All of last week, a
strange thought crossed my mind continuously. 'I miss my baby.'
I thought it
meant I missed him, in a way that meant I was excited to meet him. Or, that
since I had experienced the overwhelming joy of childbirth and motherhood, that
I was ready to do it again. I thought it was early stages of nesting. I thought
it was excitement bubbling over into thoughts that were deeper than what I
understood.
On Sunday, we were at church pretty much all day, but we spent most of the
day together as a family too. In between services, I told JT to be prepared for
lots of emotions on
Monday. See-- we had scheduled our anatomy scan, which would reveal the
gender of our baby. This gave me uncontrollable anxiety all day on Sunday. The gender
of this baby, I felt, would change each of our lives in our own way. Would
June be blessed with a sister? I so wanted her to grow up with a built-in
best friend, like I had in my two sisters growing up. I pictured dressing them
alike every single day. I pictured Saturdays with my girls. I imagined
celebrating girlhood like my mother did, complete with tea parties and beauty
pageants in the living room, broken hearts, and chick flicks. But oh, how I
wanted a son! A tiny version of the man who my sun rises and sets on. A boy. My
boy. A son, who I could teach how to appreciate women, who would think I did no
wrong. A boy for JT to teach how to be a man after God's heart. Somebody for
him to enjoy sports with, run errands with on their off days, and be there for
each other when Mama and June got to be too much with the girly emotions and
affinity for shopping all day.
I was convinced
it was a boy. When I carried June, for 9 straight months, I puked. No relief
was ever found. The day she was born, via scheduled C-section, I woke early. I
puked, got ready, headed to the hospital and had my baby. So this time when
the puking stopped at 14 weeks, I knew! This one would be a bouncing baby boy!
We scheduled the appointment to find out the gender, but I didn't need it. I had woken up on that Thursday to an alarm ringing on my phone
letting me know I had successfully completed first trimester. 'Whoopie!' I
thought. But then, I didn't feel sick. Everyday after that, I felt great.
People would ask how I felt, and I would so excitedly say, "I feel great!
It's such a Blessing! I never feel nauseas anymore!" A few times I even
exclaimed, " I don't even feel pregnant, other than this growing
belly!" It's so eerie to think back on that very statement and hear the
echo in my mind.
September 15th
On a gloomy Monday, I woke with lots of anxiety. My life
would change that day. I would find out the gender! I waddled a little as I
walked to the mirror. I took a peek, with one eye open and spotted a fever blister. Shoot,
Brittany! You should've stayed calm yesterday. I didn't have time to
dwell on it. I needed to quickly get dressed, because as everybody knows--June
takes just as long to get ready. No detail is left untouched, not even for a
morning at day care. I picked a baby blue top to wear over my maternity
leggings. It was a boy, I was sure. (Even as I write, I still feel those
nervous knots in my stomach.) So much excitement, contentment, and anxiousness
laid within the deepest part of my heart. We got out the door, dropped June off
at the church, and headed downtown. We sat down in the waiting room and soon
they called my name. "C'mon!" I told JT. It was all I could do to not run to the room where we'd see our baby.
Once in the room, the sonographer asked, "So you wanna know
the gender?"
"YES!" we
said in perfect harmony.
"You're 18 weeks,
4 days?" she asked.
I could barely
contain my shaky hands and growling tummy. JT stood in his usual spot, at my
feet. The clicks of the mouse began, and I knew there was something different
as I watched the screen. There was no movement. No noise. No features. No rapid
little thud of a heart so precious. Nothing.
" I meant to
drink my orange juice before this appointment, but breakfast didn't make it in
the schedule this morning!" I said, as I laughed nervously.
"That's alright," she said and click, click, clicked.
"Give me just a second," she said as she stepped out.
JT began rubbing
my feet. I told him to stop. "This isn't good, is it? I'm concerned,"
I said. But then, she returned with a "sorry bout that" and continued
clicking. I exhaled for the first time in what felt like an hour. She
just needed a quick restroom break, of course!
But then, Dr. Julieann Parker stepped in. "Hey," she said.
And then I knew. I couldn't believe it, but I knew.
"It doesn't look
good. The baby is measuring 16 weeks."
And for a split
second, I thought "that's okay. We'll get it figured out. Due dates change
all the time!"
..."and there's
no heartbeat today."
I looked at my
baby on that screen, curled up and lifeless, and the mama in me just wanted to
fix this. I wanted to take that baby into my arms and make this go away. As a
mother, I'd never felt hopeless before, but this situation seemed so dark.
"I was afraid of this. I knew it when I started feeling
better." I told JT, as if making that statement was going
to save me from some heartache. Like I could get ahead of this surprise and
vulnerability.
"Are we done in here? Can I get out of this
room?" I asked frantically, trying to swallow the lump in my throat,
trying to find an emotion on JT's face.
They quickly
ushered me to an exam room, where I began to sob. "You don't need to be
tough for me," I told JT. I could see the devastation waiting to flood his
face as soon as he felt it was okay.
Dr. Parker stepped in, and with such
grace and compassion and poise, she said "I'm so sorry." With my first pregnancy, I never needed her like I was about
to. I didn't want to listen to somebody to try and console me. I didn't want to
listen to anything!
And then, like a beautiful script
that no author could've written better, she said "We don't understand why
these things happen, but they do. There's nothing I can say to make this
okay."
She was right. No logical explanation or even a warm fuzzy cliché
was going to fix this. I wanted to run, but I wanted to fall where I stood.
Everything was moving so fast, but everything was going in slow motion. She let me know that it was too late to do a D&C and that I'd have to deliver. Terror struck my heart. Was this
really happening? I'm going to have to deliver a baby that I don't get to take
home?
We quickly exited to
the parking lot without any inkling of a plan.
Should we call our
parents? They're waiting to hear our results.
Should we call our
friends?
Should we sit on this
for a little while?
Where should we go?
"I just need somebody to walk me through this! I can't even
think straight!" I told JT.
I asked him if he wanted to call his parents, and I could
tell that he couldn't yet. JT is only tenderhearted about one thing in the
world and that's family. Telling them was going to be the first tough hurtle in
this awful process. We had been texting with them late into the night, joking
about hoping the baby wouldn't be hard-headed and cooperate for a gender
reveal. They were waiting for a text, Steve (JT’s dad) was all the way in
Austin for work, and Polly, in her classroom of second graders. I called my
parents, who were already on the way to Augusta to help us celebrate finding out the gender. The phone conversation lasted maybe 30 seconds. I had to tell my mom, but I
wasn't ready to talk about it. I couldn't articulate feelings that I had not
even figured out yet. "I just need a minute," I told JT as I asked
him to park the car. There wasn't one single ray of sunshine in the whole sky,
and it started to sprinkle. "How perfectly cliché," I thought to
myself, and maybe out loud. I can't remember. It felt like somebody had knocked
the wind right out of me. This couldn't be happening. We pulled out of the
parking lot and headed aimlessly down a long, curvy highway. Where were we
going? I wanted to go get my Junie, but did I really need to? Did she need to
see her parents in this awful state? Would I be able to care of her for the
rest of the day?
My next thought was to call our pastor, Marty Baker.
Marty is a huge part of our lives because, yes, he's our pastor but he's also
my husband's employer, and he's also our uncle. We eat lunch with him, Aunt
Patty, and all of our cousins every Sunday afternoon. But none of that is the
reason I thought of him next. Marty and Patty lost their first baby at a week
old. He was just the person I thought of when I sat in the
parking lot of the doctor's office wanting someone to walk me through what was
happening. We headed for the church. After we talked to JT's parents, we ended
up in Marty's office. He met with us, and it felt like being with a parent. He
was the first person we'd talk to face-to-face about any of it. I sat in his
office, curled up, clutching a pillow, with a baby inside me that I so badly
wanted to be alive. I wept, and talked through feelings. I was open and
unfiltered, and that was exactly what Marty encouraged me to be. "People
are gonna say some stupid stuff, and that's okay. You don't have to hang on to
it," he said. I continued to spill my guts through sobs. I was negative
and I was positive. I was scared and I was courageous. I was pathetically weak
but I was surprisingly strong and capable.
After we left, we hurried
out and got June. She was ready for a nap and so were we. We rushed home and
got her to sleep, but I still had a decision to make. As she lay next to me--breathing
those deep heavy breaths that babies breathe while they sleep--I cherished her
a little more than usual, which I didn't think was possible before then. I
grabbed my phone and called the doctor’s office.
"Hi, my name is Brittany Black and I had an
appointment with Dr. Parker and there was an anatomy scan that didn't go well.
I was told to call back." I hoped that'd suffice. I just wanted the lady
who answered to read between my vague lines and take care of everything else.
"Let me connect you with a nurse," she said. Once the nurse answered,
we worked through a conversation that I would never be prepared to have. I
tried to explain to her what happened that morning, but I just wanted to blurt
out what little I knew and proceed to cry. We came to the conclusion that my
choices to deliver were either that evening or to wait until Wednesday morning.
I didn't want to wake up two more mornings in my house. I knew I needed to
move. So I committed to that night.
After that, I laid down and slept. Not
long, maybe an hour. It wasn't refreshing. It didn't heal anything. But I
didn't want to be awake. I didn't want to cry anymore and I was only a few
hours in. When I woke, I told JT something I wanted to clarify. He already knew
it, but I wanted to be on the same page before the calls started coming in.
"God didn't take our baby," I said, as he nodded. "And I can do
this." He nodded again. In my heart, I never wanted to go through this. In
fact, I told JT that every half hour for the rest of that day. I did not want
to do this. I doubted myself. I felt guilt. But I knew that the Lord had seen me
worthy of such a test. I knew He would be present. I knew the Holy Spirit would
bring peace in a time when it didn't make sense, at all, to have peace. I knew
He loved me, but had called me to be faithful through the trial.
There have been times in my life when my faith wasn't
strong, and I would scour at people who told me to "trust Him". That's
hard for any believer to admit, but this time was different. I was at my
lowest. I was broken. But, in the midst of that, I knew He loved me and wept with me, as a Father.
It was time to get ready for the hospital. When I packed
for June's arrival a year and a half earlier, it was one those very special
times. I included my pretty pajamas, my favorite chapstick and lotion, all the
stuff I love to use when I get ready for the day, a going-home outfit for her,
and a robe for me that my mother had shopped for months for and had
monogrammed. It was a beautiful stay in the hospital that I still talk about it
all the time. I was so pampered and happy. Even the cafeteria food tasted
amazing. They brought me unsweet tea instead of sweet and it still was the best
tea I'd ever had. But this day, as I packed, I opened drawers and closed them
without removing anything. I walked from room to room in my house without
accomplishing anything.
My parents arrived and scooped up June, giving her
gifts they'd picked up along the way up I-20 East. We sat and talked a little
while and then I attempted to pack again. Still no luck. I showered and cried.
I did my hair and cried. It was time to go. I slipped on my olive green Chuck
Taylors and asked JT, "This outfit look okay?" I kissed June goodbye ten
times.
Then Marty and Patty arrived. After talking for a minute, we headed to the
hospital. As we pulled out of the driveway, JT and I looked at each
other and sighed big sighs. We couldn't have been more devastated. We cried as
we slowly drove down our street.
When we arrived at the
hospital we headed to Labor and Delivery, where they'd be expecting us. I
walked in and was greeted by a nurse with a sweet smile and a soft voice.
"My name's Brittany Black and...."I said and I began to sob.
"We lost our baby this morning," JT whispered
as he rubbed my back. I had been telling people that all day. We lost our
baby. But it felt so wrong to me. I knew right where my baby was. It was where
it had been all along. Where I cradled it for nearly five months. Since the
week June turned one, when we found out we were going to have another baby. It
was a little earlier than we had planned, but I was so happy. We were able to
tell our parents the week of Father's Day and it was so special. We figured up
how many months there'd be between June and her sibling. "We're gonna have
our hands full with babies 20 months apart!" I'd tell people as I beamed
with joy. I never dreamed this could happen to me. After all, I was the one who
had those good, strong hormones. I puked several times a day!
"C'mon Honey. We're gonna take care of you,"
the nurse said as she led me to the desk and did all my talking for me as I
cried. She got us settled into a room, where I changed into a gown, and then the
waiting began. I looked at the big clock on the wall and it read 7:30. Sarah
would be getting off work soon. Sarah is one of my best friends. She is a nurse
in the ER at the same hospital I had just checked into. We were pregnant
together this time. We were so excited to be having babies at the same time.
Sarah loves June like her own and that's probably because she was in the room
when June was born. I wanted her by my side that day and she came to the
hospital at 5 AM.
We had planned it that way for months and she was such a friend to me that
long, wonderful day.
I was ready for her to be here this time too. I wanted her
to hear what all the staff was telling me so she could help me comb through all
the details, choices, and emotions. She arrived about the same time as my nurse
and the information and paper work started rolling in. They got my IV line
started and then Dr. Parker arrived. She went ahead and administered the
medicine that would make me start labor. After that, our family started to
arrive in twos. First were our cousins, which
I mentioned earlier, The Landrums, who we eat with every Sunday.
But June sees them more often than that. She ends up at their house about once
a week to play with their large golden retriever, Henry, while JT and I do
something like go eat burritos and walk around Target- A true novelty when you
have a 15-month-old.
My girlfriends sat at the end of the bed while I talked
about the day and announced contractions occasionally. The room felt good as it
filled with our close family and friends. Some of the guys JT works with stole
him for a little while to go grab dinner since I would be fasting as long as I
had an epidural.
Then came my parents and June. I had wondered if I wanted
to see her while in this horrible state, but when she walked in (in a brand new
outfit and a big smile) I knew it would be the best medicine I'd have all
night. I held her, against my best judgment because of all the cords I was hooked up to, and smelled her hair and kissed
her face. After about an hour, she started to get sleepy and so it was time to leave. Everybody left
together. But before they did, they all gathered into a circle around my bed, including
my nurse, and said a beautiful prayer, led by Marty. It was comforting and I
was at peace.
Our room went from ten people to just us two. It felt
surprisingly good. I had laughed and cried with friends, and I was ready to get on
with the process.
JT scooted his chair closer to my bedside and we held hands
as he combed through probably a hundred text messages. "I don't wanna do
this," I told him for the thousandth time that day.
"I know. Me
neither." He said.
The nurse checked in every couple hours and I requested
lots of stuff, like ice chips and extra pillows. I asked lots of questions
simply to occupy my mind and pass the time. We watched chick flicks and tried
to sleep, but every time JT dozed off on that couch that was about as
comfortable as a sidewalk in winter, I'd whisper some question like, "Can
you grab me another blanket?" or "Can you pop my toes?" I was
doing really well compartmentalizing my emotions as they came.
Disappointment.
Anger. Surprise. Fear.
The clock struck 3:30 AM and I had been lightly sleeping
for about a half hour when my water broke. I yelled and called for the nurse
and I just knew it was time. She came in and let me know that it was good news,
but just meant that progress was happening and that that was all.
But then, the 10th hour hit. It was 6 AM and I was
starting to realize I should've taken them up on their offer at midnight for a sleeping aid. I could no longer
feel the baby in my abdomen. I knew the time would be soon. Anxiety started to
roll in. I consider myself a very collected lady when it comes to handling
stress and the unknown, but this morning, while it was still dark in my room, I
started to fall apart. For an hour I lost all control. The nurse encouraged me
that it was a good thing. That I had held it together long enough and I that
needed to let go.
"I want to cry but I can't!" I said angrily. I
begged for them to take me off the epidural. I clawed my arms and chest like a
junkie. It's the ugliest memory I have of the whole process. JT let me punch
his hands while I gritted my teeth and fussed about how uncomfortable I was. My
legs went from tingly to useless. I started to notice things like the fact that
there was no window in my room, or that it felt like a dungeon and that I had been lying
on a tube stuck in my back for 10 straight hours.
But then, those impossible
tears came. Just as quick as switching on a light they flooded my face. JT came
closer and I began to weep uncontrollably. I confessed things that I had been
feeling all day but did not say.
Why did this have to
happen?
Why was it me, the girl
who wanted 10 babies?
Why did I have to puke
everyday for 3 1/2 months only to lose my baby two weeks later?
Why couldn't it have
happened at 10 or 12 weeks so I didn't have to labor for 12 straight hours?
Why were all my beautiful
plans and dreams being ruined?
Why was this child, who I
wanted so much, gone?
I wanted somebody to
blame, to hate. But I couldn't think of anyone at all.
I wasn't mad at God. I
wasn't mad at my doctor who'd broken the news.
I wasn't even mad at
myself, even though guilt plagued me like any mother who's losing a
child.
I was just
devastated.
Finally, the doctor arrived and it was time. I looked at
the clock as they began to prep me. 8:30 AM. JT came close one last time and started to cry.
"This doesn't make it final," I told him. We had already felt some
closure earlier in the day when we talked about our baby being in the arms of
Jesus and that it had been two weeks since the baby stopped growing. We held
each other's hands tightly and cried. I felt no physical pain, but it was the
worst pain I'd ever felt in my heart. I sobbed as they kept working to keep me
comfortable and finish the procedure quickly.
When it was over, per our
request, they let us know that we had delivered a son.
Just like I had always
known.
When they told me, I
nodded with no surprise.
And we cried new tears.
My eyes burned in a way
they hadn't yet.
And I saw JT's heart
break in a way I had never seen in all of our years together.
And then the doctor and
nurses left.
And it was over.
But it felt so far from
over.
We rested for a few hours, and I grew hungry. I sent JT
home to rest and shower and eat. I spent the morning with my friend, Christan.
She came in with a bouquet of flowers in her hand, that if you saw, you'd say,
"That looks just like Brittany." It was white flowers with lemon
slices in a blue vase that looks like you'd eat ice cream out of. She had been
at work that morning, so in heels and curls she did the heavy lifting
as they moved me from my dungeon to my recovery room. To my avail, it had a window with
a vista of a brick wall, a window congruent to mine, and a roof full of gravel.
We laughed and conversed in sarcasm, the way we do best with each other.
They
brought the food I'd ordered- a grilled cheese and tomato soup. It was less
than delicious, so The Landrums ran out to my favorite local dig and grabbed me
obscene amounts of tempura fried asparagus. we all grubbed and laughed about
what pigs we were. More girlfriends came in and I reenacted my
panic attacks from earlier that morning, because I was ready to laugh about it.
If you know me, you may know that while I have a big heart, I can be irreverent
at times--but only with my closest of friends. These girls were just that. I
talked to them without any filters. I told them the things I had been feeling
all day; the things that made me the angriest. They took my side on every
single thing, just like good girlfriends do. And it was just the party I needed
before I had to go home to face reality.
from right:
Christan, Sarah New, me and Sarah Landrum
They all filed out as JT arrived. It
was back to normalcy for everyone else and back to just us. He catered me as the
nurse came in to start the 5-hour leaving process. I showered and put on makeup
and wiped away tears and reapplied. This was just the worst. I texted a few
people back and checked Facebook. I tried to sleep. I tried to organize my things.
I tried to relax. But I was just so sad. Everything felt so different. Getting
ready was the worst because of my empty, flat belly. I was more than
ready to go home.
The nurse came in, and removed the IVs. She administered a
few shots, scribbled my prescriptions, and told JT to go ahead and pull up the
car. He had a hard time leaving me, even for that brief moment. I took one last
look around. I grabbed my flowers and waited in the hallway. Then, my chariot
had arrived-a maroon wheelchair. I sat down slowly and began to cry, again.
The nurse offered me a tissue as we boarded the elevator and then proceeded to offer
condolences as she wheeled me to the car. We started the long journey home. A
cloud seemed to hover over us the entire trip. This was not how we had planned
to come home, with an empty back seat. No baby to hold and show to June when we
walked in. This was not how we pictured it going. We were welcomed home by my
parents and a house full of flowers from thoughtful loved ones, a freshly mowed
yard, and a happy baby girl in a high chair eating strawberries.
We know we still have a long way to go before we
understand even a tiny fraction of this and we know we'll never fully
understand why. But we know that we are loved. By our Heavenly Father, our
families, our friends, and our community. So many people from so far away and
right around us have showered us with love, prayers, and support. And delicious food, impromptu visits, and thoughtful favors. But when
they've all gone home and it's quiet again, that's when I lean on Jesus, who
said, "I
am not alone, because the Father is with Me. These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have
peace. In the world you have trouble, but take courage; I have overcome the
world." (John 16:33)
We walk this
hard road, but not alone. And I know we will overcome in due time and He'll use
this in a beautiful way. I surrender it to Him. All of it. The hurt, the anger,
the disappointment,
the uncertainty, the fear of reoccurrence, the unknown, and my broken
heart. For He is the one who's gifted us with these beautiful babies, no matter
how long their time was on this Earth. He is the founder and creator and author of parenthood. And He's the best father to our babies we could ever want.
Dr. Parker and Jt
the day June was born
A special thanks to
-My many close girlfriends who were just as there for me in spirit
as the ones who were in the room-Kelly, Christine, Amanda, Lauren, and many,
many more.
-You - the readers, who let me tell this story to an audience. It’s
therapy for m, and I'll be able to relive it time and time again without
forgetting.
-My mama and daddy- They took amazing care of June during this
time. She's so spoiled. We'll have to send her to baby boot camp when this is
all over.
-Drew Landrum- for being my editor and removing some of my redneck
dialect.
-Everyone who called,
texted, facebooked, prayed, laid awake, cried, and just thought about us.
We love you all.
