Several
months ago I had a patient who prematurely went into labor and
delivered a peanut of a baby who never even got to take her first
breath. All ten fingers and all ten toes were perfectly formed yet so
fragile. Her eyes fused shut, hidden behind eyelashes just beginning to
sprout. Every part was in its place, in miniature form.
A
few weeks earlier, I too experienced my own loss. My experience was
much different, but I believe overall the emotions were very similar.
Which is why I sat embracing this woman as we cried together. At the
loss of our babies. The loss of life. The loss of possibilities. The
loss of hopes and dreams and the unknown that would never be known. The
whys and the what ifs. The if only's and could haves, should haves,
would haves. They can destroy you if you let them.
She
didn't want to see or hold her sweet girl. She said it was just too
much for her to bare. So instead I sent her home with a stack of photos
in a sealed envelope of her perfect little girl, hands folded gently
across her chest, so peaceful as if she was just resting for a moment
and could awaken at any time.
Before
she left I shared with her my own journey of loss and reminded her that
she was never alone. Hugs and tears were exchanged before she left with
empty arms and an empty womb.
I
sent her several cards over the last few months letting her know I was
thinking of her (thanks to a wonderful program another nurse I work
with has taken the time to coordinate), and received a Christmas card
from her in my mailbox at work this past week. Tears streamed down my
face as I read her kind words.
"Whenever
I feel alone I think of you. I think of the tears you shared with me in
a moment that words just didn't seem adequate. Your silence meant so
much to me. Your cards always seemed to arrive at the perfect moments.
When sadness and darkness all but swallowed me, your words of
encouragement gave me hope and joy. You'll never know what you've done
for me. Thank you. Merry Christmas."
Hope. Joy. Love.
A diagnosis
I
was called into work one afternoon and upon arriving on the unit
noticed a co-worker embracing another who had tears running down her
cheeks. I later found out the patient she was caring for had received
the news that their baby had Down syndrome, which had been unknown prior
to the baby's birth.
I
had the privilege of caring for the patient and her family on the day
of discharge. Prior to entering the room I wondered what to say or do,
feeling like I had a responsibility to offer them some kind of advice or
words of comfort. What I didn't expect was for their words to comfort
me.
When
I entered the room the pediatrician was assessing the baby. When he was
done he reassured the parents that there were a ton of resources and
support services available to them to help them through this. I was
expecting his words to cause them to break into tears or release an
audible sigh of heartache, but they didn't. Instead, without hesitation
the mom looked at her husband, they exchanged smiles and then said,
"We're just so excited to go on this adventure with him." She was
beaming. Literally, beaming. Glowing. Radiating joy. Like I'd never seen
it before. The dad hovered over the bassinet, staring at his sweet baby
boy in awe. He too beamed. He bent down towards him and whispered "I
love you so much buddy" before kissing him over and over again.
My
heart stopped. Tears began to fill my eyes and for a moment I felt like
I was a fly on the wall witnessing this beautiful, surreal moment. I
felt like I wasn't even worthy to be in the presence of such hope. Such
love. Unconditional, genuine love. Here I was mourning the loss of what I
selfishly (and wrongly) believed was the less than "perfect" situation
and birth of a baby who was given a life changing and devastating
diagnosis. I felt so ashamed. These parents weren't mourning at all.
They were celebrating. They were excited. They were joyful.
As
I watched them leave our unit as a family, beaming from ear to ear,
something deep down within me whispered "remember this moment. Remember
it forever. This is what life is about."
Hope. Joy. Love. What great love.
A gift
The
thought of carrying my babies for 10 whole months, feeling them kick
and hiccup and move, watching my belly grow, and hearing their heartbeat
inside me, only to give them away is really unfathomable to me.
But the gift of adoption is truly one of the most heart wrenching and beautiful things I've been able to witness as a nurse.
One
mama's heartbreak is another mama's answered prayer. And the exchange
from one mom to another is just truly like nothing you've ever seen
before.
Recently,
for the first time in my career as a labor & delivery nurse I got
to witness part of what those in the adoption world call an entrustment
ceremony. A ritual, symbolic, and emotional exchange where the birth mom
hands over, and entrusts her baby to the adoptive parents. The moment
she makes the brave decision to give her child what she believes is a
better life. Hope for the future. A forever home.
As
I cared for both the biological mom and adoptive parents my heart was
torn. My heart ached for the mom whose arms and womb were now empty. Yet
it rejoiced for the mom whose arms were now full, and whose womb could
not carry life.
John 15:13 reads,
"Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's
friends." I should think that handing over life to a complete stranger
is looked at no differently. What joy. What hope. What love! What great
great love!
Love
that exists because on one fateful night, in the cold confines of a
stable, one brave, strong woman gave birth to a son. Life was given unto
us.
His
mothers eventual loss, our gain. His 'diagnosis', to live righteously
and blamelessly in the face of struggle and sin. His life and
resurrection, a gift to all.
A loss. A diagnosis. A gift.
Hope. Joy. Love. What great love.
Merry Christmas.
