Estimated reading time: 8 minute(s)

This day started out like many have recently. I was tired from the long day before, and overwhelmed with how many different things I needed to do this day. I fell asleep by 4:30am or so the night before, and then, with the regular hustle and bustle of life around here (except perhaps a bit earlier) I was up by 9am, getting started on the day.

I was making some progress on a few different projects. Made a couple calls on new business. Emails, tech support calls, and even a couple friendly, personal IMs. It was actually working out well considering the day was a bit squeezed by a 1:45pm doctor’s appointment for Jen & the baby. I was going along (as I always do now, since we lost a baby a couple years ago. Don’t ever want Jen to go through that alone…) and today, Jen had also gotten a babysitter! So it would be a nice break for her (and me). We were looking forward to it.

1:30 rolled around and the babysitter arrived and all was going according to schedule. We headed out the door and really didn’t have to wait long at all to get in to see our doctor (and friend) Sue Landgraf. Sue is a good friend of another friend of ours (which is how we first found/met her) and she also is a closet “basic” fan. 🙂 So, we were chatting about the crazy week we just had, singing concerts every night. She was telling us about her daughter’s special choral concert coming up. It was a nice visit.

At around 2:15pm, we were completely blind-sided by what we were about to hear. Or, rather, not hear. As we were getting down to the routine part of the visit, where she puts the goo on the thing and the thing on the belly to hear the baby’s hearbeat, she continued to talk, and we to listen. This usually takes several seconds to find just the right spot where you can hear the baby’s heart well enough to count the heart rate. But this time, it took too long.

Having been through this before, I probably started to freak out a bit before the doctor, but you could tell she was getting a bit nervous as well. Jen & I both started to re-live what we had lived through 2 years prior in Arkansas and California hospitals. After only probably a minute, I was certain we had lost the baby. Dr. Landgraf continued to search, and even talk with Jen a bit… but I knew.

I can’t even describe the emotions. First, pure shock. Last time we went through this, there had been “warning signs” throughout the entire pregnancy. The only one we could possibly point to this time is that Jen felt the best of the five healthy pregnancies. She was not as drained, or sick, this time as much as the others. But, since all else seemed normal, we were just grateful for a nice pregnancy for her.

As she continued to search in vain for some heartbeat other than Jen’s, the painful reality began to really set in . We had lost another baby. How could this happen? TWICE? When we lost the baby in 2004, I was deeply saddened. Strangely so, because as I said, there were warning signs along the way. We just wanted that baby so much. At least, I did. Couldn’t wait for baby #4! So, when things started happening (on our anniversary, no less!) it was just crushing. A couple tough weeks later, we found out for sure that we had lost the baby. This time was different though. There was no inkling whatsoever that this baby was in any danger! So after shock, I was just angry. Anything I thought of made me angry. Mostly coming back to the thought, “How could this happen?!”

I sat in silence for a long time. We exchanged a few words with Sue about ultrasounds, and how the baby might just be behind the placenta. But I knew. I again was crushed, and still… angry. I searched my feelings and really couldn’t say I was mad at anyone (like, God…), I was just… mad.

I began to wonder if I was mad because of the unfairness of the situation, or because I didn’t get something I wanted. Was it just selfishness? Was it that my “plans” had been “ruined”? Whoa. That just seemed really ugly. I hoped it could not be that. The more I pondered, the more I perhaps convinced myself that I was just angry at the “unfairness” of it.

After scheduling an emergency ultrasound at the hospital for 4:15pm, we drove home in almost complete silence to our house to see if our babysitter could put in some extra hours. We talked a bit, but I just couldn’t think of any words to say – and if I did, none would actually leave my mouth.

We arrived home to find the kids all playing outside with our babysitter. They did manage to make us smile. 🙂 She came to meet us and we told her what was going on. She graciously agreed to stay. She’s great. And I think she’s only 14. That’s nuts. But cool. She’s been a great help and a huge blessing to our family. We helped get the girls ready for a nap, and then headed out to the hospital with our hope of hearing our baby’s heartbeat at slim to none.

4:00pm we arrived at the hospital, signed some paperwork and were taken almost immediately to the imaging rooms where they set Jen up to do the ultrasound. I almost did not want to look. But I did. And there it was. Our baby, inside Jen. Looked just like all the others, except nothing was moving. Not the baby, not the heart, nothing. It was completely silent in the room. Jen could not see the monitor, but I’m sure she knew what was happening too. I watched the technician measure body parts and the screen showed that the baby was just under 16 weeks (which meant the baby had died within the past week or so). Again… the emotions came flooding back to me. What a happy room that has been, and how devastatingly sad.

As we were leaving, Jen asked if she could have a photo from the quick imaging session. We got one (they even put it in a card for us) and made our way out to the van. Again, there was silence. I was just processing. Processing, and processing. The doctors all say (and they did again today) that there is nothing we could have done differently to prevent this. But you know, that’s all that was going through my head. “Was it our busy week last week?” “Could I have done more to help Jen with the kids?” “Should I have been better at reminding Jen to take her vitamins?” “Could I have helped Jen eat more healthy meals and snacks?” “What else could I have done????” I know it was pointless, but I couldn’t stop trying to place blame – and really only on myself.

This ride home was nearly completely silent. And it was a lot longer. I kept wanting to say something, just to ask Jen how she was doing. But I could not. Nothing seemed worthy to leave my lips.

We got home, and all I wanted was a hug from my kids. They obliged. We told the babysitter the news, and she hugged Jen. Shortly after she left, her family called and they said they would like to bring us dinner. That was really nice. (What they brought was really good, too!) They’re a great family. The rest of the night seems a blur. We called our parents to let them know what had happened. The doctor called again to schedule the next steps. We had dinner, and watched the Sabres game (mostly because, we had to do something…) I fell asleep during a big chunk of it… just exhausted. We also spoke together throughout the evening about the baby. It was interesting seeing the kids processing it.

No guarantee of tomorrow

When we lost the first baby just two years ago, the strong thought that overwhelmed me even as sorrow did also was, “the Lord gives, and the Lord takes away”. I was overwhelmed by how much God was with me in the bad, hard, sad time as well as the good. Our loss was not proof of his abandoning us. This time, I didn’t sense that same comforting… (nor did I sense that I needed it as much right then) … the thought that was so present in my mind was that we have absolutely no guarantee of tomorrow.

Let me take a quick step back. I recalled a conversation Jen & I had shared not that long ago about (ironically) losing the baby. I confessed to my wife that perhaps (as Uncle Josh said long ago…) I do have a “fear of failure” and somehow, losing our baby feels to me like I have somehow failed. And it’s so far (ridiculously) beyond my control that I despise the thought even more. If I fail, I at least want to know that I gave it a good effort. But when we lost our baby – or if we did again – I’m just so helpless, and powerless there. It’s complete failure. (In a way…)

So on the other end of that, it’s fun to look over your achivements. If you hate failure, you love achievements. So somehow recently I had noticed that I kept talking about future events – especially things involving our 5th child – as though they were already reality. In fact, a couple times, I would catch myself, and add a qualifier or two.

But not always.

Then today, with this slap in the face, all I could think about was how we really only have today. There were no real warning signs telling us we might lose this baby. Wasn’t even a thought in my head today, until the doctor started having trouble locating the heartbeat. But just like that… everything was different.

We are not guaranteed tomorrow. We’re not guaranteed the end of the pregnancy will be a healthy baby. We’re not guaranteed that we will take our next breath, or get up tomorrow, or have a job or a house or a car or our family or anything we have tomorrow. The only thing we can count on is Eternal Life. To know God and Jesus Christ whom he sent. He does not change no matter how much life does. His love for us does not change.

I do know that tonight. My heart remains quite heavy. (My eyelids are growing heavier…) I wish it were different. I want to go to sleep now, and wake up and realize it was all a horrible nightmare. I want our baby to be alive and well and waiting to join our family this coming May. But I know that it won’t, and I will eventually be OK with that.

For now, I want to live today – right now – with the people God has put around me, and with him who is in me. I was reminded today that we really have nothing else.