Morgan

Last summer was an interesting time. School was starting, and we were working hard as usual to keep our heads above water. Malachi was eight months old and just starting solid foods (my kids never took to purees), still nursing day and night. Toby was potty training. Things were hectic. There was one week in particular, though...

We had severe flooding in May, and August was threatening the same. One night when it was raining particularly hard and the news was broadcasting flash flood warnings, I went outside to check the water level in the storm drain. As I was heading back inside, I went down, feeling my ankle snap on the way. Laying on my couch, I called my boss and told her I wouldn't be able to make it in the next day, because my ankle was pretty badly sprained.

The next day, I was sitting on my porch while the boys were napping, and I realized something: My period was late. I had a pregnancy test in my bathroom, so I took it, and surprise! I was pregnant. Quite a shock, and I was a bit terrified. We were so broke. We had trouble providing for our family as it was. I couldn't imagine adding another child to the mix. I called Nathan and we agreed not to say anything to anyone for awhile.

That Sunday at church was special. The choir had been preparing a worship concert, and God's presence was palpable. We sang songs of God's provision and awesome power. We lifted our voices in praise and adoration. And I knelt at an altar and gave God my burden. I remember praying, "God I am so scared. But I know you are in control. I know you have it all taken care of, and I'm just going to trust in you. No matter what happens, I will trust you." Little did I know.

The next day, I had an appointment at the health department for a confirmation of pregnancy. I had scheduled it as early as possible so that I could get it done and get to work at nine a.m. I went in to give the sample and started bleeding. I wasn't sure if something was wrong or maybe I was just starting my period after all. When the nurse came in, she said, "Oh, about thirty percent of pregnancies are lost like this. It's not a big deal." They sent me to a doctor in Lebanon, where I gave a vial of blood and had a transvaginal ultrasound done. I was told it may just be too early to see anything, or it may be that I was miscarrying. They wouldn't know till they checked my hormone levels and then checked them again two days later.

It was a big deal to me. I had barely resigned myself to not having anymore kids because we couldn't afford it, and then I found out I was pregnant and might be losing a baby before I even knew for sure how I felt about being pregnant. I was a basket case. I had to call my mom, my mother in law, and my best friend with the news that I was pregnant, but I might not be for very much longer. I told God, "I know I said no matter what, but this wasn't what I meant." The response, "Peace, my child. I'm still God." I still had hope. After the initial blood at the health department, I didn't bleed anymore that day.

I went to work after I left the doctor's office to let the ladies know what was going on. I worked with some pretty interesting women at the time. They all liked to think they were my mother or grandmother, and had all kinds of advice for me. Mrs. Gari, one particularly interesting lady, said to me, "Why would you want another one?" As it turns out, those were her last words to me. I was sick the next day, and when I called in to work I was told she had passed away that night. Tragedy, but I was too focused on my baby to mourn. I'm not sure still what I was feeling at that time.

Wednesday, I went in for the next blood sample. I waited all day for the call telling me whether the levels had gone up or down. It never came. I went to church that night and told our choir and worship pastor what was going on. The prayer that was prayed did not ask for healing or the baby's health, but that God's will would be done. I resented that a little bit. I was beginning to think I was the only one who wanted this baby. That hurt.

Thursday morning, I got a call from the doctor. I was miscarrying. I cried for the rest of the day. But strangely, there was a kind of peace. God was still whispering in my ear, "Peace, my child. I am still God. You are still mine."

That weekend was an all church retreat. We went to the campground and spent time together. It was wonderful and peaceful. I lost my baby on Saturday.

I am so grateful for God's peace. Throughout that week, as hard as it was, God allowed me to know that I was firmly in his hand, that nothing was too big for him to handle. I never once questioned that I would someday get to meet my baby, that he or she was in the presence of God from the very beginning. I was surrounded by friends and family who have been through the same thing, who knew how to comfort me.

It's popular in these situations to say things like, "Everything happens for a reason," or "God wanted another flower in his garden," or "Your baby is an angel looking down on you from heaven," or "God took your baby because he knows what's best for you." None of these things are true or biblical, and I am thankful that I know that. Sometimes bad things happen, and there is no reason. And sometimes God allows it, even though it breaks his heart to see us endure so much pain. I don't serve a God who steals children from families because he wants them for himself. I serve a God who hurts when he sees his children hurting, who longs to give them peace and comfort if we will only let him. While I have grieved over the past year, I have for the first time known what it is to truly know the Peace of God.

We named our baby a couple of weeks ago. Morgan. It means "bright sea dweller." Fitting. In the Chronicles of Narnia, the bright sea is the sea that is at the end of our world, just before the land where Aslan comes from. Maybe one day we will meet there.

Malachi's birth day

Birthdays are a big deal in our family. I am one of very few people that doesn't share a birthday with someone else or a holiday. My mother in law and younger brother in law have the same birthday. My husband's birthday is the week after theirs, and he shares it with our "adopted" sister. Toby's birthday is three weeks after Nathan's, and it will sometimes fall on Thanksgiving. My sister in law shares a birthday with a very close cousin. My brother and my brother in law's birthdays are only three days apart. You get the picture. Almost everyone in our family shares birthdays.

So when we found out I was pregnant and calculated the due date, my husband got very excited. His birthday is November 10, and I was due November 7. He said for nine months straight how he hoped I went past my due date. And I replied with some comment about kicking him if I did. I didn't think I would, seeing as how Toby was a couple of weeks early, but I also wasn't that worried about it. I figured he would come when he came, and I wasn't going to rush it.

I made an appointment with a local midwife soon after I found out I was pregnant, and the first thing she said to me was, "So I guess we're scheduling a repeat section?" I said, "No. I did that already. I want a VBAC." She went on to explain that since our local hospital was not staffed for 24 hour emergency surgery, they did not accept VBAC patients. I was pretty disappointed. We had driven over an hour to the hospital with Toby, and I was really hoping to give birth locally this time. But I soon found the midwives' practice in Cookeville, and my disappointment faded quickly. It was so worth the drive.

Fast forward to my due date. Nathan was scheduled to work overtime in Nashville. Our midwives' practice and hospital were in Cookeville. We live in Carthage, and only had one car. If you're looking at a map right now, you see why this might pose a problem. We packed Toby up in the car along with the hospital suitcase, and went to Nashville with Nathan. I didn't want to be stuck with no vehicle and only a crappy hospital nearby if I went into labor while he was an hour's drive away.

It was a beautiful day. I took Toby to the park, and we walked the 1.1 mile loop about fifteen times. We went to a basketball game at my alma mater and went up and down a flight of stairs about twenty times. And then we went out for Mexican food, where I downed about five shots of Pico de Gallo. I was so determined to get this baby out, because the OB overseeing my case had mentioned "induction" if I went too far past my "due" date. I did not really want to be induced.

Needless to say, Malachi was still in there when I went for my appointment on the 10th. Poor Nathan had to spend his birthday taking me to the midwife. Dr. Casal (who I really do respect and appreciate) pretty much looked at me and said, "You're still pregnant? Let's schedule you to come to the hospital in the morning and we'll break your water."

At this point, my parents were already on their way up from Florida. I had already been pregnant two weeks longer than I felt like I should have been (remember Toby was born at 38 weeks). And Nathan didn't have too many more vacation days left to spend on this situation. So I agreed. We went to an Italian restaurant and ate eggplant parmesan at the nurses' suggestion. It didn't send me into labor, but it sure was yummy.

My parents got in at 2am, and we got up at 4am to get to the hospital. They broke my water at 7am, and started the Pitocin. I was at a 7 by about 11am, and begging for an epidural (have you ever had Pitocin contractions? They are PAINFUL!). So I started pushing about an hour later, and Malachi was out after less than an hour of pushing. Dr. Casal wanted to do an episiotomy, but I talked him out of it, and managed to tear just enough for my little thumb sucker to come out with his fist up by his face, already trying to get it in his mouth.

I wrote in Toby's story that I dealt with horrible PPD. I knew throughout my entire pregnancy with Malachi that I was still a little messed up. I promised my husband that I would get help after he was born if I was still feeling off. I mention this because of what happened when I pushed Malachi out. I felt the most amazing sense of "rightness." I told Nathan later that it was as if a switch had flipped, and I was back to normal. All of those feelings of failure, of worry, of anger and bitterness at the people who violated me, they were gone. Malachi wasn't the only one born that day. I experienced a rebirth, too.

When little piggy came out, he was wonderfully red and had a beautiful lumpy head, just like babies are supposed to when they enter the world. He weight eight pounds even, and was born with fat rolls around his little legs. He was so adorable. He came out with an appetite, too. He cried for me the whole time he was being weighed and checked, and went right for the breast as soon as they gave him back to me. He nursed like a champ from the get-go, and didn't stop until I decided I needed to get some sleep a year later.

I knew that the recovery would be better than the cesarean recovery, but I didn't know how much better. The day after Toby was born, I was struggling to make a lap around the maternity floor in the hospital. The day after Malachi was born, I was packing up a heavy suitcase to go home. We went home the day after he was born, and I was out running errands while my mom watched him sleep. I felt incredible! I could not (and still can not) imagine why anyone would choose to have a c-section.

Malachi and Toby will be two and four years old this November. Their birthdays fit them so well. Toby was born the day after Thanksgiving, the day we spend every year giving thanks to God for His blessings and provision, and for bringing us through times of trouble. Malachi was born the day after his daddy's birthday, on Veterans' Day. I think after his birth, we all felt like veterans. Obviously not of war, like many of our family members, but veterans of birth. We had fought a terrible experience, depression and frustration, and we won. I saw a t-shirt a couple of weeks later, and it fit so well. "ICAN. I did it, and I would do it again."