August 29, 2010

I woke up early Sunday morning and knew it was the day I had been dreading.  We loaded up and headed to the hospital.  Just as if I was having a normal delivery, I sat in the L&D check in and filled in the paperwork.  I watched expectant mothers pace the floors anxious to meet their new babies.  I heard newborns cry and knew I'd never hear mine have that same privilege.  I was pissed off to say the least.  This wasn't fair.  Why were they making me do this? I didn't want to be here.   

It seems I got an epidural pretty early on in the day.  They said there was no reason for me to be in more pain than I already was.  I asked them to give me something to knock me out so I could sleep through the whole entire day, but they said they couldn't do that.  

Once I wasn't hurting as much, I had a few hours of peace.  It was definitely a supernatural peace.  I found myself singing the lyrics to the song "All Things Are Possible" over and over again.  "I am pressed but not crushed, persecuted not abandoned, struck down but not destroyed.  I am blessed beyond this curse for this promise will endure, His joy is gonna be my strength."  I know without a doubt that the prayers of my church family were carrying me through.  Church service was going on at that time, and I was later told that one dear friend had made a pin or something for people to wear to remember to pray for us.  The prayers worked for most of the day.  I was much calmer and at peace than I should have been.  

As the day wore on, and he came closer to coming, my nerves started getting the better of me. I started to shake uncontrollably.  My hands, my face, my legs wouldn't stop shaking.  I was crying and had no control of my body.  I was acutely aware of everyone around me.  I could hear everyone's conversations.  I couldn't understand why they were able to talk and laugh and carry on with their lives while my life seemed to be falling apart.  My baby would never have a life at all, yet they could laugh.  I almost felt like I was having a seizure I was shaking so badly, but the nurses didn't seem too concerned.  

I remember my friend and pastor, Tim, put his hands on my hands and started to pray silently over me.  As he did so, all the shaking stopped and I was able to calm down and fell asleep for a few minutes.  When I fell asleep, everyone left my room, except Brad.  Within minutes of everyone leaving, Matthew was born.  

In the stillness.  In the quiet.  In the moment of peace, Matthew, my peaceful, quiet, still baby came into the world.  

When the nurse came back in and cleaned him up, she handed him to me.  He was so tiny.  He was so perfectly formed.  I will never forget his little tiny fingernails and his little tiny nose.  Absolutely perfect.  The family who was still there took turns holding him and Tim offered to baptize him.  We all cried and said our goodbyes.  

I'm so glad they had the chance to see him.  I'm glad people thought to take pictures of him.  I didn't think I'd want them, but I'm glad to have them now.  People seeing him and having the pictures help make him real to others, not just to me.  That's what I need.  I need him to exist outside of me.  I need others to know him.  I need others to remember him.  If they don't, I feel like his life never mattered, and that I can't deal with.  I  have to find purpose for living through that ordeal.  

I guess that's what I'm doing here.  If someone can read this and feel like someone understands what they're going through, that helps.  If someone reaches out to me to talk or asks for my prayers, it helps.  I want to be able to feel like I was able to go through this for a reason, or else I can't make any sense of it at all.  

If you've gone through anything similar or know someone who has and you need to vent, tell your story, ask advice or anything else, don't hesitate to message me.