I'm sure I cried myself to sleep in Perris' arms Friday night. I felt very achy in my back and wondered if my body was preparing. I slept terrible. We woke and there was a flutter of activity in the kitchen. We moved slowly, and I soon made way to my bed to write down every detail of the day before. It was a beautiful spring day and we eventually made it to a riverwalk to pass the time before our 4pm hospital appointment.
4pm was approaching and I was starting to feel a lot of anxiety. The hospital called and delayed our arrival until 8pm. It was relieving, actually. A few more hours together.
The time came to depart and Perris offered to give me a priesthood blessing. I asked that we kneel for a family prayer first. Realizing no one would want to be the one to say this prayer, I offered to do it myself. We all cried as I prayed and I remember specifically choking out the words, "We are so sorry she can't stay..." Perris then gave me a blessing that I would have spiritual strength. Our brothers-in-law then blessed Perris. I stood up from those blessings, calm, ready for the battle. I felt like a warrior woman, I was ready to go, fully armored with the love and strength of God. We kissed everyone goodbye and off we went.
We had to enter the hospital through the ER. The woman ahead of us checking in was largely pregnant and I heard her say she was 37 weeks, here for her induction. My turn came and I said I was here for labor and delivery but had to explain to 2 different people I was here for a stillbirth and their uncomfortable response was obvious as they sent us back to sit and wait for the L&D nurse to arrive. Bless this nurse who knew who we were and quickly whisked us away from all other patients and employees, clearly trying to protect us from having to answer too many questions. We had a quiet room in the corner.
The plan: induction through cytotec, a pill placed on your cervix. A dose 6 hrs apart until she comes. My first dose was at 11:30pm and it was a long night. Second dose at 5:30am. The morning was a peaceful silence. As Perris showered and shaved in the bathroom I was left in that holy stillness. Since it was Sunday, and Palm Sunday at that, I decided to put on the music my sister had recommended the week before: "The Lamb Of God" by Rob Gardner. My emotions may have been numb and I didn't listen closely to the words, but they sunk into my spirit.
Contractions were okay and I could breathe through them easily until about 10:45am when the hard, hard labor came on strong. I told Perris I was going to lose it and there was no way I could handle doing this for much longer. I finally found it to be more comfortable with my legs hanging off the side of the bed and Perris pressing hard on my lower back as the pains came. Around 11:30 I said "I feel like I'm going to pop!" and Perris paged the nurse and she and the Dr arrived with one extra women we hadn't yet met. Perris swung my legs up onto the bed and she was coming. The Dr commented that she was coming out breech, so I could push if I wanted to. She was about 1/2 way out and my contractions completely disappeared, I felt total relief. They helped me gently get her the rest of the way out as I peeked as far forward as I could to see. She was born in the sac, placenta completely intact, "best case scenario," they explained. The Dr took her over to the table and said she'd cut open the sac and then bring her to me. I motioned for Perris to get closer to watch, and we were all eyes for that table. The 3rd woman we did not know then commented, as the doctor apparently opened the sac, "Well there's your problem." She was completely tangled in the cord.
Our nurse put her in a blanket and brought her over to me. Obvious were affects from having been gone for a week or so, and her little leg was a bit twisted from being tangled for that time but when I saw her I knew: This is Lennie. Her little fingernails and fingers were perfect. Her feet were tiny and darling, her little nose so sweet. That curve on her upper arm that all babies have...she looked just like she was supposed to, just so small. I held her and reality rushed over us like the strong current of a river, and Perris joined me, both of us weeping. Here she was, the beautiful perfect body of our dear daughter. And to lose her!
I was in enough sense of mind that I knew I had to record everything I could about this and in a pause of our tears I turned and asked Jen to take our photo. This is a beautiful and sad capture of a sacred moment of love and deep pain.
Friday after I had spoken to family, I knew the next person to call was Ashley. Mischievous, silly, dramatic, best of friends through high school in Nebraska, Ashley married a man from Delaware and now lives 2 hours from us. We gather as often as we can and she, a photographer, often takes our family photo. I knew she'd be willing to come and take photos of our birth day. What I had not remembered was that in the very recent past Ashley became a certified photographer for a nation organization, Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, providing photographs to parents experiencing the death of a baby. Unimportant to me then, this smacked me in the face as a bright beam of "Miracle" as she explained to me later she had arranged with the hospital to come and take photos already. The pandemic caused this organization to not be in full function currently, but here I am with a friend who 20 years ago we could scarcely have imagined what God would arrange for us. She did not count as a visitor, and she captured this day that now seems like a far away dream. How can God love us so much to have perfectly arranged this?
Ashley arrived and was so gentle and loving as she quietly took photos and listened to us, watched us cry. We waited for our most important visitors for the next photos: our 4 handsome sons.
The night before we had explained we have 4 children and "could they come and see the baby?" Again, pandemic rules are tight and "no one under the age of 12 is allowed in the hospital." The nurse assured us she'd ask. The new shift arrived, and we hadn't heard so we asked our new nurse. She explained the same and I sincerely looked her in the eyes and choked out the words, "But they are heartbroken too." May God bless this woman forever. She came right over to me and stroked my head as I wept, the heaviness of a mother knowing her children may not be able to see their sibling streaming in tears down my face. They are so young, pregnancy is so mysterious as it is, and then suddenly for them to be told they have a sister but never have any connection that she actually was and is! Sometime later she returned and told us they could come. We thanked her over and over throughout her shift and after the boys left and she said, "Some things are just right." I will never stop praying for her to be blessed for this great, great, miracle she offered us.
The boys arrived, all with big smiles on their faces. After Lennie was born we decided we'd not show them her face, as it was a little "squishy", that they'd not be afraid. We showed them her hands and feet, the umbilical cord. Everyone wanted to hold her, and took turns doing so. We took several family photos and after the boys ate some pudding, our nurse escorted them back downstairs to our waiting sisters and brothers-in-law. Soon after, Ashley left and we were there, waiting.
Waiting to go home, not wanting to go home, stuck in this crossroads of what "should have been" and what was. We were told we could go 8 hours after birth, 7:30pm. We continued holding her, called family, and cried on and off. As I anticipated leaving I kept reassuring myself "she isn't here anyway, and there is nothing I can do for her fragile, delicate body" but the symbol of what it meant was squeezing my tender heart. 7:30 was approaching and I decided to put her in the bassinet; a freezing cold, preserve the body bassinet that I avoided all day.
The new shift had begun and our nurse entered and asked, "Do you want to leave first, or do you want me to take her first?" My stunned mind didn't know what to say. How could I choose? As much as either one would hurt I decided it would be worse to watch her go, and let the nurse know we would leave first. The night was dark, I got dressed and re-checked my things for the fifth time, got my tissues stocked, and fidgeted and cried... Waiting for the awful, needful deed of leaving my child. The nurse reappeared in the doorway and I grabbed my things and quickly walked over to my sweet Lennie's' body, kissed her on the head, locking her image into my mind forever, and walked straight out the door. Perris followed behind, having given her the same goodbye, and we walked, eyes straight forward, cheeks flowing with our rivers of tears. I heard the nurses laughing together, one of them shushed the others. We went down the elevator and continued in the quiet halls. On the main level, in the corner of my eye I saw those beautiful, big bellied mamas sitting in their wheelchairs, surrounded by breastfeeding pillows and carseats and told myself, "Don't look!" I imagined them watching us. Did they know what we'd just had to do? Did they know that even though they may have noticed I was wearing jeans, I'd much rather have been walking out of that hospital with a baby, 50 pounds heavier? Our hearts broke all over again as we left that night. It may be the hardest thing I've yet had to do in life.
Coming home to our family was sweet. To have them there, guarding our children and loving them was the greatest gift. They embraced us, cried with us as we recounted pieces of our experience, and loved us.
I made the mistake of listening to "Dear Theodosia" on Friday (sob fest). But the words "I'm dedicating everyday to you" echoed in my head and automatically became, "I'm celebrating our one day with you" without any forethought. And we are. Forever celebrating our one day with Lennie's precious body.