a birthday of a different sort

Three years ago today, we lost Ethan.

Three years ago today, that pretty nurse practitioner pressed the doppler deeper and deeper into my belly, willing it with all her might to pick up on a heartbeat that just wasn't there.

Three years ago today, I wept on an exam table and Andrew laid flat on the floor to keep himself conscious.

Three years ago today, the doctor gave us two options - we could say goodbye to our baby in a maternity ward or at an abortion clinic.

Three years ago today, I called my parents to tell them that we lost the baby and to ask them to bring contact solution to the hospital. They brought two big bottles...because it was the only thing they could do.

Three years ago today, a nurse led us to a room far away from the other mothers and babies and put a butterfly on the door to alert the staff that the soul in this mama's belly had already taken flight.

Three years ago today, I held my son for the first time and the last time. I have imagined holding him since. I have held him in my mind, in my heart. But when it comes to my son, my arms are useless.

As I think back on that day three years ago, I see a girl with a broken heart, a girl who is me...but isn't. I feel sad for that girl. I even cry for her. But I don't cry for me. Because I'm not sad. And writing those words - I'm not sad - that's what breaks my heart.

How do you mother a child who is dead?

There are no carrots to puree, no skinned knees to kiss, no monsters to chase from under the bed. There are no pictures to take, no cowlicks to smooth, no sneakers to tie, no report cards to sign...

The first year, I mothered Ethan by being sad. I was sad all the time. I felt that grief down to my fingernails. I felt it shrouding my spirit. I felt it in every corner of my home. I grieved hard and long. I tried to be normal, to celebrate holidays and other people's babies. But inside, I was mothering my son.

I also mothered Ethan by talking about him. I talked about him a lot - with Andrew, with family, with friends. When strangers asked if I had kids, I always told his story. When I was pregnant and people asked if this was my first, I told them no. We planted a tree. We had a ceremony. I wore two necklaces engraved with his name.

I was a good mom. A really good mom to my baby in heaven.

And then that grief, that misery, that loneliness...lifted. It faded. It just sort of stood up from my couch and walked out the door, slowly and silently so that I didn't even hear it go. And the next time I tried to call on my sadness, it wasn't there.

Joy was.

That's where I'm at now. I'm happy. I'm grateful. I'm living and celebrating and hoping and I don't feel sad. I feel blessed to work where I do. I love my husband. I delight in my daughter. I'm a good mother to her...

But not to Ethan.

Maybe that's not fair. Maybe I'm being hard on myself. But that's really how I feel. I don't know how to mother a dead child without being sad. I don't know how to love him with a mended heart. I am ashamed sometimes of my grief, of my lack of grief. I am ashamed of the fact that when people ask if Harriet is our only, most of the time I say that she is. There are days when I am caught up in mothering my spunky little girl and I don't even think of Ethan.

Is this what the other side looks like? Is this what I wished for all those days and months when that ache felt too much to bear? When I told myself that someday it wouldn't hurt so bad, did I ever really think that it wouldn't hurt at all? I feel stuck in the goodness of my life because it leads to guilt - how could life possibly be so good with one family member missing?

And then there are moments...unexpected moments...when I ache for him.

Every Christmas, my inlaws donate fruit trees to a community that desperately needs them. They do it in Ethan's name and every year, when we open the certificate, I am surprised by my grief. I am surprised by how much the tears sting. I am surprised by how much I wish he was here with us, ripping through wrapping paper and sneaking Christmas cookies from the table. But more than that, I'm surprised by how much it means to me that they remember him...that they write his name...that they miss him too.

Ethan had Down syndrome, and when I see children who have that in common with my boy...oh, I want him back. I want him back so badly that just thinking of it now is making me cry so loudly that I have to put my hand over my mouth to keep from waking Harriet.

And soccer...I don't know what it is but there's something about seeing sweaty little boys chase each other around a soccer field that makes me think of Ethan and miss him so much.

So three years later, as I write these words, I am realizing that despite my genuine happiness and the deep gratitude I have for the direction my life has taken, my grief is still here. The tears are fresh in my eyes, multiplying with each word I type. It's so cliche, but this stage of grief really is a dance - a dance between loss and gain, heartbreak and gladness, a dance between what's not here...and what is.

So today, I picture myself holding a chunky three-year-old boy in my arms and dancing crazy around the kitchen table, admiring all the trucks and trains on his birthday cake. I wanted today to look like that.

But today looks a lot different. Today...my boy is dancing with Someone else.

heaven will hold them

Our journey toward parenthood hasn’t been easy. I'm sure some of you can relate. I was diagnosed with polycystic ovarian syndrome as a teenager, so we knew from the start that it might be difficult for us to conceive. I took my last birth control pill on my 24th birthday and we gave it a few months before asking my doctor for a little extra help. She wrote a prescription for Clomid and sent us on our way. About a week later, when the Clomid didn’t seem to be working, she referred us to a reproductive endocrinologist. Dr. C spent over an hour with us, explaining the plan and the medications. He wanted to reboot my system with a month of birth control pills but needed me to take a pregnancy test first. It was just a formality. I peed in the cup, set it in the little box and joined Andrew to wait for the nurse to bring us the birth control pills. She never came. Instead, Dr. C dropped off a pregnancy test with two beautiful pink lines. We couldn't believe it! Joy rushed in full force.

Four months later, I was starting to show. I bought my first maternity shirts and Andrew and I began discussing how we were going to fit another whole person into our tiny house. I remember being at church on a Saturday night, soaking up the worship, my heart exploding with gratitude for this little life in my belly. I rested my hand on my little bump and knew I'd never felt happier than I did in that moment. 

And then he was gone…

We went in for a regular appointment, and when the physician’s assistant couldn’t find a heartbeat, they sent us for an ultrasound. I’ll never forget the sweet technician’s words, “I’m so sorry, you guys. There are no heart tones.” I cannot begin to explain the agony we experienced in that moment. We felt betrayed, dumbfounded, gutted. Our son was already in Heaven.

The next 24 hours were a tornado of despair, pain, prayer, anger, and even joy. I was honored to be able to deliver our son. The induction...the contractions...hallucinations caused by the strong pain medication...trying to sleep. The room was dark and Andrew was dozing next to me on a pull-out bed. I felt a small rush of fluid and knew he was there, his teeny body tucked up against the inside of my thigh. It was like my skin was extra sensitive all of a sudden. I could feel his head, knew where his little legs touched mine. I laid there in silence, not wanting to tell anyone, not even my husband. I just wanted to be with my boy, me and him, skin to skin. I knew the sooner we called the nurse in, the sooner they'd take him away and I couldn't wrap my mind around that goodbye just yet. 

When I was ready, I woke Andrew. Together we marveled at his tiny hands, his perfect nose, and the slight way he resembled his dad. My mom got a chance to hold him too and the nurse took a roll of film. Everyone said that we'd want pictures someday and that it wouldn't hurt to take them, so we did. 

And then we handed our son's body over to the nurse, knowing that a couple of days earlier, we had unknowingly handed his soul over to the Father.

We named him Ethan Andrew.

thanks, Kristin Cook, for this picture

I tried to pass the placenta but I couldn't do it. I didn't know how. We hadn't taken classes yet! I hadn't read any books! I wasn't supposed to need to know this stuff yet! So they sent me for a D and C to clean out my uterus as if Ethan had never been there. As I waited for surgery, my mom came in with the pictures the nurse took. I told her I wanted to see them. I looked at the first picture in the stack and started to wail. I hadn't ever cried like that before and I haven't cried like that since. The images in the pictures were so unlike our actual experience of meeting our boy. The sweetness was gone. In the actual moment, his body hadn't mattered much because it wasn't him anymore. But the pictures were so clinical. His body looked so strange, distorted, even scary. The story the pictures told was so different from the quiet, priceless moment I remembered. I gave the pictures back to my mom and she took them, tears streaming down her face as well. Those pictures are somewhere in my parents' house. It's been two and a half years and I still can't look at them. 

Before they took me to surgery, I had to give up my glasses. I'm nearly blind without them, so there I sat in a thin hospital gown, slumped into a wheelchair, nurses and doctors buzzing around me, talking to each other. I couldn't see a thing. I felt completely isolated, abandoned in a sea of blurred scrubs and crushing grief. I didn't know where Andrew was, where my mom was. I quietly started to sob. A nurse anesthetist with a bald head and funky glasses bent down and asked if I was scared of the surgery. I gave him a partial answer, just a no. But I wanted to say, "I'm not crying because I'm afraid. I'm crying because my child is dead."

We went home after surgery. Our family was great. Our friends were great. Our church was great. Our dog was great (except when he destroyed the lilies the pastors dropped off and left a giant pile of dirt on our living room carpet). I read books about losing a child. I got a couple of necklaces with Ethan's name on them. We planted a lovely tree at Andrew's parents' lake home. We started to tell our story. 

A few months later, after finding out that Ethan had died as a result of Trisomy 21 (Down syndrome), we lost another baby at just a few weeks. Again, our hearts were broken. Strangely, I loved when people asked me if I had kids because I got to say, “Yes, I’m a mom, but my children are already in Heaven with Jesus.” I love that they give me an opportunity to share my Savior boldly and joyfully with anyone who asks. We will never stop missing Ethan and his little sibling, but we will forever praise God for allowing us be part of their story, a story that only started with their deaths. We have already seen pieces of their purpose fulfilled here on earth. We cannot begin to imagine all of the glorious things they are doing with Jesus now in Heaven. 

My Grandma Henry passed away a couple of months before Ethan did, and it gave us such joy to know that she and Andrew’s Grandpa Allen were there to greet our children. We prayed every day that God would bless us with more children. But during those years, we were empty nesters, missing our kids and crawling into Jesus’ lap so He could remind us that even in our grief, God is glorified. 

We rest in the assurance that our babies are with Jesus, and that Heaven and worship and perfection are all they will ever know. We also find so much comfort in the fact that during their short time on this earth, they only ever experienced the feelings of being fully loved and desperately wanted. Some days that's enough. And other days, we just miss them.