Revisiting January 5th and 6th

Today is the one month anniversary of Link's death.  One month ago today, my little boy was called home to be with God.  That was a horrible day for me, the dreams I had of raising a little boy were shattered in an instant.  My husband and I shared sorrow and disbelief, holding eachother in our tears.

Afther the clinic confirmed his death, I was scheduled to be induced to deliver my dead child the next morning.  I was sent home a walking coffin.  When I got home, I gave my girls more hugs and kisses than they knew what to with.  They knew I was sad, but they didn't know why because I couldn't bring myself to tell them yet.  That night I couldn't sleep, though I tried.  I kept praying to God, pleading with him that all of this was a misunderstanding and that my baby would start moving again.

I gave up on sleep and started cleaning and doing laundry.  At the hospital, we were admitted at the same time as another pregnant woman.  I tried my best to act as if nothing was wrong, but I couldn't do anything except frown.  When we got to the room where I would deliver my son, I broke down again.  I was started on progesterone and then the wait began.  When the contractions started getting more difficult, I requested my epidural.  I was determined not to feel anything because I was not going to give birth to a live child.

Shortly before the time came to push, the epidural wore off and there was no point in administering more.  So I felt every contraction, felt the "ring of fire."  It was horrible, the pain was two-fold because there was so much emotional pain there too.  I yelled out loud, to no one in particular, "It's not fair, it's not fair!  He's dead, he's dead!  I shouldn't have to feel this pain!"

After maybe five or ten minutes of pushing, my son came out, and as with the birth of his siblings, the physical pain went away.  I saw his beautiful face, and couldn't help but smile.  My love for him intensified beyond belief, and it was the same love I felt when his sisters were born.  It was a moment filled with sorrow and joy.  Finally, I was able to see my little man.

He was 7lbs, 7oz, much smaller than his sister Serenity, who was 9 lbs.  He was more precious than I ever imagined, and looked more like his father than I had thought.  He had the softest brown hair, and the most adorable little feet.  I was so amazed at his beauty and perfection.  After he had been cleaned up a little, I held him for the longest time, taking in every feature.  Finally I decided the time had come for me to let him go.  Tearfully, I asked the nurse to dress him in the outfit I had picked for him and the hat I made for him.  After she did this, she handed him back to me.  I held him and talked to him for a while longer, then gave him to the nurse who cradled him gently in her arms and carried him out of the room.

My husband and I consoled eachother and cried together for the one millionth time.  Then he had to go home because he had to get back to take care of the girls.  I spent the rest of the night in the hospital alone.  At first I was unable to sleep because of my sorrow, and then my body finally surrendered to exhaustion.  In that sleep, my son came to me.  He was alive and well.  His beautiful brown eyes sparkled with joy as he kicked and wiggled.  There was a sense of great peace where he was, and he seemed happy.  Along with the peace and tranquility, there was the understanding that it was not my fault and I knew he loved me dearly.  I wanted to stay there with him so badly, but I woke up.

I know that my son is in the arms of the Lord.  I know that he loves me.  I know that I will see him agian, but for now, I need to fulfill my promise to him.  If only I rely on the Lord, I will keep this promise.