They pushed nurses for answers and cheered with us that our little boy still had a heartbeat. They stayed with us for a week, and with my dad, took over my kitchen and served Thanksgiving dinner for my family. That first week of devastation is a heartbroken blur, but this I know-- my family carried us
.
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Every day after, I cried from both grief and gratefulness. On the days with doctor's appointments where it felt like we were drowning, we were buoyed by flowers that showed up at the hospital from my coworkers and our friends who have walked through even deeper grief of their own. People brought food-- so much food-- so that I could stay on bedrest. A high school friend of Sam's brought dinner and a giant crate of gifts for our girls, being sensitive to their hurt and my need for quiet, hands off ways to entertain them. We had friends bring cupcakes to celebrate making it to our "steroids day." Coworkers and college friends sent gift cards for meals and groceries. A friend brought baked Christmas cookies and all the supplies so that I could make memories with my girls without the effort. During those dark days, we had some people not show up quite as much as we would have thought (we get it: no one knew quite what to say to us), but my goodness, there were people who showered us with kindness who we barely knew, who we hadn't seen in years, who literally shocked us with their thoughtfulness. It seemed like every day when Willa ran mail up to my room, I'd just open the cards and cry. And then I'd tape them to the electric fireplace beside my bed, so that as I sat there for another day, I could look over and be encouraged that I wasn't the only one that cared what happened to this baby. Others were fighting with me.
The generosity didn't stop when I was admitted to the hospital. My dad, Donna, and Nik drove up from South Carolina to love on the girls while I packed. It allowed me the space to grieve this upcoming time away from my girls without having them underfoot to see it. He stayed so that he could drive me over to the hospital with a ridiculous miniature Christmas tree to get me settled in my room, and wouldn't leave until after those first rounds of monitoring and vital checks came back normal. When I couldn't eat for days during my hospital admission in November, all I wanted was fruit and in a state-of-the-art hospital, the only things we could find were old fruit cups and an overripe banana at the cafeteria, so my second day in the hospital this time, my dad sent an edible arrangement, just to make sure I had my fruit.
At least once a week, someone says "I don't know how you did it. I would've gone crazy after seven weeks in the hospital." I can tell you how I did it. YOU. You prayed for our family--me, Sam, our girls, and our unborn son. You brought Buffalo Wild Wings by and delivered pizza to the hospital so that our family could eat dinner together, huddled around my bed in room 1345. You came and sat with me. You brought me Honeybaked Ham and talked to me about work so that I could feel some normalcy. You visited every time you were in town, even if you were from hours away and we hadn't seen each other in months. You sent flowers. You fed my family at home three nights a week for months. You typed up messages on Facebook, sent texts to ask how I was, mailed letters to the hospital (one volunteer asked how long I'd been there because she'd never delivered more than one piece of mail to someone and she was in my room every week). You even sent Kendra Scott earrings to make me smile and so that I could feel all fancy on my 57th consecutive day of wearing leggings. You brought coloring books and games, so that my girls could snuggle up on my hospital bed with me and play. You sent Audible subscriptions so that I could listen to books when my arms were too weak from bedrest to hold up books long enough to read them. You brought a jar with Scripture written on small pieces of paper, so that everyday my family and I could pull a verse and be reminded of His promises to us. Doctors would plop down on the loveseat during their weekend on call and pass the time with me in between deliveries. Nurses learned our names and listened to our story.
I have never felt more hurt than I did in November and December. But, the beautiful thing is that I have also never felt more loved. I pray my children never face a devastating natural disaster or a shattering personal loss. I hope they never have to be swallowed up in grief. But if they are, I hope they're able to stop long enough to look for the helpers. They'll be there. And if you let them, they'll carry you through.
