Six Month Anniversary/Twenty Week Celebration

   Today is a significant day for my husband and I. Today marks my 20th week of pregnancy and six months since Lydia's birth. The 20th week of pregnancy is important because it is the half-way point of pregnancy and it differentiates the loss of Isaiah** after this point as a stillbirth and not a miscarriage (medically defined). Tomorrow, weather permitting, I have my fifth sonogram. 
  And six months since Lydia's birth. Six months ago we were holding Lydia in our arms after 16+ hours of labor. Six months. It sounds like a long time, but six months isn't so very long. I have read that most people can only tolerate another's loss for about a month before wanting the grieving person to get back to normal. I've heard this thought reflected in senseless comments of others made towards me or my husband. I want to shake them and tell them to judge only after they've buried a child. The remarks never come from someone who has. Grief takes time. Most people seem to forget that we are still grieving her loss while celebrating the pregnancy of another child. 
   Six months. Six months of time in which we have endured Lydia's due date, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's. Painful days to say the least. Six months of grieving, learning to live without the daughter for whom we had prayed and loved. Times in which we have found comfort and support and times there have seemed to be none. 
   Reflecting on the past six months I can identify how my grief has changed. From the first weeks of not being able to sleep at night, waking up in the middle of the night, overcome and consumed with it all to a grief allowing more functioning in the world. Seeing babies in stores (particularly in church) causes pain, but it has been some time since I have felt the urge to scream and throw things in the store. A grief that is ever present, overwhelming at times, still bringing anger, questions, and sadness. 
   Six months ago I was holding her in my arms. That is the sole reason I resist this passage of time. It takes me further away from that bittersweet moment. Closing my eyes I am back in that hospital room. My husband, OB, and one very kind nurse were in the room. A final push, an exhale of relief, and Lydia was placed on my stomach. My first emotion was joy. My first thoughts of admiration, love, and amazement at this beautiful baby. I was struck by the perfection of her form. I felt such a possessiveness of her, my daughter; a protectiveness for no one to hurt her little body or dare make a comment. 
   Isn't she beautiful? I remember asking the nurse. She agreed. Lydia looked perfect. Such a perfectly formed, beautifully shaped body. Such a healthy weight and size for her gestation. No marks of damage, accident or illness. Then why wasn't she alive? The questions still haunts me with many times my only conclusions being something I did or didn't do. A failure on my part. 
   Finding joy in our daughter and experiencing the best of a closure possible given the circumstances. Six months ago I was able to hold my baby. Indescribable sorrow, profound loss, feelings that this was more than I could bear engulfed me. Yet those moments with her were ones I wish had been prolonged. Ones which I wish I could experience again. 
   An anticipatory joy for the future and a remembrance of the past today. I continue on this journey of grief while walking the path of another pregnancy. 


**After I posted this blog, my husband read it and stated it sound like losing Isaiah was expected or anticipated. That is not the case. I do not want to lose Isaiah nor is there any indication that may be a possibility. 

A Name

Last week I visited Lydia's grave. The first thought that struck me when I looked down at her gravestone was I don't want her name here. 


You may plan, hope, expect your child's name to be on the school honor role, a sport's trophy, a piano recital, a valedictorian plaque, a diploma. And there are places you do not hope to find your child's name. This is definitely one of those places: a gravestone. I know death is inevitable (unless Christ returns before He calls us home), however, you don't expect to be the one seeing (picking out and writing) your child's gravestone. You don't expect to sit beside the stone marking their grave and weep. That should be left to your child's children and grandchildren. 


These were some of my thoughts as I sat in the grass, staring at my daughter's name. The questions became prayers. Why, God? Why is her name here instead of anywhere else? 


Immediately, the words to the song, "Before the Throne of God Above" came to my mind: 


My name is graven on His hand, my name is written on His heart 


I think I had already been crying up to this point, but this definitely brought on the tears. Immediately curious as to the Biblical reference from which the lyrics had come, I searched for these words in the Bible. The first verses I found came from the book of Isaiah. 

"Sing for joy, O heavens, and exult, O earth;

break forth, O mountains, into singing!

For the Lord has comforted his people

and will have compassion on his afflicted

But Zion said, 'The Lord has forsaken me; 

my Lord has forgotten me.'

'Can a woman forget her nursing child, 

that she should have no compassion on the son of her womb?

Even these may forget, 

yet I will not forget you.

Behold I have engraved you on the palms of my hands'"

Isaiah 49:13-16

I found this Scripture comforting. And it's location in the Bible significant. We have chosen the name Isaiah for our son. I have long liked the name; Isaiah is my favorite book in the Old Testament (perhaps the entire Bible). The name Isaiah means, "Yahweh is Salvation". Such a wonderful truth. 

A name is important. It's meaning, how it is used, how it is spoken, where it is found. My Lydia's name may be on a gravestone, but most importantly her name is written in the book of life of the Lamb who was slain. Graven on His hand, written on His heart. 

Christmas with Family

    My husband and I celebrated Christmas with his family this weekend. He needed to go to H-town for work and I decided to go with him. We had Christmas with my mother-in-law andfamily on Friday evening, then Christmas with my father-in-law, his wife, and family on Saturday evening. How can I describe the Christmas gatherings? 

   Incredibly painful. It almost felt like that first week or two after losing Lydia. The loss was very pronounced, her absence keenly felt, any joy in the holiday completely gone. Being around so many people and children was overwhelming. It was nice to see family and would have likely been easier had it not been to celebrate Christmas. 
   I am thankful for a moment I had with my mother-in-law on Friday evening. Children, noise, activity became too overwhelming. I went to lie down in the guest room. She followed me in and laid on the bed with me, hugging me and trying to offer comfort. I was able to tell her how much I missed Lydia and how much this Christmas hurt without her. We also talked about the loss of her baby and how she felt the first Christmas after her loss 28 years ago. 
   Unless you have lost a child, I don't think you can understand how pervasive the pain is during the holidays. EVERYTHING is painful. Seeing parents with their children is a sharper reminder that you do not have your child with you. I could not watch the children exchanging and opening presents. There is a searing, unending, pain in my broken heart. All the parents are naturally focused on their children, their excitement, taking pictures. I am just as focused on my daughter, but I don't get to help her open presents, take pictures with her, share in her joy and awe. I felt so empty the entire weekend. 

Lydia's lamb in her crib

Then there were pictures of the grandchildren. I really wanted to throw a temper tantrum at that point, scream and break things. Where was my daughter? Is she not a grandchild? Aren't you forgetting her? This picture isn't complete! I couldn't be around for that either. It wasn't until that moment I thought of it, but I wished I had some symbol of Lydia to include in those pictures. Maybe her picture or her stuffed lamb. I just so desperately wanted her to be remembered amidst everyone's joy and focus on their own children. It was awful. I did not take a single picture the entire weekend. I usually take many for my scrapbooks. It felt to meaningless and  I had no interest or motivation to take any. 
   A relative with a newborn came at one point on Saturday evening. Within one minute, my husband and I got up and walked out of the house. IT HURTS SO MUCH! And the younger the child, the more painful (at least for me).  

   Another more soothing point in this emotionally exhausting weekend was when my husband and I opened our Christmas gift from his father and step-mother. It was a Willow Tree "Remember" figure. It made me cry. I don't want family who read this to think we hated seeing them and that the gatherings were terrible, we did enjoy seeing family, but it brought so much sadness and pain, it was a struggle to make it through. 
   I was relieved to arrive home Sunday afternoon. I did not want to get out of bed this morning. I felt listless, sad, brokenhearted. It feels good to be back somewhere safe. The weekend definitely reassured me of my decision not to celebrate Christmas with my family. Grieving parents need their own Christmas. People who haven't been there might think it's better to spend holidays with family for comfort. I found little to no comfort. I don't know what we were thinking attempting it this past weekend. I've never seen my husband that sad in public. Leaving the last Christmas gathering Saturday evening, his whole body slumped over in the seat testified to his emotional exhaustion and sadness he felt. To sum up the Christmas celebration, as my husband bluntly put it: It sucked. 

Christmas

We are in the midst of the holiday season...

   This was to be our first Christmas with our daughter. Now it's the first of...15? 40? 60? without us together. I have little interest in any usual holiday traditions and activities. My husband and I did put up a small Christmas tree. I am hanging a stocking for Lydia. I plan to put some items in it. I also ordered a family Christmas card with a collage of pictures. I signed it with the names of those in our family (my husband and I, Lydia, Baby Curtis, and our two dogs).
   We attended M.E.ND. 's Candlelight Service on Tuesday. It was a smaller gathering with music, a message, and the opportunity for each family to walk to the front of the chapel, say the name of the child/children they had lost, and light a candle in their memory. I choked up and it broke my heart when I said our baby's name, but it means so much for her to be remembered. It was also nice to have a Christmas event with other parents who have lost babies, who understand.
   I have not decided what family events I am ready to attend this year. I do not want to see other people laughing and being happy and sharing Christmas with their family and children. That sounds very bitter...it is not that I wish others to be unhappy, it is just painful for me to see their joy while being in such pain. Is that too selfish? Perhaps it is. I want to yell that I lost my baby four months ago and I am not happy this Christmas, that this is not the most wonderful time of the year, and I do not want to have to put a smile on to be social. I do not want this Christmas to continue as if nothing has happened when our lives will never be the same. Participating in the usual activities feels like Lydia's death is being dismissed, not honored, forgotten...I am not sure how to express it. I stated that incorrectly: I feel like Lydia, her life, her memory is being dismissed, not honored and forgotten. As her mother it feels like a betrayal.
   So I think my husband and I are going to stay at home this Christmas. I have always been a traditionalist about everything Christmas. None of that seems to matter now. I plan to attend our church Christmas Eve service and cook a nice dinner for my husband and I. Christmas day I do not know what to do. I have not shared my plans with my family (who will likely expect us for the holiday).

I'm filled with questions this Christmas...

What do you do the first Christmas after burying your child? 

How do you acknowledge the celebration of Christ's birth, but do not participate in any of the usual celebrations? 

How do you watch other families with their children when you can't hold your child? 

How do you watch gifts exchanged with none for the baby you expected but lost?

How can you sing carols when tears are about the only words you have sung for months? 

How do you talk with people who feel the joy of the holiday season when you have feel dead inside? 

When you should have a baby in your arms at Christmas dinner and they are empty?

When a stocking is hung in memory of your child rather than for your child's pleasure? 

When the plans you had months ago will never happen?

When your heart is broken but the world keeps moving on?

My favorite photos

I was really missing my baby today, so I thought I would post a few pictures.

Photos taken courtesy of Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

November 5th

     Today was Lydia's due date. 

November 5, 2010

Now the day has arrived and has brought with it strong emotions, questions, and longing. Would today have been today if she hadn't been (still)born in August? Is this what her day of birth would be? A very cold morning and a sunny, cool fall day? Would the talk on the morning news been the same? The smell of the air, the touch of the breeze? Or would it be different had my Lydia been born today?

Everything about today feels wrong. My daily morning walk with our two dogs should not have happened today. I should be lying in the hospital bed in labor or holding her in my arms. My body shows no outward sign that I was ever recently pregnant. I should be 30 pounds heavier, with a healthy round belly, ready to give birth to a healthy baby girl. Until this point I have been not only counting the weeks and days since losing Lydia, but also where I would be in my pregnancy. I have such a strange feeling today. Marked on the calendar as our first baby's due date since the moment my doctor gave it to me, yet everything has changed. Instead of counting weeks of pregnancy...now she should be here. Her crib should not be vacant! This house should not be silent! My arms should not be empty! My belly not flat. This week was to be one of excitement and anticipation for me, rather than filled with tears. Family should be here to celebrate her birth. 

I am very thankful for my husband today. Rather than leave to workout at 6:00, he stayed home and fixed us breakfast. He also gave me a "Mother's Love" necklace from James Avery. Very sweet. He took a couple hours off in the middle of his day as well. Together we went to visit the place where Lydia's body is buried. We sat together for a long time. I felt so hurt and sad and angry, I couldn't speak. My husband prayed for us, for which I was thankful as I felt like I could not. 


I miss my baby and grieve her loss especially today. I am trying to hold on right now, thought at times it all feels so dark and hopeless. I love you so much, Lydia Grace. I would do anything to have you here with me. I am trying to grieve with hope. 

"But we do not want you to be uninformed, brothers, about those who are asleep, that you may not grieve as others do who have no hope. For since we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, through Jesus, God will bring with him those who have fallen asleep. For this we declare to you by a word from the Lord, that we who are alive, who are left until the coming of the Lord, will not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will descend from heaven with a cry of command, with the voice of an archangel, and with the sound of the trumpet of God. And the dead in Christ will rise first. then we who are alive, who are left, will be caught up together with them, in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we will always be with the Lord." 

1 Thessalonians 4:13-17

Come, Lord Jesus. Amen.

Pictures and presents

   I had started Lydia's scrapbook during my first trimester. After she was stillborn, it felt too painful to continue to scrapbook her pictures. I felt like it would have to end with the pictures taken at the hospital. A woman in M.E.N.D. told me the pictures did not need to stop there. She had a scrapbook and included pictures from the Walk to Remember, from holidays, and birthdays. I was inspired to continue and have spent hours carefully scrapbook pregnancy pictures, pictures of Lydia in the hospital, and now pictures of her funeral. I will follow those with the pictures taken at the Walk. 
   Lydia's funeral pictures I just received a couple weeks ago from my mother. They are more painful for me to see than the pictures of my baby. It is difficult for me to look at myself in those pictures. I feel like my face displays the definition of sorrow and grief. And there are the pictures of the smallest white casket. Caskets shouldn't come in that size. 
   Scrapbooking has been good in helping me grieve. I've shared the scrapbook with others. Some have not wanted to see pictures, others mention the pictures are so sad, some flip through it quickly (yes, I take it personally). I've found all women who have lost a child (and a rare few who have not lost a child) look slowly, carefully, respectfully. They comment on the pictures; exclaim over the beauty of my Lydia Grace; point out her precious fingers and toes; study her face to find characteristics of my husband or me; ask about that day, her service. I like that. First for myself and second for those who care, I plan to keep scrapbooking and keep sharing with those who are interested. 

The mention of my child's name may bring tears to my eyes, but it never fails to bring music to my ears. 

If you are really my friend, let me hear the beautiful music of her name. It soothes my broken heart and sings to my soul.

  Last week I received a gift in the mail from an unexpected person. A woman with whom I have never felt particularly close and I rarely see, sent me this necklace. I was touched and have worn the necklace every day since I received it. In this journey I have found it so interesting that those I may have thought would be supportive are different than those that are still around 13 weeks later. Thanks for the support and prayers. I appreciate it. 

Already October?

  I feel like I am waking up and realizing it is already October. Mid-October now. Where did the time go? Save the first few days of August, I remember nothing from August or September. I know we celebrated my youngest brother's birthday in September. Days just passed. I remember asking my husband at various times the day of the week and trying to remember what I had even done or eaten the day before (often unsuccessful without his reminders). Today is 3 weeks until what was Lydia's due date.
   Checking out of the hospital on August 1st some part of me was certain I was checking out of my life. Surely, when I was pushed out of the hospital in a wheelchair, my life would be done. Out the hospital doors and into heaven or at least somewhere other than where I had previously lived. Or into the life I had known before everything was shattered; I would be pregnant with Lydia and everything that had happened would be a terrible dream. Instead it was out the hospital doors into the oppressive heat of a Texas evening, trying to figure out the plans for our daughter's funeral. I guess I was going into a different life. A different or new 'normal'.
   We had so much support and care that first week. Most of our family are still very supportive. I have a wonderful sister-in-law, always ready to listen to me talk. Then there is the support from M.E.N.D. and new friendships I am forming. Old friends are mostly a different story. I won't speak for my husband, but I feel more abandoned by friends.  One friend whom I considered a close friend told me about a month after we lost Lydia that she wanted to be there for me during this time, to walk with me through my grief....I have not seen nor talked to her since that day six weeks ago (and not for lack of trying to reach her on my part). It feels like a very isolated time in my life. Sometimes that's good, sometimes it's not.
   Thankfully, God is not like us.  I've had days I've prayed almost constantly, days my prayers were only tears, days I could not pray at all. I've questioned and been angry. Yet God is faithful. I am so thankful it is not contingent on my own attitude or behaviors. I certainly have not always felt His presence, but He is there.

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted, and saves the crushed in spirit."

Psalm 34:18

Walk to Remember

It's difficult to see, but our M.E.N.D. shirts have
"Remembering Lydia Grace" embroidered on them

   M.E.N.D. (Mommies Enduring Neonatal Death) has been an organization I have joined since we lost Lydia. Outside of family, I have received the most support from this Christian organization. Drew and I have both attended meetings and have found it to helpful and comforting. I enjoy talking with other mothers and not having the need to explain everything and how I feel. It's nice (in a strange sense) to hear other mothers talk about how life is a year...four years...eight years after the loss of their baby. No where have I felt as much support and understanding in a community. (Church should probably top the list here, but having been in church all my life, I have to say that I have not experienced the solidarity, support, shared experience, etc. with church members that I have felt with the women at M.E.N.D.).

   Every year M.E.N.D. has a special event, a Walk to Remember. It was on Saturday, October 2nd. Over 500 participated in this event.  Our family joined us to remember and celebrate our sweet baby. At the event, Rememberance tables were set out and I included Lydia's picture, her scrapbook, and her lamb.

my youngest brother and I 

The Walk is not an athletic event. From the church, we walked down to an area outside by the M.E.N.D. with chairs set up for the service.

The service was very nice: prayer, songs, a message, recognition of the babies, and a balloon release. Every couple who had lost a baby were given an ornament. During the service, the name of each baby already in heaven was called. As the name was called the family came forward and hung their baby's ornament on the M.E.N.D. tree. I loved how every single baby was named by name. I feel like there cannot be enough remembering  my little girl. 

Lydia's daddy hanging up her ornament 

Lydia's ornament on the M.E.N.D. tree

   The service was concluded with a balloon release. every one received a balloon for each baby they had lost: pink for girls, blue for boys, white for miscarriages when the sex of the baby was unknown. We wrote on the balloons, then sang "Jesus Loves Me", tears preventing me to sing. Then we released our balloons. 

Balloons representing too many babies

anxieties

     After losing Lydia, I immediately wanted to be pregnant. It was an intense, desperate feeling. It felt wrong not being pregnant. I wanted another baby. It was almost a feeling of panic, that I had to be pregnant again immediately. The intensity of these emotions have abated, but I still have a strong desire to be pregnant and have another child. (No, this is not to replace Lydia. I have read things written by idiots who suggest the desire to have another child is to replace the one who was lost. They have obviously not lost a child.)
    I long to have another baby; however, I am filled with anxiety. What if I cannot get pregnant? What if we lose another baby? What if something goes wrong? The questions, fears, and panic goes on and on. I want control of everything, but now, more than any other time in my life, I feel I have absolutely no control. I feel so little control in whether or not I will get pregnant, when, and if my next child will stay with us longer than 26 weeks. The Christian answer is to trust God, because He is in control. That does nothing to decrease any of my anxiety or fear. God is in control and He allowed my daughter to die. It certainly does not make it easy to trust. I feel like I am going crazy. I desire to control and plan and make things go well, but feel I have absolutely no power to do so. I feel I have nothing but to trust God, yet I resist that because I do not want to lose another baby. I feel hopeless.  
   Do not tell me that things will be fine. Do not tell me you are sure we will have other children. You have no control over any of it either. Many women have lost more than one child.                                                                                                            

Little Miracle

   It was six weeks ago today we had Lydia's graveside service. I went to see her site this morning. It's a beautiful little spot. The service six weeks ago was so sweet. It was in the morning. Only close family had been invited. Our pastor gave a beautiful talk then a friend played his guitar and sang the song I had picked, Hillsong United's "You hold me now". I cannot recall much of what our pastor said. Some words of reassurance I can recall, but mostly I remember crying and aching and staring at disbelief at the little coffin before me holding my baby.
   She is buried in an infant section of the cemetery, which I really like. At first I hated going out there. It didn't seem real, it made me so angry, and for the first few weeks her stone hadn't arrived so all that marked her grave was a make-shift metal sign stuck into the ground. I didn't feel any sort of connection or closeness there. I felt, and really still do, closer to Lydia while at home. At home is where I was pregnant and would talk to her during the day, feel her kicks, decorated her room, etc.
   Now I am able to go to Lydia's site and it not be as negative as a place as it was. I enjoy it in the morning stillness. I pray and talk to her.

  "The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, His mercies never come to an end; 

they are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness."

Lamentations 3:22-23

   I frequently think on the day she was stillborn. It may sound very strange, but part of me wants that day again. Not all the emotional pain and exhaustion, I do not want to relive that specifically (as if I don't relive some part of that daily). But I want to hold my little girl again. And looking back there are things I wish we would have done. I am satisfied; we did do many things that I am so happy about. Talking to other women who have experienced stillbirth, they have other regrets. I am so glad we took photos with our own cameras and had them professionally taken. I'm glad we saw her and held her. I wish it could have been for longer, but I don't think it would ever have been long enough. 

   What I had really been regretting was not taking anything of hers. We have her hand prints and foot prints. She is buried in the little dress we had for her and wrapped in a pink blanket. I have felt almost a panic in the regret that I did not save anything she had worn or the blanket wrapped around her. We were given a nice keepsake box from the hospital with her prints, the hospital arm bands, some little knit hats, a book, etc. I had looked through that several times, but none of the little hats were the one she had worn. 

   Then on Sunday night I went through the box again and saw the bonnet-style hat that went with the little dress she had worn. We have pictures with her in that little hat. I was so excited and so relieved. I know it is so simple, but it means so much to me. I do not ever remember seeing it in the box. I have looked through it so many times, have looked through it with the hope that something in there would have been something she had worn. My husband cannot recall if it was in there before or not either. Maybe it had been there, but I am saying it is a little miracle.

Delivering my baby

   People seem shocked that I went through labor and delivery after learning Lydia's heart was no longer beating. I receive looks of pity, hear apologies, and watch other's reactions. It seems like the most terrible thing to them. But it wasn't.
   When I first learned I would be induced and deliver the baby, I was shocked and panicked and it felt like it would be impossible. I was told it would be the best thing for me (physically) and a C-section was not an option. I just wanted my nightmare to end. We had just been told we had lost our baby, I felt like that was enough. However, as I was in labor, my view of it changed. And looking back now I am so glad I went through the labor and delivery. I am not sure how to explain it, but it felt right. 
    It brought some sense of peace. Pride. It was a connection with Lydia. I felt like I was doing it for her... I feel like all these words and thoughts cannot articulate the emotions I feel. I cannot express them. But I wanted to state that delivery was not the worst part. Do not pity me for it. It was emotionally painful, but it was beautiful. I lost my baby, that is where the sadness and pain is, not with delivering my precious girl.
I love looking at her pictures. Isn't she beautiful?
   

Yes, I am a mom

A wife who loses a husband is called a widow. A husband who loses a wife is called a widower. A child who loses his parents is called an orphan. But...there is no word for a parent who loses a child, that's how awful the loss is!        

- Neugeboren

 I found this quote and have been pondering it. There is no one word to explain. How could one word hold all the pain and loss? (Not that other losses are not also great, but the loss of your child is something else entirely). When others ask questions, yes I am a mommy...then what? The inevitable question: how many children? how old?  boy or girl? There is no simple answer to give.

 "Yes, I'm a mom." I gave this reply last week. Fortunately that was the end of the conversation at that point. But I know the question will come again. I was asked recently about my identity of being a mom and how that has changed. How does it change? How can it? I did not cease being a mother. When I held my daughter, I felt it more strongly than before. I am still a mom, though my responsibilities for my daughter are not the same as other moms. Losing a child when he or she is three days...seven years... twenty-two years does not take away that role, that identity. 

  Yes, I am a mother. A mother with no baby to hold. No baby to nurse or rock. There is a crib in the bedroom next to mine and it is empty. I am a mother. A mother with empty arms.

A mother with part of myself in heaven. 

Lydia's Story

Pregnant 
    The pregnancy was completely unexpected, but received with such joy. I found out I was pregnant with my first (currently only) baby on February 26th 2010. My husband was thrilled as well.
    Every day we prayed for our baby. Each day we thanked God for giving us this child (we know so many dealing with infertility and miscarriage) and each day we thanked God for the healthy pregnancy I was experiencing. And we prayed for our baby, asking for her salvation and praying for continued good health and delivery.
    A regular runner, nutrition-conscience, young, well-educated, never smoked or drank, prenatal care from 4 weeks pregnant...there was nothing better I could do. Losing my baby had not even crossed my mind. For 26 weeks, every doctor's visit was short and positive. My blood pressure could not have been better, I was told. Lydia's heartbeat was consistently good. Other than some mild morning sickness during the first trimester and the difficulty of finding comfortable sleeping positions, I had absolutely no complaints. I thoroughly enjoyed being pregnant.
   My husband and I had both been hoping for a daughter. The ultrasound at 20 weeks confirmed we were having a baby girl. Her heart, lungs, spine, brain, fingers, toes, the placenta, umbilical cord---everything looked great. We decided to name her Lydia Grace. Her nursery was ready. I was ready. I decided not to work because I wanted to stay at home and breast feed and care for our baby. Her due date was November 5; I was counting down the weeks to meet my precious child.

Life turned inside-out
   At 26 weeks pregnant I noticed I had not felt Lydia move for awhile. I was concerned as she had been a very active baby in my womb. I knew something was wrong.
   My husband and I went to the hospital. No heartbeat was found for Lydia. An ultrasound was done. Our baby was gone. It was unreal. Shock. Pain. Confusion. Questions.
   I was induced. I did not think I would be able to get through the labor and delivery knowing my baby would not be living when it was done. Somehow I did. Family came. Friends dropped by. Our pastor came and prayed with us.
   My baby Lydia Grace was stillborn on August 1st 2010 at 11:38 in the morning. She weighed 2 pounds, 6.4 ounces and was absolutely beautiful. She was flawless. She had a dimple in her chin, matching her mommy and daddy's; rosebud shaped lips; perfect fingers and toes; perfectly shaped head. Nothing was found wrong with her. No cord accident, no infection, nothing. No reason can be given for a death far too early.
   We took pictures. We held her. We cried. Holding her I wanted to give her my heart so hers could start beating again. I wanted her to open her eyes. I wanted her still body to draw in a breath. It didn't seem possible that my sweet baby girl, the daughter we had rejoiced in and prayed for, was already with God.
  Leaving the hospital with empty arms, broken hearted, crushed, exhausted, overwhelmed, and with an unbelievable pain in my heart...