What Has Changed, or The Evolution of Being, part V

Right now, looking back, there are so many good things that came from that tragedy that it's hard to feel anything but peace about what happened. Of course, I would much rather be typing this saying that I'm in my sixth month of pregnancy, happily looking forward to his arrival. But God
promises to make everything work together for the good of those who love him. And in this case, he has.

That day though, that horrible, awful, no-good, very bad day... that day, I didn't see how anything could be worse than what I was going through right then. I had gone in for my regular bi-weekly check-up. It was my 15th week and everything was supposed to be smooth sailing from there-on out.

But they couldn't find the heartbeat.

Not with the sonar, not with the ultrasound. So then I had to come back that night when the ultrasound tech was in because it was possible the baby was just in a weird position.

I can't describe how terrified I was during that drive home. Trying not to cry in front of the two 3-year-olds in my back seat. Calling my husband and telling him about the appointment and how terrified I was that something was wrong. And I prayed.

He assured me everything would be fine, and I prayed, but it wasn't. Everything was so very wrong.

We went to the doctor’s office that night, our boys with my best friend for the evening. And I prayed.

I knew when I saw a straight line roll across the screen instead of that beautiful, jumpy, jagged line indicating the heartbeat that had been there every time before, our baby was gone. And I prayed.

It was over. My dreams were dead.

And I prayed.


But it wasn't over. My baby was "gone", but not gone. I had no idea what was still to come that terrible night.

First, my husband insisted on a second opinion. And I prayed. We headed over to the hospital next door for another ultrasound. And I prayed. Then, when everything was confirmed, we had to go to Labor and Delivery. And I prayed.

Oh God, I was going to have to give birth to my dead baby.

And I prayed.

The horror of that reality took mere seconds to sink in and I was outraged. And I prayed. They can suck a living infant out of its mother’s womb as she chooses, but I had to go into labor and give birth to my dead baby?!? And I prayed. They wouldn't allow me to have a V-BAC with my full-term infants, but they would allow me to give birth to my dead baby?!? And I prayed.

That night and for the days to come, I went through the grief cycle a hundred times. And I prayed. Shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, acceptance... then back to shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, acceptance... over... and over... and over. And I prayed.

They led me to our Labor and Delivery room and explained exactly how the whole thing would work. And I prayed. They would insert two pills into my vagina that would start labor. And I prayed. Then, they would introduce Pitosin through an IV drip. And I prayed. It could take between six and 48 hours for everything to finish. And I prayed.

My prayers went like this;

"Oh God. Please take this from me."

"Oh God. Get us through this. Give us your strength. Give us your peace."

"Oh God. Please. I can't do this."

"Oh God. How am I going to tell the boys?"

"Oh God. How can I explain to my babies that this baby is gone?"

"Oh God. Please take this from me."

Eventually, I couldn't pray that much anymore, I was simply weeping too hard and my prayers changed to a mantra.

"God is with me.”

“God is. With me.”

“God Is. With me."

Throughout that night, as the labor started and the pain was increasing, I prayed.

As my husband and I discussed a name for the baby, I prayed.

As we talked about whether or not we wanted to see the baby, I prayed.

As he cried and asked me why this would happen, I prayed.

As I cried and told him that God has a plan, I prayed.

As I cried and sang praises to God, I prayed.

As our safe little world tumbled down around us, I prayed.

"God Is. With me."