Gentle Christmas, Darling.

How are we spending our fifth Christmas together this week?
In our fourth home?
Wrapping up our third year of marriage?
Spending our second major holiday away from any family?
Our first Christmas without our baby girl?

I have to thank you for everything you've given me this year.

A gorgeous daughter.
Words of reassurance, notes of encouragement.
Time, as much as you have had.
Support and solidarity.
Attention and affection.
Intimacy and intention.
Fierce love to me and to our child.
The arms you've wrapped around me in the moments I've been most inconsolable.
The eyes that have cried with mine.
The hands you held mine in on the best days and the hardest days of my life- consequently the best and hardest days of yours.

There's so much more. You are a good man and a good husband and a good father, and it isn't fair how many times a day I fail you as a wife that you are still all of these things. You are constant. I am moved every moment that God has given me you.

But I know that this year has been hard. The most trying of our whole lives, let alone the nine years we have known each other. I hope that it's the hardest we ever do have. That we will be able to look back on it and say, "Yep, that was easily the worst thing we've ever gone through".

We've lived a whole six months without our precious Eden. How did we ever live before her? I know you miss her every moment.

We've lost treasured relationships with family and friends. We've walked through more loss with new friends. We've started to endure "firsts" that are so different inside our own circumstance of parenting. We have argued and pulled away from each other and whispered hoarse sorry's in a dark bedroom. We have turned volumes up on televisions and radios to drown out the quietness that a child's cries and giggles should fill.

We have had to learn to be gentle with ourselves, because the world has stopped being so gentle with us. It took three months for others to try and judge this pain or dictate our grief. It took five for us to decide our grief isn't about them.

We have had to unsettle and move and settle again.

We haven't been able to even think about attending church.

Social anxiety.

Depression.

Life keeps going, and our hearts are just broken.


So, I won't tell you Merry Christmas. It's not merry. You know better than I can say, we aren't too jolly. And that is okay. We do not have to put on a happy face for each other. We can be real. There are much too few gifts under the tree that we forced ourselves to put up and there are stockings we didn't even bother to hang. We've turned off carols and only attempted traditional movies.

But, as you have constantly reminded me this year, there is still good. If it cannot be merry, it can be good. And it is.

We grew a baby together this year. Her daddy's twin, actually. And she was born. And we held her. And she breathed. And she stopped breathing. And it was so peaceful and beautiful and it aches in my bones but damn, I'd do it over every day to see the way you looked at her again. We met our very prayed for Eden girl. We're the parents of a very special kid that makes a difference even today.

We also grew our marriage. You proposed to me three years ago on Christmas Eve. And when I said yes, I never imagined "for better or for worse" would happen at the same time. What a test of our love and our commitment and our faith?! I could not be more glad that I am your wife and get to do this beautiful and painful thing with you.

I am so proud of us. Our family is proud of us. Our kiddo is proud of us. Gold star for us.

We have figured out new ways to honor her and ways to take care of ourselves. We have become better individuals.
That I can not know who I am and also be so sure of who I am and be okay with it... that makes me a new woman, whatever I am. And I believe that I've somehow become a better wife, as I know I must first take care of myself before I can take care of you.
Then, that you can find peace in your identity so quickly in whatever situation... that even as you change you are a constant for me.

We got out of town. We did something for ourselves and went away. The guilt, oh the initial guilt of the genuine enjoyment inside unending grief is so real. But, it was good for us. And it was for us and no one else, which is the best part. To be alone, together, and away is one of the best and most healthy things we could have done for ourselves this time of year. To see your smile is the sweetest thing.

Then, we have these people. All of these amazing people. Strangers and blood and everything in between. They wake up thinking of us, they go to bed thinking of us. They cover us in prayer and tell us that WHATEVER is right for us is the only right. People that remind us that we are loved.
They bless us daily and they say her name.

We are favored.
I've felt so close to Mary and Joseph this month. I'm reminded there are no mistakes, that even when choosing who will parent our children, God fearfully pieces the fabric of our lives together.
Thanks to the Son they were chosen to carry and raise, the Son we quietly, mournfully celebrate this week... We are forgiven and will be as blameless as our perfect child on the day we get to meet her again and spend eternity in His presence.


When we are looking back and calling this the worst thing we've been through... I believe we will also call it the best, the most real, and the part of our lives where our blessings were most evident.


No, I cannot wish you a merry Christmas this year, my handsome man.
But I can and will wish you a gentle one.
I can only hope that your heart is quieted and that your mind is eased. That together, we can just breathe and make it through. That we can remember all we have to be thankful for.
That even in this empty ache, we are filled to the brim with peace.

I love you more than I loved you yesterday, but not as much as I'll love you tomorrow.

The Love of a Quietly Grieving Man

I am convinced that I am a magnet for rude comments.

If there is someone who will say the wrong thing, I will meet them.


She was thinning out my hair about a month ago- ripping some final remnants of the Eden hormones from my head. She was telling me what a mane it was, asking why I let it get so thick and unmanageable. She was abusing my confidence, assuming self care is nothing to me. She said there was no wonder I kept having headaches. My hair was ridiculous. It went on and on for about ten minutes, through the wash, the initial trim, and into the middle of shearing my scalp.

"It's usually not like this," I said. "I mean, it has always been pretty thick, but this is mostly the accumulation from all my prenatals."

"Well, no excuses missy. You have to take care of this stuff. How old is your youngest?"

Finally, ready to snap, I carefully said, "She's just a few minutes old forever. She's in Heaven. If you're asking how long its been since I've taken the vitamins, its been almost two months."

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

A few moments of peace and quiet... then, backtracking.

"Was she your first?" Yes.
"Did you name her?" Eden.
"Do you have a picture?" Here.

"That is sad. But on the bright side...."
Oh God.
"On the bright side, you and your husband now have a little more time to just enjoy each other without kids getting in the way."

"I mean, I guess?"

"Yeah! You're young! Have fun! When your first kid comes, a man just turns into another child. You'll have your hands too full. Enjoy him as a man before you have to become his mom."

And all the other women's faces in the hair salon wore shocked brows and gaped mouths. I saw them in the mirror as my face turned deep red and I looked down to hide the tears spilling from my eyes.

"Well, I don't think so. I know my husband will be more than eager to help me parent our children. He was eager to be a daddy to her."

"You'll see. But who knows, maybe he'll be a good father one day All men are different right? Okay! All done. Feel better?"
No. Get me out of here.


I am a magnet.



-She was right about our age. We are young. We do have time to build our family. But we already started. This isn't a blessing in disguise- Eden was a very wanted baby: waited for, planned for, and prayed for. We are young, but we decided together that we were ready to be parents.

-When our next child comes, it will not be called our first child! We already have one! This time now is not "before we have children". That time was over a year ago. This time is the time between our first daughter that died and her siblings.

-"Maybe he'll be a good father one day."
Ryan will not be a good father one day. Ryan is an excellent father now. Just like me, he loves his daughter and dreams of her and talks about her and talks to her and misses her.

I wish I had told her what its really like in my house- I wish I'd told her what it's like to be a grieving mother living in close proximity with a grieving father.

I wish I had told her that I'm not worried about ever having to take care of Ryan.

I'll gladly pick up after him while I'm picking up after our babies. Because most days lately he has to pick up after me. The wife that used to wash, dry, fold, and put away all the laundry in one day now leaves a load in the washer that he restarts...then restarts again the next day after I tell him to leave it alone, I'll take care of it.

I can handle a man that acts like a child, because with that thought I picture him in the floor wrestling our kiddos, making them laugh the way he still works so tirelessly to make me laugh on days that I've done nothing but cry.

I will smile on the days when I've packed his lunch along with the lunches of our babes, remembering that in this season there are some days he goes without lunch at all because I haven't cooked all week to send leftovers and theres not time for him to grab take-out.

When he sleeps in on weekends and I am up early with the cartoons, I will remember now, when he is coming home half the days in a week to find I have not moved from the couch, the dogs have not been fed, and the blinds are still drawn.

I am not afraid of taking care of Ryan, I owe him for taking care of me. We get to take turns caring for one another. That's my observation in this season. We will just alternate picking each other up, though I haven't quite mastered the part where I pick him up and its been more of his responsibility than mine.
I don't anticipate having a man-child that cannot care for himself because that's not anything like this man I'm married to, but in the event I do for a while... well thats ok because he has been caring for this woman-child when I couldn't care for myself. Thats what marriage is: taking turns.
It's tough to describe what else our marriage is right now. I can say that his love is a few things.

It's knowing not to mention my new gray hairs when I start picking on his.

It's noticing that my brain is mush when I tell him to take the trash out since the truck will come tomorrow even though he knows it won't come for another three days, smiling, nodding, and taking the trash and recycling bins to the road anyway.

It's looking at me when the mixed company starts talking about parenting struggles and our eyes doing the communication: "you ready?"... "let's go."

It's embarrassing himself at any cost to make me smile and feeling like a king when I've laughed.

It's patiently waiting for me to get done telling him that I don't know why he isn't breaking down the way I am.

It's reminding me that we are both feeling the same pain but reacting to it in different ways.

It's approaching each subject carefully, but being adamant that there is no tip-toeing around each other- it's encouraging me to be gentle but real.

It's getting up in the morning with a heart as broken as mine and going to work and dealing with the world and coming home to screen the mail and changing the channel when a Pampers commercial comes on and making sure I really want to see the Pixar movies in public and giving me space when I need it but never leaving me alone.

It's tears and it's smiles and it's happy and it's sad and it's wild and it's mundane and it's neat and it's messy.

My husband has never been one for showing himself. He celebrates quietly, he mourns even more quietly. It is so difficult for me to accept that his grief isn't loud like mine. It doesn't scream. You can read it all over his face and see it in his eyes, but it doesn't often come out of his mouth. I have had a really hard time being ok with this:

"Are you not sad?"

I always think that I have to remind him that we have a dead baby. I don't have to remind him. He knows it every second of every day the same way I know it. He is living it in the same time I live it.
He never asks me to stop being so vocal and visible about my brokenness, so I don't know why I keep asking him to make a display about his.
Perhaps the way I can take care of him right now is to allow him to act however he needs to act without the demands of "normal behavior for the grieving", without the demands that he meets my grief criteria. Perhaps I can take care of him by giving him the grace he continuously puts into me: "It's okay. How you are feeling and how you are acting and what you are thinking.. it's all okay."

In the months following the birth and death of our child, I realize why the divorce rate among bereaved parents is so high. It's hard for two people hurting so badly to do life together so closely and not say things that just hurt each other more. Had we not had a semi-developed relationship before this, had we not worked steadily and intently on communication and patience before I got pregnant, we may not have walked in on this new normal with much of a chance.

But now when more children come, we will be husband and wife that have walked through the Refiner's Fire and we will be mother and father united to parent all of our babies. I will not ever become my husband's mom. I'm his wife and the luckiest one there ever was to be taken care of by him and to take care of him the way that spouses do.

My prayer is that I can learn to accept the love of this man in his quiet grief and not try to change how he acts. My prayer is that I will stop assuming he is not hurting and start realizing he handles his hurt in different ways from me. My prayer is that we both keep reminding each other that our daughter's life taught us more about our love than her death can tear us apart. And my prayer is also that strangers stop saying stupid things to us.

Why I Don't Want Your Help With My Unsightly Stretch Marks

Dear Stranger;

I found your note in my locker. I found it next to the pen you used and left there in a hurry. You opened my day-use locker to leave me a very important message on top of my belongings that went something like this:

"Hello! Kudos to you for being in the gym post baby! 

I didn't want to make you uncomfortable, but I did want to put an offer on the table... I'm an ItWorks distributor and would love to help you shed those extra pounds. I even have something to help rid you of those unsightly stretch marks. Call (your number here) if you're interested!"

I read it, and read it again. Then I balled your note up in an embarrassed hurry, tossed it in the trash can, stopped by the desk to return the pen you used, then got in my car and drove home with tears in my eyes.

You said you didn't want to make me uncomfortable. You did make me uncomfortable. 

When I arrived and proceeded to take off my shirt, wrap my waist in a neoprene wrap, cover it with a tank top, and then a baggy shirt to hide all of that, I felt your eyes on me. Burning a hole through me, actually. Did you know that one of the main reasons women avoid the gym is undressing in the locker room? Can you imagine how amplified that may be for a woman after giving birth?

I told myself the entire time that I was just being paranoid, finished dressing and went to start my workout but the note I found upon returning confirms that you were watching me. Why were you doing that? Were you just hanging out in the locker room looking for potential customers? If "ItWorks" why were you in the gym? Spoiler alert, It probably doesn't Work. But thats a debate for a whole other day. This is about me, and my body that you couldn't help but notice in the locker room this morning.

I just can't understand what your motives were in there. I wonder if you've ever been in my shoes. I wonder if your children are older, or if you have just recently bore them too. I wonder if you have children at all.  I wish I'd saved the note so that I could call you and ask these things. If you ever stumble upon this, I hope that you'll entertain my questions and tell me exactly what you meant by those loaded words. This is something I'll probably never get to know for sure. But there are also some things you don't know, and that is why I'm not angry with you.

You couldn't have known that today was my very first time inside a gym since my first trimester of pregnancy. 

You couldn't have known that as much as I wanted to, exercise during pregnancy was hard and uncomfortable and so going back to exercise was scary and intimidating.

You couldn't have known that my body still aches from labor and my breasts just stopped leaking.

You couldn't have known that today marks one year since I quit taking birth control and we commenced praying to begin a family. 

You couldn't have known that I am in a brand new place and walking into a gym that I had trouble finding, as I'd never been there before (though you should understand that part or you wouldn't be in a military gym).

You couldn't have known how much I have loathed my sagging body since I dragged it home from the hospital.

You couldn't have known the number of times I've snubbed myself out loud nor the number of times my husband has had to repeat himself, "Your body this way is the most gorgeous I've ever seen it. You gave me a daughter with this temple."

You couldn't have known that my child is in the ground and not at a daycare or with a friend while I get in some "me time".

You couldn't have known that every day I struggle with wishing I was there with her.

And you couldn't have known how much my stretch marks mean to me.

I stretched, boy did I stretch. My skin has been so tight- across my belly, my hips, my thighs, my breasts, my bottom...

Beginning at 15 weeks I was rubbing on the oil, the cream, the body butter, the lotion... every concoction I could find in any pharmacy or skin care boutique in the tri-county area. I tried it all. I started to find marks early and I giggled at them- a sign that my body is making room for a miracle, but I also tried to prevent them. So I doused myself, 3 times a day like taking an antibiotic, for months. If I wasn't greasy it was time to reapply.

Then I birthed her. My sweet, miraculous 6 lb, 15 oz baby girl. I birthed her, all the fluid and extra fluid around her, and the hefty placenta my midwife and husband both called "beautiful". I birthed a love I didn't know I was capable of.

Then it was all taken from me. She is in Heaven, and I am here only left with the mold she put me in and the hundreds of marks on top of it. 

I stopped using lotions and oils. 

Maybe that's not healthy. Perhaps that means I am promoting unhealthy skin here. But I don't want whatever you have to help rid me of them. To me, my stripes are the furthest thing from unsightly.

You noticed a small portion of them today- only as much as you could see while I hurried out of and into my top... they must have popped right out at you.

But they have already started fading. I had deep, purple, almost red lines all over me. They itched, they burned, they were tender to the touch.

Now they are turning to match my skin. Some will stay deep and wide- rivers where the skin split early. Others will soon just look like small scars- streams that just formed in the last month while she dropped. I never want them to go away. I want bright purple all over forever. 

This is my evidence. "I was here mama," they all shout at me. 

"I kicked you," she says in the lines radiating around my belly button.

"I grew in you," she says in the craters on my hips. 

"You carried me down here," scream the short and wide marks around my pelvis.

"You took me everywhere with you," whisper the subtle scars down the insides of my thighs.

This is my evidence.

I don't want whatever you have to help me hide my evidence.

I want every single mark forever. I want these scars. When I lose the weight, they will be what remains of the body my Eden gave me. 

She made me a mama with them and I will probably never rub another thing on in an effort to hide or reduce the appearance of them.

I wish I could have told you this today. I'm not even sure I would have found the guts had you approached me personally. But I do wish I had the chance. If this ever finds you, I want to tell you that you should stop placing notes in the lockers of women at the gym where you call parts of them distasteful or unpleasant... It won't earn you a client, especially if that client has so much more to their story than "being in the gym post baby".

Thanks, but no thanks.

To the Mama Expecting Bereavement

Dear Bereaved Mother-in-Waiting,

"Put one foot in front of the other."

That use to sound like something you'd say to encourage people, but now it is an order. It's a reminder.

Each of your organs are cinder blocks, making every step heavier and making it almost impossible to scoot without stumbling.

Your brain is pulling away from gravity- stretched far above treetops, "head in the clouds". Your heart is in your feet, appropriately broken to fit in the different sides. There's suddenly a mile between your vocal cords and your tongue- good luck saying what you need. 

How has your body become so rearranged? How come no one can see it from the outside?

I know where you are. You are in anticipatory grief for the child in your womb. You feel almost alone on this journey. And lost. Every moment is another that putting one foot in front of the other is an impossible request to make of you.

Waiting to lose is bad. I can't say that it is the worst. I've never truly lost before now. I've witnessed others' sudden and unexpected loss, I've witnessed others' peaceful letting-go. But I've never witnessed firsthand another getting prepared for the birth and death of someone they love until myself.

Have you? Are you no stranger to loss?

If you aren't, I'm afraid this will still be a bit different. Because every loss is different.
And my stumbling upon this new normal will look so much different from yours. We are creating together a beautiful community of different hurts that may only live until we are gone, so that there is room in the space for the next different hurts.


Call this space -baby loss- "Alaska". Imagine the dreams we'd had for our babies prior to learning about life-limiting or fatal diagnoses in another space called "Jamaica".

Some of us arrive to Alaska by taking the long way around- driving from peninsular Florida through the continental US and then through Canada. Perhaps we barely knew we were pregnant, the pee may still be wet on the stick when we learn that our babes have a different fate than we'd hoped. So starting from 8 weeks gestation, we begin to carry the burden of waiting on losing. And we carry it the whole way to birth. The climate changes every few hundred miles (some days are colder than others in anticipatory loss), and we have to stop often for gas (someone please pour encouragement into me). But when we finally arrive to Alaska, we've still got some sweet memories of the trip there.

Some of us get there by boat. We hop on our own glacier bound titanic midway through pregnancy. We had smooth sailing through the first and second trimester but waters became rough at a nerve-wrecking diagnosis appointment. We just gave our voyage a name we'd picked out dependent on its gender ultrasound... and now we must accept that the voyage will end in Alaska, when we arrive there. We still have a little time to make these next days (months) count, so immediately every sunset on the water becomes more precious.

Then some of us arrive by plane. In the home stretch of our pregnancies, we feel irregular kicking patterns and just think we have lazy babies. So we visit doctors and go to specialists and learn that something has gone terribly wrong and we are days away from loss. It only takes a few hours to fly to Alaska from where we are. We don't have time to pack, we don't have time to wait in line for a Cinnabon.. We check in and hop on for a turbulent ride, hoping for a moment to look out the window and gather that everything will change once we land, thankful for ignorance before this point.


We all get to the same Alaska, but it looks different to each of us because of the way we got there. I can't tell you exactly how Alaska is going to look to you. We can all agree on one thing though: it is cold and it isn't the place we wanted to be.


You are wishing for the days before you knew what you're carrying with your baby: before you knew all the uncertainty that you were oblivious to before this point. Certain Uncertainty? You wish you didn't have that.

You are wishing for the days where you were planning for Jamaica. When the biggest worries you had were over diaper brands, nursery themes, feeding options, parenting styles. You are watching all the other expectant mothers in Jamaica. You're glad for them, you're sad for you.


While you're on the way to and in Alaska, the mothers on the way to and in Jamaica are going to try to reach out to you. They may not be able to know what you're going through, but they can certainly empathize- easier than most can. It hits close to home when one is looking at her friends in Alaska while she's in Jamaica.
Let them, mama. Our small village waiting for you in Alaska is support, but you will never have enough. Don't push them away if they just want to love on you.

Sometimes a woman in Jamaica will assume that, being in Alaska, you can be nothing but jealous and bitter. You know better, though. Love that mother from a distance. Find comfort in praying that that mother will never TRULY know how you feel- pray she will never need to visit Alaska.

Sometimes a woman who looks like she's always been in Jamaica will surprise you, she's visited Alaska too. One day you may be in her shoes. One day you may not. Just know she's been in yours.

You're still expecting. You're still on the way to Alaska, and there will be so much struggle to enjoy the ride. If you are driving, you're carsick. If you're sailing, your boat is steadily sinking. If you're flying, its on a small plane and through thunderstorms. And on top of it all, there is no map to our Alaska. We are wandering, on a certain path.

It's going to be hard. But I urge you, mama... Rebuke the end of your trip until it comes. Speak life into your baby, speak life into your self.

Don't give up, don't have a passive trip. Tell people about your journey.

When you meet a stranger along the way, you don't have to let them think you're on your way to Jamaica just so they aren't uncomfortable.

And then, somedays, if you want to let the trip happen while you just rest, I urge you to do that too.
Stay in bed, cry, holler, and cuss.

Feel what you need to feel. Know that your feelings are OK.
If you are glad- don't let anyone make you think you should be sad.
If you are sad- don't let anyone make you think you should be glad.


You're expecting a baby. Your baby is a blessing! Your sick baby is a blessing! Your broken baby is a blessing! Your dying baby is a blessing!

You're expecting to be a bereaved mother. Grief, in its own way, is also a blessing. You do NOT have to view it that way. But waiting for it will give you a different outlook on yourself, on your baby, and on life.


When you get to Alaska, it's okay to be disappointed. It's okay to be angry. This is not the trip you planned. This is not Jamaica. And when you get here, that's when you'll realize you didn't pack a jacket.

You can't pack anything, actually. Nothing ample enough to protect yourself from the cold weather you're facing. Remember you were packing for Jamaica when this trip went the other way.
Though you are expecting it, you don't know exactly what kind of grief awaits you in Alaska.

In Alaska, you will be babylost. And I didn't know until I arrived here that the pain is a new one, different and more amplified. I want to warn you of that.

This post will not ease it, your family will not ease it, your friends will not ease it. They will love on you (yes, even more than they are right now) but they will never be able to put your baby back in your arms. And I'm sorry to know that.

I'm sorry that you are terrified. I'm sorry that you cannot turn around and just stay home. I'm sorry that we aren't going to Jamaica this time.

There will still be an element of beauty. Alaska is still a nice place to see. It is still a new place. You will still be a mother! Don't let anyone ever tell you any different. In your grief, you will be THE mother. How amazing you will be to parent a baby you can no longer see.

But I want you to know that once you arrive, you will long for the days when you were just waiting for it, just like you now long for the days when you knew you were going to certainly bring home a healthy and happy baby to protect and love.


I know you are heavy. I know that in addition to all you're carrying with your baby, your own self is becoming tough to pull. But you can do it. I believe our babies get to choose us. Your baby picked you, mama. Your baby knows you can finish the journey it was sent to you for. Your baby knows you can somehow get all the way to Alaska, no matter how far or close it seems.

Just put one foot in front of the other.

Carrying the Weight of Eden

When someone tells you their unborn child has a fatal diagnosis and will not live outside their womb for long at all, but then tells you of plans to carry the child as far as they can... you can guess some of the pain they will face.

You can guess on your own that there's something particularly hard about carrying a baby but not setting up a nursery.

You can guess that the doctor's appointments would get really old, really fast.

You can guess that all the expectant mother will do is worry every minute that it may be her last one pregnant, and then it will hit her how limited her time with her child really is.

You can guess that the expectant father begins putting away his dreams and expectations for that particular child, hopeful for another to dream for one day.

You can conclude that it must all be very difficult, and you'd be right.
On D-Day (Diagnosis Day), I knew that I would be facing those hard things.

But there are some things you just can't guess.
She was 6 lbs and 15 oz. But I carried a lot more to birth than just the little girl in my womb. I carried so many feelings, too. I wonder every day if they made the load heavier, or if allowing myself to feel them made the weight I carried a little lighter.

And it's still different case to case, so even someone who's been through the same situation could still not have guessed what I would walk through. Someone who's been through the same situation could have guessed, too, but may have not been bothered by the same trials. That's why I changed the name of this post from "Unexpected Hardships of Carrying to Birth" to be more personal.. My experience is unique because my daughter is unique.

Feelings I felt and didn't expect to feel were:

Hurt when the conversation turned to how large I was getting. I always thought that when the time came for me to receive comments on my super huge belly, I would take them so proudly. But, when I started retaining amniotic fluid since Eden couldn't swallow it well...the comments weren't received as graciously. Who even ever had the idea to comment on a pregnant girl's size anyway? I knew that the reason for such a big belly was that there was something wrong and it made me super sensitive. At 30 weeks, a clerk asked me how far along I was and I just told her 38 weeks.

Panic when a stranger asked about the due date, made comments about life after babies, etc. To begin with, I would just pretend to be normal and talk about her due date and say that pregnancy is fun. Then I started lying to these strangers when their questions turned from pregnancy to preparation. "Oh yes, her nursery is already finished and we've got the carseat ready to go." Near the end, I gave up on trying not to make people uncomfortable and just gave them the truth.

Confusion as I danced between attachment and detachment to my baby. Here's a raw truth: The first few months of my pregnancy, I went through a short "pre-partum" depression and afterwards had a very hard time attaching to my unborn baby. Of course I loved her, but I felt funny talking to her or singing to her, and with Ryan being gone for I just wasn't in the mood to celebrate what was happening in my body. I didn't want to do anything baby related until Christmas time when we decided to go ahead and register. I finally started attaching to her when he came home and we went to find out that she was a girl. She had a name I could keep saying, and her kicks were getting to be visible instead of just tangible. D-Day was just a few weeks later, and every day after that was a tug-of-war between getting to know her and stepping away from her. Why would I want to get attached to a baby I'd have to let go? Honestly, there was no stopping it even though I tried. She will always be a part of me.

Rage from seeing other women ignore healthy pregnancy guidelines. From the moment I even suspected I was pregnant I was stepping away from any alcohol. I never ate lunch meat without it being heated and I was very wary of my California rolls. I stayed away from soft cheeses, dropped caffeine altogether for the entire first trimester. I wouldn't stand around anyone smoking, and I was careful with my physical activity. I triple-checked before taking any medication, even if it was prescribed to me. None of this was hard to do, nor was it super stressful, and I don't need a pat on the back for it. Putting my unborn child first was never an inconvenience. CDH has no known cause and there is no cure yet. There is absolutely nothing I knowingly did to give my baby a birth defect- and nothing I could have done to stop it. Naturally, I continued this way for my whole pregnancy, even knowing I couldn't save her. So it made (makes) me kind of super angry to see other women not striving for the healthiest pregnancies and therefore knowingly putting babies at risk for so much more than what can happen out of the blue. I know way too many women struggling to get pregnant, struggling to stay pregnant, and struggling after losing children to be ok with it. Sorry (not really) for the rant. *If you are unsure about guidelines for a healthy pregnancy, you can click this link to WebMD.

Sadness passing infant sections in stores. Sometimes I would wander in just to touch the baby dresses. Then I'd leave without getting whatever I came for, afraid someone might see me ugly cry.

Fear when I had to be alone. Every day I'd spend hours with Jenae until it looked like Ryan would be home for the evening. I'd try to strategically have something planned to do when he wanted to go for a hike. I'd go shopping just to be around people! When my mom finally came to stay in early May, I could finally breathe. The whole time she was here, I was never alone with my thoughts... and she even enjoyed time with my friends and shopping too.

Anger as I tried to plan a funeral for a baby that was still kicking my insides. "I wrote an obituary and left spaces for the dates and times", "I really like this poem for the program", and "Let's finish squaring away the funeral homes this week" turned into "I should not be doing this", "This is so freaking backwards", and "We can just take care of it when it happens because we aren't being fair to her obvious presence or ourselves". It seemed that every time we tried to plan something or even talk about it, she knew and would commence a fit of hiccups or begin a soccer game. We eventually just had a basic outline and left everything for after her birth.

Alarm at every. single. thing. I went to L&D about seven times. I believed my water was leaking, that I had a blood clot in my lungs, that she wasn't moving enough, that her heart stopped beating. Every time I experienced a little heartburn, I thought that something was terribly wrong. I don't know if I'm glad I did this or if I wish I would have relaxed a little. I just kept saying to myself as I left the hospital feeling like an idiot, "better to go and nothing be wrong than to not go and it all be wrong."

Uncertainty when we'd have a discussion about family planning. I have a heart for adoption and Ryan's certainly not against it, but knowing that we can create life makes us want to create more. Except there's the part where the only life we've created had a horrible birth defect. What's next? Then, we'd always said three was enough (I actually always said seven was enough but three seemed to please my husband for the time being), but did we mean three altogether? Three to raise? What we ended up saying is that we'll just cross bridges as they come, we don't need a itinerary for parenthood.

Doubt when people encouraged me. I heard "you are so strong" about ten times a week, but I kept thinking that if they really knew how I felt, they wouldn't say it.

Alienation when receiving *PREP FOR BABY* emails and coupons. (Like, c'mon post carrier. I think you're delivering my share and the share for every other parent's house in the neighborhood. I heard those diapers suck anyway.) The emails are the worst- especially when it came time for the gestation to focus completely on the lungs- things were supposed to be happening that I knew were not.

Annoyance at the comments made by those who meant well. I had quite a few people tell me, "There can still be a miracle, don't just give up on your child", and that always bothered me. Was it not miraculous enough to be pregnant? Was it not miraculous enough to carry Eden just one more minute? She was and always will be the miracle of the whole situation. God didn't not show up just because she wasn't healed. And while we never lost sight of hope for her healing, we couldn't actively pray for God to change His already perfect creation. At the same time, I know that people just need something to believe in during such trying times. It's just that when you know things are going to be a certain way, its time to stop praying to change them and start praying for the peace to deal with them.

Guilt when I said "I can't breathe". Before she started to drop, she was so high in my ribcage and crowding my lungs that I never could catch a good breath. I would automatically complain, then I'd start wondering if her entire short life would feel like that. Then I'd hate myself and start having a panic attack, during which I really couldn't breathe. I tried to have a sobering perspective on whatever discomfort I felt while it was all for her.

Overwhelming LOVE with each reminder of her existence. I knew as I tried to detach from her that I loved her, but I grew to love her in ways I never could have imagined. I would bargain "Take me instead of her" over and over every day. Her kicks when I would sing or her punchy reaction to her dad's voice, my big belly as I tried to roll over out of bed, all the clothes that stopped fitting, the swelling, and the infinite number of stretch marks she placed on my stomach, hips, and thighs all gave me the warmest feeling of adoration. None of it will ever compare the the feelings I had when they placed her in my arms, though. Each day I loved her increasingly more. Every minute I got to spend with her (in and out of my body) was the best minute of my life!

The Birth of My Marriage into Loss

For some reason when Ryan and I first learned of Eden's diagnosis and prognosis, one of the first things someone felt the need to point out to me was that the divorce rate for bereaved parents in America is about 80%. That means that 80 out of 100 couples who lose a child get divorced.

There isn't any accommodating information to be found. Nowhere says whether the child's death was an accident, whether it was a birth defect, whether it was a terminable disease, whether one or the other was at fault. Was the child grown? Was the child born yet?
You don't know if she became cold and angry, or if he became abusive. You don't know if it's within a year of the death or twenty years later. You don't know if they tried therapy. All I can find is that 4/5 bereaved couples let their marriages crumble.

I can't remember the person who gave me this statistic, but if you're reading this and it was you, I want you to know you quietly lit a fire in my heart that day to strive for my marriage and fight for it to the end, no matter what. I don't know your motives but I hope that was one of them.

There in the birthing suite, as I was delivering our daughter, I saw tears streaming all the way down my husband's face. Of course, I'd seen him cry before, but I'd never seen tears make it further than his cheeks. He was holding me-one hand grabbing my foot and the other supporting my swollen arm. He and my mother were working together to help me.

Eden was born and his tears kept flowing. I heard him keep saying, "thank you, thank you." I watched him cut her cord and feel her pulse. He talked to her the whole time through her dedication, we couldn't actually hear the prayer or the blessing. He took her from my chest and she hadn't been wiped off at all, he wrapped her against his shirt in a thin blanket and just held her there. She breathed there, and reached closer for him. He was in awe of her, and I was in awe of them together. I'd never seen such a beautiful sight, the two people I love most in the world just embracing each other.

I struggled to hum her the lullaby, and then he struggled to read her our bedtime story.
We told her that it was okay to go, and so she went a few minutes later. 

The time between our baby's birth and our baby's death was the shortest length of time I've ever experienced, though they say it was 40 minutes. However, it was all the time it took for me to love Ryan in a new way, a way I'd never thought possible. 

The time between our baby's death and now has been the longest length of time I've ever experienced, though its been two weeks and two days. The days have seemed to make one big one, and sleep won't come. At the same time, I wish that it would slow down and it didn't keep moving away from that day so fast.


Our love has evolved in this time, and it's changed thanks to the daughter it created.

We spent the rest of Friday and that night in the hospital room with Eden Olivia. Neither one of us ever left, and she was never put down. We took turns rocking her and talking to her, we laid down together in my bed and napped holding her. We kept admiring her beauty and crying over the perfection that she was. I was the one who held her to sleep that night, and Ryan held her all the next morning before our family came back to tell her goodbye.
Together we put her in the gown made from my wedding dress. She was wrapped in all the love we felt on our wedding day and all the love we felt for her. The funeral home came to pick her up, and we took her downstairs. My dad helped Ryan carry the bassinet, and we got to walk our baby out of the front door just like everyone else. We took turns kissing her and saying goodbye. 
Knowing this may be the last time I saw her face, I couldn't watch her being covered so I turned away. Ryan wanted to be the one to cover her, so he went up to the car and did that for her. This is where our difference in grief began.

We left he hospital after she did. I was brought nearly to my knees when we got to the car and I realized there was no carseat, because we didn't buy one, because we knew she wouldn't be coming home with us. That's when Ryan almost had to scrape me off the asphalt to put me in the passengers seat. He drove to get food, and we took it home where we were alone for a minute as everyone had stepped out for errands. Chick-fil-A (my favorite) tasted like plastic. We finished, I took a pill for pain and went to bed clenching a stuffed bear given to us "to ease the ache of empty arms". Ryan fixed a hole in the fence and did other things around the house before he joined me. I woke up and he was the one wrapped around the bear.

The rest of the weekend is a blur to me, as I mostly stayed in bed. We got our family to the airports Monday morning, then it was us, alone. I was ready to spend another day asleep, but my husband knew there was much we had to get done. So together we parented our daughter that day by making arrangements for flying her and us back to South Carolina, by going to offices to register her birth, by packing her letters and other things to send with her in a bag. 
We were at the airport Tuesday morning, able to watch from the window as they put the most precious cargo on the plane. I cried the whole ride in physical and emotional pain, just holding on tight to that bear. There was a baby girl in front of us who was extremely upset most of the way. Her cries were no bother to me, just a reminder that my little girl was also on the plane, in the wrong seat. I could tell from Ryan's face in the times that he wasn't smiling at her that he was jealous too. I was just thankful that the check-in counter was able to put our seats together since the airline couldn't guarantee it. I was just thankful I still had Ryan and he was holding my hand. Later we heard her mother tell the people beside her that the girl's name is Olivia, and I figured God wanted us in those seats all along.

The thing about my man's heart is that he loves by "doing". Once we landed at home, I wanted to immediately go lie down and hope all the arrangements would be made on their own. But instead we went to the cemetery and picked out Eden's plot. Then we went to the funeral home and decided on the program, finalized the viewing, and planned the funeral. Ryan contacted the Reverend and did all the talking, because my mouth was cotton balls and because it's how he loves. He was sure to ask me how I wanted everything, but more times than not just had to read my mind.
They told us that it would be more than appropriate to have an open casket for the viewing, and relief washed over me. Already, I had regrets about not watching her be covered. Already, I had resented Ryan a little bit for being the last one to hold her alive, and the last one to see her dead. 

The next morning we went to pay the cemetery. Together we decided on a stone and I decided what it would say. I think he was growing weary of all the decision making by this time. We had breakfast and ordered some white roses for our daughter. We went to buy her a pearl bracelet, but it was gifted to us. We took it to the funeral home and there we were finally able to see Eden again. Holding my hand, Ryan walked me up to the casket in the visitation room. I expected to see an unrecognizable face, a cold looking body. Instead, she looked just as beautiful as when we last saw her. I was afraid, but I touched her hand. That's when he was able to touch her too. I wonder how afraid he was, because neither of us had mentioned fear and I know I felt it. I wanted to talk to him, but I just didn't know words. He noticed right away that her headband was missing, so he went to ask if they still had it. He came back with it and I placed the band on her head. I tried so hard to clasp the pearl bracelet on her wrist but I was shaking and tears were clouding my eyes. So he took the clasp and calmly fastened it, holding her tiny hand in his palm. He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then I did. Then we left the funeral home, knowing we could see her again later.

The next few hours are the most vivid to me. I kept watching the man I married try on suits appropriate for receiving visitors and burying his daughter. It broke my heart every time he came out of a dressing room, looking much older than he should have. It made me relieved that I picked out and bought dresses when I was 8 months pregnant, because I could not have handled the pain of needing to try on clothes for such an occasion. He chose shades of turquoise, for CDH awareness. His face was grim when he told attendants that the suit was for "a funeral". No parents should ever need to buy clothes to bury their children in.

Then, we were dressed and ready, heading to the funeral home with my family. I remember arguing with Ryan over something very trivial at the beginning, the guilt of letting anything outside bother me on a day like this one stabbing at me as we stood in the hall whisper-yelling. I don't know if he knew I knew better, but couldn't help it. It was our first argument since she'd passed. Then, we were thrown into the room where people kept pouring in to talk to us and see our daughter. We were separated and overwhelmed. Immediately, I missed him... but I was too prideful to stop people from talking to me so I could find and stand next to him for a long time. He eventually just ended up next to me, our hands finding each other as different people hugged us.

About 400 people came to pay their respects that night. Many of them had comforting things to say, and some of them had stupid things to say. But they all cared and we were shocked at just how many lives Eden affected. The evening wound down, and people stayed about 30 minutes over time.. then we were left alone in the room with our daughter. Standing over her again, I told him I was sorry, that I needed him and that I didn't want to fight. He just said, "Who's fighting? I love you." And we kissed our girl, then each other and headed back to my mom's house.

We woke early the next morning and went to pay the funeral home. This would be the last time we'd see her. We went in, afraid again. I put her letters at her feet, her book next to her side. Ryan placed her little stuffie next to her head and we stood there together touching her and talking to her. I kissed her one last time and told her that I love her. I walked away weeping. Ryan followed a few moments later. He was the last one of us to see her anyway. I wasn't bitter this time.

We drove away quietly to go get ready for the funeral. I saw a much older, but still handsome man in the suit he'd bought, and I felt much older in the dress I was wearing. "You look beautiful." He'd taken a single white rose from the two dozen we'd bought her and gave it to me so I could place it on her casket.

The family car arrived at my mom's at 1:15. All of Eden's grandparents rode with us to the cemetery. Though it was a cloudy morning, the sun came out and it was beautiful and breezy few hours. I remember a blur for a funeral. Though it was private the only ones in attendance were family and close friends, those people were too many for just under the tent. I looked back behind me once but I didn't recognize a single face.
I remember they sang, "You are my sunshine". They sang, "Farther Along". They sang "When We All Get to Heaven". I couldn't sing. I heard voices all around me, but not Ryan's, so I didn't feel so alone.
He clenched my hand the whole time. Once he turned my face to his and wiped it, though the tears kept coming. I felt so selfish, needing him so badly. I wondered if I was stopping him from needing me.
We were each given a red rose, in addition to the one Ryan gave me. We walked up to the casket and I remember wondering "are my breasts leaking?" and I was reminded that it hadn't even been one week since I gave birth to this child and thats when my legs gave out from under me. I was using him for support, I was moaning through my cries. The cemetery was silent, and it was as though the only other person there was the one next to me. We took a single petal from the white rose to save. I handed it to Ryan and somehow found my way back to the chair between our parents. A final prayer and then it was over, all of the people coming through to hug us. 

We were leaving to go eat at my best friend's church, and I looked beside me to realize Ryan wasn't walking there. I turned around and saw him lifting a bit of the rug covering the grave, harvesting the dirt that she'd be covered in. He put it in a vial like the one we would later put the rose petal in, like the ones that hold a lock of her hair, a cut of a blanket that was around her, and the oil used for her dedication. I was watching him be intentional in fathering our child, even in his pain.

Later on that night we were making rounds to visit family before leaving, and it had begun to storm. The clouds held off and gave us a beautiful funeral, but the weather was appropriately dreary for the rest of the day. We were fighting again. After a while, I wondered if that was to be our new normal, since we never really fought before. Thats when I remembered the ugly statistic given to me in the beginning. And I was finished with fighting. All I could say was that what it was would never be as important to me as us. And when he agreed, that was it. 

When we made it back to the cemetery after dark when the storming had stopped, and we walked to her grave holding hands. My heart was in literal pain as I just sat in the damp ground at the bottom of her flowered plot. I wept, and felt his hand on my back. He was kneeling down. I whispered to him that I could have just crawled up underneath her and stayed, and he told me that he knew. I believed him.

We flew home the next day, thankfully on seats next to each other again. Then we were in our bedroom, all the "doing" over and only "feeling" left. 


It was a long weekend of us trying very hard to get out of the house. We ended up going to the grocery store and I'll always be proud of us for making it there, even though it took talking about it for two days and going on Monday. That's when we'd paid the Colorado funeral home, and then Tuesday we registered her death. How unreal it was to receive both her birth and death certificates on the same day.

Ryan went back to work on Wednesday, and organized our upcoming move. I stayed in bed all day, glad for a minute to myself but also missing him. I was happy that he had tasks to fill his day. The rest of the week I tried to be productive too, while he tried to slow down. We've both had to respect the way one another is grieving- we're each dealing with this beautiful, awful thing in different ways and at different times. He said to me the other night, "We're going to feel and act differently, just know that however we are feeling and acting is perfectly okay."

These past few days, I'm feeling a mix of things. I feel insecure, I credit the birth process for that. I feel numb, like I just don't have the energy to handle all of my emotions. I feel guilty, thinking that if Ryan hadn't married me and picked me to carry his children, maybe none of this would have happened to him. I love him so much that I'm sorry to have given him this grief.

Last night as I was trying to voice these things but struggling to find the words (people keep saying how important communicating is right now but they don't seem to have any idea how difficult communication turns out to be), this man looked at me so intently and said, "I am so grateful you are my wife and the mother of my daughter. No one else could do what you've done." And then we went to sleep with that comfort bear between us.

I've forgotten now exactly what it was that we fought about those nights, but it has not stopped bothering me that we fought. Now my fears focus on if we can keep our marriage from crumbling, if we can keep from blaming each other for our hurt, if we can be the parents we'd hoped to be without hindering one another with bitterness. My fears were calmed when he said those things to me, because I know that he does not blame me in this immediate aftermath just as I do not blame him.
You see, CDH has no known cause (yet) and that may be our saving grace... But I like to believe that even if we knew what exactly was the explanation for our daughters severe birth defect and death, we would still not fault one or the other. I know that Eden's life taught us more about our love than her death can tear us apart.

When we asked for a baby, we prayed that if there was one that would be sick or one who's life would be short, it would be ours as we knew we could love this baby better than most. I didn't realize how drastically that would change our marriage, as it would definitely change us individually. I think we forgot to pray at that same time for grace and wisdom to see each other through the kind of situation we asked for, but it is coming to us gradually. Every day I am sorry that our marriage has been born into this grief, but more grateful that this is the man God gave me to grieve with. I pray that we will make our daughter proud.

"Two are better than one,

    because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down,
    one can help the other up.
But pity anyone who falls
    and has no one to help them up.

Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm.
    But how can one keep warm alone?
 Though one may be overpowered,
    two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken."

Ecclesiastes 4:9-12

The Two Births of Eden Olivia

The dropping lasted the whole final month.
Eden slowly moved into position, stretching me as far as I could stretch, moving my hips and pelvis to fit around her. It sure did last a month, and every day I swore she could not go any further down or she would fall out.
Her head had been down since I was about 6 months along, her feet up in my ribs and her little butt poking out of my right side.
She was extremely active and fun the last week. Our birth plan for comfort care was complete by then, family was in town, and it was a relaxing end to my pregnancy. I'll never forget how blissful it was to not do anything but feel her move!


We didn't announce my induction date because we wanted private moments with no pressure to share- Facebook knows everything too fast these days! But when I was 36 weeks, we planned for my induction to be June 25th (39+4) so that we could give family a date to be here, and so that I could definitely be with my midwife.

I went in on the 24th to be checked for progress. My midwife who'd worked with us since I was 24 weeks, Major Radmer (Heidi), finally said "she's down there, definitely dropped!"
However, I was still barely 2 cm dilated and it looked to be a long induction. So, Heidi told me to go into L&D that evening to be given a foley bulb catheter, which would help with dilation.

As a pre-baby celebration, my dad took us all out to dinner at Red Lobster so I could have crab legs. This is also a tradition, since my mom ate crab legs right before she had all of us, too. Now Ryan is in for it because I'm gonna need to make sure I have them every time.

Ryan and my mom took me to the hospital that night, where the doctors spent two hours trying to place the bulb. No one warned me that it would be so painful! At 10:00 p.m., it was placed and we were headed home with an Ambien in a brown bag to help me sleep. I was to return to L&D at 9:30 the next morning to be induced. Heidi would be on the night shift, so she would be there to help us meet Eden when the time came.

When we made it home I was cramping but not quite contracting. I'd heard that pineapple sent women into labor so while I showered Ryan cut and grilled some slices of fresh pineapple for me. I took the Ambien and ate the fruit, then laid down. But, I didn't sleep! Perhaps thirty minutes altogether. The Ambien did make me loopy...but between my nerves and the pain of the bulb, rest didn't come. At around 4 am I was timing contractions to be three minutes apart, lasting 30 seconds a piece. I called the unit, and the nurse said if the bulb hadn't come out then I wasn't dilated enough to rush in. "Take it easy, honey, we will see you in a few hours." I worried that I'd give birth right in my bedroom! I was up and down the entire night, just so anxious about what was to come.

I could finally start waking everyone else up at 7:00 on June 25th. Poor Ryan slept about as much as I did, because I whined. I picked up my phone to see that people already knew what was going on that day, Facebook had exploded! While we were initially frustrated, we were more thankful for the encouragement and support that poured out over us that morning, especially after a rough night. We got ready for the day, double checked to make sure we had everything, and zipped up our hospital bag. We said goodbye to my dad, brother, sister, and Ryan's mom. They'd all be at the hospital too around lunch time. Momma came with us, and we rode in Ryan's mustang back to the hospital (my car had more room for the rest of our family). I kept joking that I felt like Novalee Nation, that I should have been on the way to have a baby in Walmart instead of Evans Army Community Hospitals Labor & Delivery Unit. So fun.

We checked in at 9:15, and we were taken back to the room reserved especially for us. It was at the very front of the unit, separate from most of the other rooms. We would never have to pass the nursery, or hear too much from other mother/baby rooms. Our people could enter and exit the unit through other double doors without going through the nurse's station. There was a sign placed on the door for us. It had a leaf with a teardrop, indicating that our birth was a loss and comfort care situation- dietary, custodial, other extraneous staff would not be entering. All of my nurses would be solely mine as well. The room was very big, there was plenty of room for all of our people and three big windows for a little natural light.

The charge nurse had me change, then said they would be in shortly to insert my IV and start the Pitocin. When she left, I used the opportunity to formally let our friends and family on social media know that I was being induced. My best friend Jenae had a list of people to shoot text updates to, and once I let her know I was there, she let them all know too.

There was a bird on the windowsill, who kept showing off to Ryan and Momma. He was so friendly. Ryan pulled out the camera, and this bird actually loved it! He posed for pictures, almost smiling it seemed. He was cheery, it made me cheery.

The nurses and the day's midwife, Katherine, came to take the bulb out- it dilated my cervix to 3 cm! It was about 11:30 a.m. when my IV was finally inserted and Pitocin was started. My day nurse, Nikki, asked how much monitoring we'd like of Eden's heartbeat. I asked for a twenty minute strip, so I laid down on the bed and we were monitored for twenty minutes. Her heartbeat was up and down, and she was so bouncy. She was excited too! Nikki tore the strip and gave it to Ryan to put away, then took the monitors off of me so I could labor in peace. She went to find me a yoga ball to bounce on if the mood struck me.
Ryan's chaplain, Captain Conway (Marta), came in to visit quickly. She would be back to perform Eden's dedication closer to time. Then the rest of our family arrived. Then, Jenae left school early to come and sit too. She didn't show up emptied handed, there was a bag in her hand holding rum for Ryan and wine for me!

We all talked for a while, I bounced on the ball, everyone took turns going downstairs to eat Arby's (they were all really courteous not eating in front of me even when I said it was fine). I had Ryan bring me about 5 cups of beef broth, I never thought I could enjoy broth so much. The day seemed to pass quickly. Eric, Jenae's husband, had also joined us. At about 5:00, Katherine came to check my progress. I was almost 6 cm, which seemed to be going pretty fast to me. The contractions were not awful, but I did want the epidural before things got crazy- at this rate I was expecting a baby by midnight! So I told them I was ready for the epidural and Nikki sent for the anesthesiologist. He came in, administered the drug, and then I had to lie down of course. My contractions also had to be monitored by the computer after this.

Then, Jenae sent out an update as I texted both Marta and our NILMDTS photographer, Rebekah. Rebekah came right away and started setting up. She plugged in her diffuser and let some oils soothe all the nerves in the room. She started taking pictures then too.

Heidi came on at 7:00. I was so relieved to see her but things also became very real. She'd be delivering my daughter this time! My new nurse, Lucy, also came on duty at this time.

Around 8:00, I think it was my dad, brother, and Eric that made the food run to Jimmy Johns. This time I was jealous as everyone took turns going downstairs to eat. I wanted a sub SO bad!

I was checked again at 9:00, 7 cm. Heidi said it was time to break my water and things would probably go pretty fast from there. So, I texted Marta again and she was on the way.

Because of Eden's CDH, I had polyhydramnios (or excess amniotic fluid). This is why I looked 40 weeks at only 30 weeks- my fluid was about 10 cm too much. Heidi only wanted to pinhole my water, let it slowly leak... but it didn't happen that way. It was like a collapsing dam in my delivery room- fluid going everywhere. It took Heidi, Lucy, Momma, and Ryan all by surprise. There weren't enough towels in my room alone! Me numb from the waist down, it was up to Ryan to pick me up and help them clean. Momma said there was standing water ON MY BED. All I could really do was watch my huge belly go down exponentially. Now, it was probably half the size.

Everyone who needed to be at the hospital was there by 10:00 p.m. We all talked and joked for a good while, but I was SO sleepy. I kept nodding off. I was checked at midnight: still 7 cm. Lucy came in to start rubbing my back, Jenae took over, then my mom. Things had certainly slowed. Around 1:00, I needed a refill on the epidural.

The room next to us was actually vacant because the computer didn't work, so it was opened for my family to go in. It became the nap place. My mom, Ryan's mom, my sister and brother all went back to our house for quick showers and came back. I started some serious napping. All of our people started napping too, wherever they could find a spot. I was checked at 2:00, 8 cm.

4:00 a.m., still 8 cm. I was feeling pretty bad for calling everyone to the hospital to wait all night. So we told Rebekah and Marta to head home if they needed to. Rebekah just went in the vacant room and passed out, Marta headed for the Army hotel down the street. I kept sleeping.

6:00 came and I was between 8 and 9 cm. It was breakfast time for everyone else. After they finished, I became very cold and very sick. I knew these were signs of it getting close to time, so I was glad for them. I couldn't be warmed by the 4 blankets on top of me. I threw up beef broth for about thirty minutes. Ryan didn't say it at the time, but he was sick too. My body, his nerves. I wasn't so numb anymore, the pressure was turning to pain. My contractions were very strong and I was trying not to moan through them and scare everyone away... didn't work. They all went to the vacant room to give me privacy.

When I was checked at 7:00, Heidi said I was still 9 cm. I started crying then. She said she'd be back at 8:00 instead of waiting two hours.
I believe I made it to 7:30 before I told Ryan he needed to go find her, I needed to push. He did as he was commanded. Heidi came in and after checking asked me, "are you ready?" Ryan called the chaplain back, then he and Momma came to either side of me. Rebekah got behind me.

I began pushing at about 8:15 a.m. Heidi should have been off an hour before then, but of course she stayed. Lucy'd had to leave though, and my new nurses were Roberta and Raquel.

There I was, no birthing classes, very little insight about "what to do", a nervous wreck ready and not ready to meet my baby. Pushing was painful, and I didn't expect that. I thought the epidural was going to ease that as well!

*I just want to say that there should be no shame in taking medicine to lessen excruciating pain. There's a social pedestal for "natural childbirth" that really bothers me (Does that make childbirth with pain medication "unnatural"? It's totally natural to me to take medicine for pain..). However you choose to birth your baby, or however you HAVE to birth your baby- whether that mean drugs or surgery or in a pool of cucumber water with a string quartet playing live in the room- it should be celebrated. My ONLY regret is getting the epidural so early and having to lie down for most of my labor.*

Ryan held one leg, Momma held another. About ten minutes into my pushing, Eden was crowning. I heard Ryan, "Oh, baby. Her head is right there!" And Momma, "You can see it! All of her hair!'"

My poor mom. I know I kicked her at least once in the chin, and I'm pretty sure I almost dislocated her shoulder. I grew extremely tired after an hour, I'm thinking she was relieved when I did.

One time Momma said, "look at the window. Your friend has returned." Sure enough, the bird was outside chirping and being a bit intrusive. I watched him for a while, he distracted me.

Ryan kept telling me to breathe. Not because that's what he'd seen on movies or because it was what he was "supposed" to say, because I actually kept forgetting to breathe. I loved him in these moments, and I hated him too. It was so easy for him to tell me what to do when I was the one actually having to do it.

In our birth plan, I'd specifically said that I would be refusing a cesarean even if it looked like Eden would pass in the birth canal. It was more important that I be present to hold her, because we knew she was going to pass. The only scenario in which we would have taken an emergency c-section would be if my life were in danger. And man, I thought my life was in danger. It's really crazy what a woman's body is designed to endure... I know now what it's capable of and I'm amazed.

I wasn't skipping pushing through contractions, though Heidi asked if I wanted to (she probably, most definitely need a break...I should mention that she was 36 weeks pregnant herself!). I was just basically passing out between them. I wasn't irate, just tired. I was ignoring everyone.
The nurses kept rooting for me. Roberta kept saying, "that is the way!" I was a good pusher. Raquel was swinging a wet rag with Rebekah's peppermint oil on it in my face. They'd rolled a mirror in front of me so I could see, but I wouldn't watch because no matter what she seemed to not be moving any further. They swore she was.
I really thought I couldn't do anymore. I looked at Heidi and said "Can you help me?"
She said, "Honey, I am helping you, but I can't do it for you."

Four or five contractions later, they had me reach down and feel. I touched the whole top of Eden's head. I remember looking at Ryan and smiling, as tears were beginning to roll down his cheeks. My mom said "Last push! Maybe. I think. I don't know!"

It was the last push to get her head out. Heidi had me pause. The pediatrician sprayed some medicine in her nose. Then, another final push. The rest of her body came with her head.

It was 10:40 a.m. on June 26, 2015. She was born to us here. She was on my chest. She was given more medicine for any pain she may have felt while on Earth. I realized she really did look like her father. My thought was, "Ryan is a really pretty girl."

Ryan was crying. Momma was crying. I was in shock.

Ryan cut her cord. Heidi showed him where he could feel her pulse in the part still attached to her. She told me there was no rush for the placenta if I was fine. I was fine. She left the room in tears.

Eden breathed a deep breath. The most magnificent breath I'll ever witness. Mom ran out to get our family, Jenae and Eric, and Marta.

They came in, Marta stood beside us and used Rose of Sharon to anoint Eden Olivia, then us. We dedicated her life back to the Lord. Everyone in the room prayed. Ryan took her for a few moments to let everyone kiss all three of us. Then everyone except Rebekah left my husband and I to be with our child.

She was in my arms again. I hummed to her, "You are my sunshine."

Ryan sat down beside us. He read "Guess How Much I Love You."

He held her again, and I watched him kiss her.

We told her that it was okay, and she could go. She never cried, she saved all of her energy for those breaths she kept taking.

I don't recall her last one, I just know it was in Ryan's arms. I just know it was too soon. I just know it didn't feel like forty minutes, it felt like a second.

And then it was 11:20 a.m. on June 26, 2015. She was born into Jesus's arms, a healthy and whole baby girl. We couldn't be parents more proud. She was the most beautiful baby I've ever seen and while I'll miss her every second of every day, I am so happy for her that she's breathing peacefully in Heaven.

The bird came back to us the next morning, before we told our daughter goodbye. He was just as cheery, reminding us that this was more a celebration than a sadness. We are thankful for this perfectly beautiful life to grieve.