Leaves of Redemption- Day 8

She closed the door behind her. My husband and I alone in the ultrasound room. Knowing something wasn’t right. She said the doctor would be in soon. The room suddenly short on air.

April 2001. One month before our one year anniversary.

If we have seasons of life, of faith that feel like fall. This was ours. Leaves fall off trees. Death so life could come. However it only felt like the death side of the equation.

Recurring miscarriages, the only diagnosis we ever received. In reality it meant recurring heartbreak, recurring hopes being dashed, recurring loss in dreams of motherhood.

The first time. Just a few months as newlyweds. Learning the baby was no longer alive around nine weeks. In our years of grief that would come, this was dipping my toe beneath the surface.

We waited. We have time. A few months later ready to hope again. Thrilled to discover new life growing.

Five months. Past the danger zone. Safe. Making plans. Letting dreams take over. A baby adding life to our sweet home by Lake Nokomis.

Until that day in April. Waiting in the ultrasound room. Friday afternoon. My husband on a break from work. A project in the works, unknowingly it will not to be returned to for a few weeks. We clung to each other. Waiting. Still believing there might be a sliver of hope. Of miscalculations.

The baby measuring right where he should be. But the doctors words confirm. “There is no heartbeat. I do not know what has happened.”

The room spins out of control. Silent sobs take over my body. “No.” I tell this child I will not give up on you. Stay with me.

In our years of grief, I was about to submerge my whole body.

We return home to a house that a few hours earlier was full of promise. The air has shifted there. It knows. Numbness.

I ask my husband again. “What am I suppose to do?” With multiple meanings.

For now we prepare for the hospital. To deliver a baby. Who won’t be alive. I want to keep him in my body. Still holding on to them being wrong. For a miracle.

Family and friends begin to fill our house. I’m lost in a fog. A thick one.

Checking into the hospital. 24 hours they say. It turns into 48. Into 72. into 5 days. Complications. Epidurals. A baby who refuses to leave my womb. It downpours all week. A removed strength takes over. Determined to get me through the stay. Emotions held at bay.

I lay in the hospital bed. Looking at the gray sky. All the nurses comment on my faithful, fierce husband. Never leaving me. Protecting me. Listening and interpreting for me.

My love for him cemented in this suffering. Two losses never imagined before our first anniversary. A  young marriage placed in a shape to break. Instead it responds with courage that binds- ready to fight together against the evil of the world.

On that fourth day, a nurse makes an urgent call to the OR. I hear her say we have an emergency surgery. Bells go off. People rush. Something about the placenta blocking, possible internal bleeding.

Like a scene out of a movie, lying on my hospital bed I am wheeled into an elevator. Him by my side. They take my glasses. I am blind.

I don’t remember falling asleep. I wake up groggy. I am OK they tell me. The baby is gone. Gone. I am empty. So completely empty. I am not OK.

The next day I am released. But to what I wonder. A moment so clearly etched in my mind. The nurse bringing me down to our car says “Figures it is such a beautiful day today. I had this past week off and they called for sunshine. But it poured all week.”

For the first time I let God enter in. He has been weeping with me. Letting the clouds release their fury. Darkening the skies. Not thinking of theological implications of the hows and whys of God in suffering. But knowing he was WITH me.

He sets the stage for months long wrestling. Journals upon journals set upon my shelf from that season. Laments. Anger. Surrender. Questions. Distance. And all over again.

Getting results back from an autopsy and testing. Everything was good, healthy, we could not find any problems. Other than my baby died. And we don’t know why.

There is so much more to say. So much richness in this journey. So much despair in my thoughts. This season of fall. Of dying getting a hold on me. Dying that led to stretching and growing pains. Dying that led to capacity for suffering and joy. And an understanding of their connectedness. But it did not come easy. Worth the wrestling, yes. Easy, no.

Around the bend we will add more fall leaves of failed adoptions and pregnancy loss.  When I think of it collectively it seems too much to bear. It was. But they came one by one. Each their own life. Their own grief. Their own space to heal. For now I’ll pause this part of the story, until we meet again. (That would be tomorrow!)

Frameworks of remembrance. Holding this vivid memory. Alongside it holding the memory of five years ago today. Monday October 8th 2007. The day our son was placed in our arms. Forever. Never having to hand him back.

So amazing that the week in the series I was to share about our miscarriages falls on the week we mark five years of having our son home. Read that here.

Have you ever seen a more adorable baby? Earlier in the day of this picture, 10/8/07 we woke up early in our Guatemalan hotel room. Anticipating. Waiting. Somewhere up in the mountains our son was journeying with his foster family. A long, slow ride to bring him to us.

This family who had given eight months of their life and love, to ensure this eight month old baby knew what it was to be loved and cared for. Two teenage girls and a grandmother to spoil him. And that they did.

I remember waiting in the lobby. My husband coming in from outside. Their taxi is here. In slow motion I see them emerging onto the sidewalk. Through the revolving doors I frame the scene. Emotions all over the map. The foster mother being brave and holding back tears.

Our few Spanish words make a feeble attempt. But we don’t need them to communicate. We spend an hour. Through charades they share foods he likes and tips to soothe him. The fancy sofas and chairs holding tender goodbyes and gushing hellos.

And the sweet baby with the big brown eyes. He knows nothing of it’s meaning. Not yet. He smiles at us. Falls asleep in my arms.

He knows nothing of how long we have waited for him. Him. We stare at him all day. And looking in his eyes we both know we would do it all again. Every tear. We would let them fall to get to him.

I stare at this picture. That little baby looking at my camera lens was just getting to know me. To know us. Day one of us as a family. Day one of a long winding road arriving at it’s destination. Day one of a long fierce battle saying a victory has been won.

Day one of redemption’s song singing clearly.

Someday I will tell him of how his older brother prepared me to be a mom. To be his mom. Of all I learned about motherhood long before I held a baby in my arms.

Someday. But for now, I’m sneaking into my 5 years old’s room and staring at him.

Today is Day 8 in my 31 Days of Noticing Fall series. If you missed one, you can look here to find links to all days.

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Linking today with Better Mom Mondays, Playdates at the Wellspring, Multitudes on Monday, Titus 2 Tuesday, Soli Deo Gloria, Life Unmasked, Imperfect Prose