The ultrasound appointment was at 1pm. Daniel was working in the lab, so we decided to meet at the hospital. I let him know that I had parked and was heading in to meet him. Those were the last text messages from our “before” life. The last messages of the happy and naive.
With nothing to compare it to, I’m not sure what about my parenting is different because of our loss. I can make guesses…most of my guesses have to do with either fear or gratitude. I don’t think I would have as much of either if Ginny hadn’t died. Life’s moments are more precious when you know how fragile it all is.
It often collides into me when I’m rocking Chet to sleep. I think it’s because: 1) we are in his room that used to be Ginny’s nursery, 2) he looks so very precious sleeping in my arms, 3) I think of sleep as the most vulnerable time because of SIDS, 4) the stillness allows the blessings of the day to catch up to me. I can’t contain my gratitude for him! How did I get so lucky that he is actually here?! I want to kiss his cheek, but I don’t want to wake him. I kiss him anyway. What I wouldn’t give to kiss Ginny one more time! I can’t let the opportunity pass – I never do.
When it’s time to place him in his crib, I deliberately and symbolically place him in God’s hands. I am not the sustainer of life. I again pray Your will be done. As I lullaby, I often sing Chet a worship song called “Abba, I belong to you.” It is such a comforting song, and it is a good reminder for me. Chet does not belong to me; Chet belongs to Abba (God the daddy). I quietly step out of the room peacefully knowing that Chet is in God’s hands no matter what.
… and then I turn on the monitor. Daniel and I watch that monitor like it’s Sunday night HBO. We analyze his heart rate and oxygen levels. We listen for cries and watch for wiggles. Hounding the monitor is better than leaning over him to check his breathing a million times which would be the alternative. We follow every single safe sleep rule every single time.
That’s the dance of parenting after loss – knowing you are not in control so trustfully handing everything over to God and then anxiously pulling it back inch by inch until you think you’re in control again. Then the thoughts come in: what if I accidentally drop him? kneel on him? scratch him? What if he chokes? What if he gets COVID? What if? What if? What if? ….I deliberately and symbolically place him in God’s hands as I place him asleep in his crib… the dance continues.
It can be exhausting. Parenting in general is exhausting. But I daren’t complain. I feel so guilty if I complain about Chet ever. It is a miracle he is here with us; what right do I have to complain? I was voicing this to my lactation consultant as she was helping me with my severely damaged nipples. She said, “This is really hard. You are doing a great job. It is ok to complain about this. It is ok to cry about this.” Just as I learned that joy and grief coexist, I am learning that you can feel so grateful and at the same time acknowledge the difficulties. It isn’t taking things for granted. (By the way, my nipples healed around week 8 after Chet has his tongue tie fixed – Hallelujah!)
I do feel a bit of anger when I think about how we shouldn’t be figuring things out for the first time now. We should have already been through this before. We should have experience with the newborn stages, the sleep regressions, the diaper rashes. We should be pros at loading the car up for a drive. We should know how to adjust stroller straps. We should have known not to buy those flimsy off-brand milk storage bags. I’m frustrated I didn’t know. It’s in the everyday reminders that we are 2nd time parents with 1st time problems. These inconveniences don’t matter at all; the hard part is that we are reminded that we missed it all the first time around.
My heart wilts every time I think about her being here. I imagine bringing him home from the hospital and seeing her sweet reaction to meeting her baby brother for the first time. I imagine her making him laugh by being silly. I would need to always keep an eye out that she’s not sneaking him a gold fish or squeezing him too tight. Daniel and I would divide and conquer bedtime. We would have family hugs and family prayers. She’d show him everything. They’d be best friends. I’m sorry she’s not here.
I’m so happy she was here though. Although he hasn’t gotten to meet her yet, Chet has a sister who loves him. He will always know her as part of our family. We will celebrate her life and look forward to meeting her in heaven. We acknowledge the broken world we live in and how it is still so full of beauty and love. We never take things for granted, especially every day we have with little brother.
I almost cried in the grocery store today. It wouldn’t be the first time, but this time it took me off guard. I wasn’t even thinking of anything sad. I wasn’t imagining if Ginny was with me. I was just shopping, and it hit me. Suddenly my mind was taken back to my living room late February 2019; suddenly my heart churned. Why? I looked around. I realized I was walking past the fresh flowers. Ahhh that explains it. The smell of fresh flowers triggered that feeling. We had 9 fresh flower bouquets around our living room the days following Ginny’s death. The bouquets were given to us from friends and family all over the country who care for us and Ginny. Now the smell of fresh flowers can instantly bring me back to that time. It’s not a bad thing. I like having such emotional reminders; it makes me feel closer to Ginny.
There are lots of things like that. In the early days, everything reminded me of Ginny and our loss. But now I get reminders throughout the day (like when I see the 9 empty vases on top of our refrigerator). Only a few are powerful enough to bring me to tears or bring me back to moments of pregnancy or early grief.
When I hear the album Father of the Bride by Vampire Weekend, I am brought back to summer 2019. I remember listening while reading books about grief, driving to volunteer at Family House, or walking to the library to write my blog. I love that album, and it will always remind me of the summer of grief. My heart aches a little every time I hear it.
One of the strongest reminders I’ve had came a couple days after Chet was born. I knew it was coming, still nothing could have prepared me for it. It was when my breastmilk came in, the sharp tingle of milk letting down – the painful pressure of being engorged. When my milk came in after Ginny was born, it was like a bitter slap in the face. I wanted so badly to feed her, but she wasn’t there. Each let down was a cruel reminder that my baby died and that I couldn’t mother her. I worked hard to stop the milk from continuing to come. I took Sudafed. I wore tight bras. I put cabbage leaves in my bra (it’s a thing). I applied cold compresses. Eventually the milk dried up, and then I was sad to feel it go. That felt like the last proof of my motherhood. When Chet was born, I knew I wanted to breastfeed him. I didn’t realize how much the feeling of milk letting down would trigger emotions from when Ginny died. It hurt. It took me right back to that week of brokenness. Thankfully I couldn’t dwell there long because this time I did have a baby to feed. The relief while he nursed was physical and emotional.
A couple weeks ago Daniel took care of Chet on a Saturday morning and told me to go to my favorite coffee shop to pick up a chai latte for myself. I obliged. It had been since before COVID that I had my favorite chai at my favorite coffee shop. As soon as the taste hit my tongue, I was flooded with memories. On at least 5 different occasions, friends had met me here to talk one-on-one about Ginny. Those sweet friends listened to every minute detail of my sad story. They weren’t afraid to talk about her. They cried with me, sat with me in the mud of mourning, shared their own stories, and made me feel a lot less alone. I’m so grateful for each of them. When I got home, Daniel asked how the chai was, and I replied, “It tastes like grief.” He looked confused and said sorry. I smiled, “No it’s a good thing.”
With so few memories with Ginny, I’m grateful for anything that can bring up the emotions when I was closest to her. I hope these feelings don’t fade.
The holidays are really hard after a loss. When the entire family is together, the absence of the one who died is overwhelming. All you can think of is that they should be here.
I remember once we found out we were pregnant with Ginny, I imagined bringing her home to Oklahoma to spend Christmas with her grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I would imagine her waking up on Christmas morning and opening gifts. I couldn’t wait! When she died, all those dreams would be left unrealized.
When the holidays approached after Ginny died last year, each picture perfect Christmas card I saw felt like a small punch in the gut. They reminded me that I’ll never have a picture perfect family because Ginny will always be missing on Earth.
The grief was so strong last year. I knew it would be a challenging time, especially because I was also in the first trimester of pregnancy with Chet. My emotions would be out of control. I tried to set expectations for myself and others. I tried to give myself grace to feel however I felt, and I told family that I might need to step away into a back room or sit out some gatherings potentially. I did do all those things, and it was still really hard.
The first night after the long trip back to Oklahoma, I wanted to make sure that Ginny was remembered and that family knew it was ok to talk about her. I gave homemade bracelets to my mom, mother-in-law, sisters, and niece. The bracelets were in a set of three: one with pink beads, one with gray beads, and one with white beads. The pink represented Ginny’s life. She was a real person who lived on Earth. The gray represented our suffering and what we’ve learned in grief. The white represented hope for heaven and our future family. It was a sweet moment to explain the bracelets and hand them out to the women in my family. But that moment also led to one of several really hard moments of the holiday…
My mom was touched and thankful for the bracelets, but then she realized hers might be a little loose. She wondered if she could swap with one of the sisters or maybe I could adjust it. It was an easy enough request. I did want the bracelets to fit perfectly, but I couldn’t handle that at the time. I blew up and yelled, “Well if you don’t like it, just throw it away!” and stormed off. I hid in a back room and broke down crying. My mom found me and apologized. She assured me she loved the bracelets and what they represent. In tears, I told her why I was really crying, “I wanted to bring you a precious grandbaby for Christmas. Instead I brought you this ill-fitting consolation prize.” She hugged me and told me how much she missed Ginny too.
There were other moments like that. For a lot of people Christmas is already a challenging time with extended family and friends. When you add grief on top of it, it can feel impossible. There will be people who say the wrong thing. It may be the comments that should be helpful but are not, like everything happens for a reason. It may be someone explaining “healthy” and “unhealthy” ways to grieve and insinuating that you are doing it wrong. It may be someone pretending like nothing ever happened. It can all be painful, but God can give grace to get through it. It helps me to remember that the whole family is grieving and we are all trying to navigate it in the best ways we can.
If you are grieving this Christmas remember to give yourself grace. It’s okay to avoid things that are hard. It’s ok to step away if you need to. It’s ok to say “no” to a gathering (especially with COVID as an excuse). And most importantly, it’s ok to talk about your loved one who died. It’s ok to remember and honor them this season. It’s ok to grieve however you need to.
I was recently reminded of something very helpful in a Joyful Mourning podcast. When it feels like Christmas is imperfect and broken, keep in mind that it was always imperfect. Jesus was born in a manger far from home. He was born to die. Mary would live to see her son die. But Jesus bore all the brokenness for our redemption. If it feels too hard to read the verses describing the celebration of Jesus’s birth, maybe read the Easter story instead this year. God will meet us where we are. Remember that it is through Jesus’s birth, death, and resurrection that we are reunited with God and our loved ones are in heaven for us to meet again.
As hard as last year’s Christmas was, there were some really great moments as well. I asked family members to donate the gifts they would’ve gotten for Ginny to charity. They all did, and that blessed Daniel and me so much. We also got to announce to extended family that I was pregnant again. My favorite response came from Daniel’s grandma. She looked us each in the eye with tears in hers, and told us she was proud of us. In that moment, she was recognizing how hard this was and celebrating the new life at the same time. She then offered to get a stone to memorialize Ginny right next to great-grandma Ginny’s grave. It was such a special moment. We were also blessed to see a stocking for Ginny hung in both my parents’ and Daniel’s parents’ houses.
This year is going to look a lot different. We won’t be able to travel back home to Oklahoma due to COVID. It will be so sad to not be with our whole family at Christmas. But it will also be Chet’s first Christmas! I can’t wait to see him look at the tree and give him his gifts. His stocking will hang right next to his sister’s. We will take an imperfect family picture on an imperfect Christmas day. Sounds like a memory I will treasure forever.
We had wonderful friends write us a heartfelt letter telling us they were pregnant a couple months after Ginny died. It meant so much, and we were truly happy for them. I definitely recommend writing a letter, text, or private message. It is good for the friend to be able to process the emotions ahead of a face-to-face meeting. You can tell them one on one, but I definitely would not recommend announcing in front of a group or via a social media announcement. Even if the friend is really happy for you, they will still have a lot of conflicting and difficult emotions. Give them grace and patience.
There are more risks to the mother with a C-section than a vaginal delivery, and I wanted to deliver her as I had imagined. It was a way to mother her. It was so scary, but it felt like such an honor. I did have an epidural, but it didn’t work on the right side. Looking back, I’m glad it didn’t because it gave me physical pain to yell through. My heart was in such agony that I needed that physical outlet. Although it was hard, I look back at that day with love and pride. Giving birth was the easy part. Living everyday after without Ginny was the hard part.
When your baby dies, you don’t just lose a baby. You lose a toddler, a child, a teenager, an adult child. You miss every birthday, Christmas, first day of school, wedding, grandchildren. You miss every “good morning” and every “good night”. You miss every hug. You miss every sporting event and evening stroll. You miss all the would-be memories and all the mundane moments you would’ve forgotten. You miss it all.
The hardest thing for me was feeling like my body was a ticking time bomb. It was painful not knowing when or if your baby is in danger. By the end, waiting and trusting was so difficult. It is the second hardest thing I’ve ever been through. Of course it was worth it all to have Baby Chet.
We already talk to Chet about his big sister Ginny in heaven. We will continue to talk about her, so Chet will always know her as part of our family. We include her in family traditions. For example, when we went to the pumpkin patch, we picked out a pumpkin for Chet and one for Ginny. We have a Christmas stocking for Ginny too. Anytime we see a butterfly when we go on family walks, we are reminded of Ginny. I tell Chet that Ginny’s thinking about us and loves us.
A rainbow baby does not replace a baby who died. I knew this when Chet was born. That’s why part of me was surprised at how much joy he brought us. My heart felt so full; I didn’t expect so much fulfillment from having a living baby when Ginny is still gone.
I started feeling kind of guilty for being so happy. Was I dishonoring Ginny by being happy? Was I moving on or forgetting her somehow? No, I wasn’t forgetting her. I still yearn for her as much as ever, if not more so. But there was a part of me that was empty and is now full since Chet arrived.
After talking with Daniel about it, I realized what it is… When Ginny died, we didn’t just lose our daughter. We lost the ability to be parents in the way we imagined. Instead of changing diapers and pushing a stroller, we were writing in journals and crying together. Before Chet arrived, weekends were often when grief hit hardest. Our weekends were empty when they should’ve been filled with taking care of Ginny. We always felt like we were supposed to be doing something, like we forgot something. But we were just parents without a child.
For me it was physical as well. After giving birth to Ginny, I had hormones and instincts driving me to want to care for a baby. I needed to hold and nurse my baby who wasn’t here. For months I would anxiously look for her when my instincts would tell me she needed me. It’s the same feeling I get now when it is nearing time to feed Chet again. I feel a nervousness and urge to take care of my baby. But now that urge is fulfilled. Finally! After a year and a half, my physical need to care for a baby is met.
Now our weekends are busy with Chet baths, smiles, and tummy time. We are finally experiencing the typical parenting life. That part of what we lost is back. And that feels good.
But as I mentioned before, a rainbow baby does not replace a baby who died. As overcome with joy as I am that Chet is here, I do still hurt for Ginny. I’ve noticed that any minute I have alone is filled with grieving and thinking of Ginny. In the shower, drying my hair, walking to the mailbox, driving to pick up my Target order – any minute that I’m not taking care of Chet, I’m thinking of Ginny. It feels like if one kid doesn’t need me, the other does. I don’t feel like I actually get any time to decompress.
I do want to think of Ginny and continue to mourn her, but I also need some time to just rest my mind. I haven’t found the balance yet, but I think if I designate specific time for mourning Ginny (journal, pray, look through her memory box, read), it may relieve some of the built up grief and allow me to have moments of rest. Or maybe there is no such thing as rest for a mother of two under two…even if one of the two is in heaven.
Delivering Chet in the same hospital that I delivered Ginny was pretty surreal. A year and a half later we were back at the same place doing the same thing but thankfully under different circumstances. There were a few moments that brought back such vivid memories of Ginny’s birth. That made this experience surreal at times. It was like deja vu, but it felt like a dream instead of a nightmare.
Two of these surreal moments were when I was being escorted in wheelchairs. The first was after I delivered Chet; I was wheeled by my nurse to my postpartum recovery room on the 3rd floor. As I rolled down the hall with Chet bundled in my arms, the memory of rolling down the same hall empty-handed flooded my mind. I remembered being explained that I was going to the 6th floor instead of the 3rd floor so I don’t hear babies crying. I remember being congratulated by well-meaning, uninformed staff as I left the labor and delivery unit. My nurse whispered to me, “I’m getting you out of here. I’m getting you out of here.” I remembered not being pregnant anymore. I remember being so so disappointed. All these memories came back to me crystal clear when I heard staff congratulate me and I replied with a smile and a “thank you”. Wow! I have a baby now. I have a reason to be congratulated this time. I made it! I was proud of myself for one moment. Then I got really sad. I was sad because I missed Ginny, and I should have been holding her down this hall a year and a half ago. I was sad for my old self. I felt sorry for her because she was blindsided, broken hearted, and didn’t even fully know what she was missing. And I also felt sad for every other woman who has to roll down that hall empty-handed. I thought of all that devastation in the same place most people only know joy. That hall can seem so very lonely, but it can also be so joyful. Surreal.
The second time I was in a wheelchair was when I was being discharged. I remember how painful leaving the hospital was without Ginny. I knew her body was getting an MRI, and we were leaving. I couldn’t believe I was going without her. Waiting for me at home were the daunting tasks of facing the nursery, physically recovering, and figuring out how to fill my days without Ginny. Those moments of rolling down the halls, in the elevator, and through the lobby were torture. I just wanted to get to the car as soon as possible. I remember my escort was stopped by a couple of people asking for directions. I was so frustrated at them. The information desk was 10 feet away! I wanted to yell, “Can’t you see that I have been through something traumatic and finally got discharged?!! And you are keeping me from getting home right now!! Ahhh!!” Of course I sat quietly clutching my vase of flowers instead of a baby.
This time was a whole different story. I did have a baby in my arms! As I headed down the hall, I remembered last time. I remembered how painful that was, and I was so happy I have come full circle. Chet had survived, and I was actually taking him home! I never fully believed we would bring him home until that moment. I felt triumphant…until we reached the elevator and I remembered COVID. Oh yeah we are in a pandemic, and I have a tiny, vulnerable newborn in my arms. As we exited the elevator, people in masks rushed by this way and that way. I don’t ever remember seeing the lobby that busy. People would stop or linger staring at me and Chet. “Awww how sweet and cute! Congratulations!” they would say. I just wanted them to step away. Could they be infected?! As I waited for Daniel to pull the car up, I contemplated whether it would be better to cover Chet’s face with a blanket. That didn’t seem like a good idea, but he was so exposed without a mask. I hunched over him and lifted the blanket so he would maybe be more protected at least in one direction. My escort was a feisty older man. He said, “Don’t worry. I got you. There is no way I’m wheeling y’all out of the same door people are coming in.” He proceeded to roll us around the corner and out an emergency exit to avoid the crowds. I couldn’t thank him enough! His thoughtfulness made me feel so much better.
As traumatic as some of the memories of my hospital stay with Ginny were, I’m glad I delivered Chet at the same place. It felt redemptive. I felt strong. I also felt so so grateful to remember those moments. I’m glad to remember them to not only honor Ginny, but also to recognize what a miracle Chet’s life is. This could’ve gone differently, but instead we were blessed with a beautiful, living baby boy. I was also reminded we could make it through anything and God will be with us… even in a pandemic.
Standing on the beach in San Diego right after finding out that the baby in my belly was a boy, God promised me joy. I felt so strongly in the moment that God was telling me that my season of sorrow would not last forever and that he does have joy in store for me. After the year of such intense grief and a heart full of worry for my unborn child, it was hard to believe that I would experience joy. But as soon as Chet’s first cries hit my ears, that promised joy rushed into my heart and onto my life. I can honestly say I have never been happier! Even with everything going on in 2020, I have never been happier.
I miss Ginny more than ever. I still often cry longing for her, but those tears are so full of love that they don’t steal my joy.
I am so incredibly proud of myself for making it through the last couple years. I’m proud of myself for surviving, for being brave enough to change my life in positive ways, for enduring pregnancy after loss, and for hoping. I’m proud of myself for listening and following the Holy Spirit even when the path wasn’t the clearest or most logical. The fruit of following the Spirit for me this year is JOY.
“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control; against such things there is no law.” – Galatians 5:22-23
Joy isn’t something you can always force (although I’ve tried RE:Joy). It is something God gives you. It runs deeper than your circumstances, but having a beautiful baby boy in your arms does help. I’m so incredibly grateful for this season. It wouldn’t be this sweet without the hardships of the last season.
“Those who sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy!” – Psalm 126:5
I’ve been in the valley. I’ve done the hard work in processing loss. I’ve questioned “why” and wrestled in lament. I only saw darkness in my future. But God walked with me through the valley. God listened to my lament. God’s kind and patient presence lifted me out of my season of sorrow and into a season of joy that I couldn’t have imagined. It is beyond all my expectations.
If you are in a valley now, do not give up hope. God is beside you, and there is a season of joy ahead for you too.
“You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” – Psalm 16:11
It’s been a little over a year since I shared my last birth story. At that time, I didn’t know when or if I’d be sharing another one. Ginny’s birth was an epic and healing experience. I immediately looked forward to the opportunity to deliver another baby – ideally living. Not a single time in pregnancy with Chet did I dread giving birth. I couldn’t wait, and by the end of the pregnancy I felt desperate to deliver him. I felt he was safer outside the womb than inside. After a month of prodromal labor, I couldn’t believe I actually made it all the way to my induction date at 39 weeks.
Delivering during COVID was another thing to think about, but honestly it wasn’t my biggest worry. After being immersed in the baby loss community, I knew what all could go wrong without a pandemic. I still wasn’t convinced we would bring home a living baby. I was just grateful Daniel could be there with me.
We arrived at the hospital around 8:20am and stood in a short line at the door to be screened for COVID before entering. They asked if we had symptoms or traveled, took our temperature, and gave us masks. We would be required to wear masks any time we were outside of the room and any time someone came in the room.
We headed up to the 4th floor, got checked in, and were walked to my room. I had always visualized delivering in the same room we delivered Ginny, but of course it was a different room. It felt smaller, but it had a nice view. As we got settled in the room, we set out a picture frame with the pictures of Ginny’s ultrasound and a sunflower. I knew I would need be able to see my girl and have something to point to when explaining our loss to hospital staff.
Daniel went to get a visitor’s pass. They already had his picture on file – the picture on his pass was from the day Ginny was born. When I looked at Daniel, I could see the picture of a man who just lost his daughter next to the face of a man who was about to welcome his living son. There were so many reminders of what we’ve been through. But thankfully this time was different; we saw our baby’s heartbeat on the monitor.
I was already 3-4 cm dilated so they were able to start pitocin right away. My nurse was kind and very knowledgable. It was clear she studied my chart and knew my situation. She explained that since I’ve had a lot of extra fluid the doctors may want to break my water in the operating room. One of the risks of extra fluid is cord prolapse after water breaks. If there is cord prolapse, Chet could be without oxygen and an emergency C-section would be necessary. She also said that since I have a big baby, the doctors will probably let me push for 3-4 hours before suggesting a C-section. She was trying to prepare us for the different possibilities. I was praying for a vaginal delivery, but I told the nurse my only expectation was a living baby.
By the early afternoon, my contractions started getting more intense, and Chet’s heart rate started dropping after each one. I got really anxious. The nurse came in and suggested that I lay on my left side. That seemed to help Chet’s heart rate, but it was frustrating since I knew I needed to move around to encourage him to descend. I worried how Chet would be able to tolerate pushing if he wasn’t even able to tolerate contractions. I was overwhelmed – I worried that Chet was having a hard time, and I was missing Ginny so so much.
Around 4 pm the contractions started getting painful so I requested an epidural. The epidural went smoothly and worked on both sides unlike last time. Thankfully Chet’s heart rate stopped dropping, and he seemed to be able to tolerate other positions. I felt so much better physically and mentally.
After the epidural the doctors checked my cervix, and I was 5-6 cm dilated and 80% effaced. Chet was still not fully engaged so they decided to wait a bit longer to break my water. They didn’t end up needing to do so because at 6:20 pm my water broke on its own! I started freaking out because I was afraid of cord prolapse. We quickly called the nurse in. She said that they would be able to tell pretty quickly if that happened by looking at the baby’s heart rate; Chet’s heart rate looks great. I was so relieved. She called the doctors and started prepping the tables for delivery.
The nightshift nurse came in and introduced herself. She was very kind and enthusiastic. She said she is a really close friend of the nurse who helped deliver Ginny. We talked a bit about Ginny. She said her babies were over 10 lbs each and she loved delivering big babies. She asked how I was doing. I still had no pain because of the epidural, but I could feel pressure. She said she thought it would be soon and called the doctors.
At 8:20 pm the night team of doctors introduced themselves. They checked me and I was fully dilated. They told the nurse to have me start pushing and to call them back in when it was time. I had labored in a mask, and now I was about to push and deliver in a mask. I didn’t even think about it – I was so focused on Chet and doing what I needed to do to get him here safely. The nurse coached me to take deep breaths and push as hard as I could during contractions. Daniel held my leg and encouraged me. It was clear the nurse was in her element; she got so excited as she could see Chet’s head full of hair. She had Daniel come look as I was pushing. She asked if I wanted to look with a mirror; I quickly answered no. Before long he was about ready to come. The nurse called the doctors, and they came in. I kept pushing as hard as I could when I felt the urge. I pushed for 45 minutes.
At 9:18 pm Chet was born! They immediately placed him on my chest. As I felt his arms and legs with my hands, I was overcome with happiness. I held my breath and waited for a cry. I heard gurgles and then a cry. I started sobbing! He’s alive! I looked over at Daniel and he was crying as well. He is finally here! I couldn’t see him very well since he was up at my chest and I was wearing a mask, but I felt him. I felt his little hand was holding tight onto my necklace, the necklace that reminds me of Ginny. It was such a special moment. I kissed his head through my mask. I heard a nurse call out the APGAR score of 8/9. I knew that was really good! I was so so thankful!
The next couple hours were spent holding him on my chest. He was so beautiful! I couldn’t believe he was actually here! He breastfed right away. My heart was so full! He weighed 8lbs 10.8oz and was 21.5in long. Daniel held him, and we took a picture as a family. I was overwhelmed with love and joy!
Both my labor and delivery stories are pretty similar in that they followed strikingly similar timeframes. Both experiences were beautiful and such an honor. But this time instead of a heartbreakingly silent, precious, and far too short moment with our daughter’s body, we were given a loud, bright-eyed, squirming baby boy. Instead of hearts flooded with love and sorrow, we had hearts flooded with love, joy, and excitement. What a contrast! What a blessing! God was with us during both experiences. Both experiences were powerful and life-changing. I’m grateful and extremely proud of both birth stories and both my beloved babies.
He’s here! We did it! Chester Thomas Jones was born on July 21 at 9:18pm. He was 8lbs 10oz and 21in long. He is perfectly healthy. He is perfectly perfect!
I can’t even begin to describe the amount of joy, gratitude, and relief when I first heard his cries and every moment since. Everyday I hold him, look at him, and am just overcome with love and joy beyond what I expected. The first two weeks I would weep in praise to God.
Chet doesn’t replace Ginny, but Chet does show me there is redemption in life. This is how it is meant to be. Life, not death! It is so beautiful! Knowing this – knowing what we are missing with Ginny makes her death all the more tragic. It makes me love her and miss her more. Her brother looks just like her. At night I look down at him in the dim light and can see his sister’s face. My heart fills with love for them both. Somehow her life makes me appreciate him more, and at the same time his life makes me appreciate her more.
There have been a couple very sweet moments that seemed to connect Chet and Ginny. During Chet’s delivery I wore a necklace that reminds me of Ginny. It is the necklace my parents got me a few days after she died. It has a little flower bud on it; my mom said it represents Ginny and hope for the future. In the first minute after Chet was born and placed on my chest, his little hand grasped my necklace. That moment was such a contrast to Ginny’s silent birth, and as he held onto my necklace I realized what a full circle moment it was.
Another sweet connection was waiting for us when we got home from the hospital. On Ginny’s birthday back in February, a wonderful friend sent me a sunflower growing kit. It came with different varieties of sunflower seeds. During quarantine Daniel and I planted them in pots on our back porch. They bloomed the day we got home from the hospital. It was Ginny welcoming Chet home!
Even in the midst of the exhausting newborn period, I am so so so grateful that Chet is here and that pregnancy is over. Pregnancy after loss is extremely hard, and I never quite believed we would bring home a living baby until we did. When he is crying at night and Daniel and I struggle to get him to sleep, we just look at each other and smile. He is actually here! He is so beautiful! As exhausting as it is to have a newborn, it is far more exhausting not to have one. I’m grateful to Ginny. Because of her, we cherish life more and take nothing for granted.
Be-Still-and-Know 