A not so merry Christmas.

 A year ago my sister told the family that she was expecting. Almost 9 weeks! Which put her 9 weeks behind my pregnancy with Izzy. Most people would be so excited by this but my reality tends to differ from most. Instead of excitement I was struck with a heartbreaking thought. I was going to lose my child and watch hers grow up instead. I'd see her child taking its first steps, hear it say its first words and watch it grow healthy and strong. It was at that moment that the tiny flicker of hope, I'd just started having, died. 

I cried.

I cried for the child in my womb. I cried for her eight siblings that have gone to heaven before her. I cried for myself. For all the firsts I'll never see. For all the little hands I never got to hold. And I cried for all the firsts I had that I'd never wish on anyone. I dont know why I knew I was going to lose this child too, but I did. In bitterness I thought it would probably happen on the anniversary of Denver's death. It was close. Three days later, at 3 am, my water broke. So it was another early morning trip to the hospital, in some ways alot like the one I'd taken nearly 5 years earlier. Unlike that trip I felt fine. Sure, I was having contractions and going through labor, but there was no life threatening issues. The whole thing just felt like a regular hospital visit. I'd been there almost weekly for the last few months. I went in, they put me in a room, took my vitals, and I waited. I'm not sure if it was denial or just shock but I remember thinking how odd it was that I was perfectly fine. And then, strangely with a bit of effort, my daughter was born. There was no cry of an infant filling the air, no joy, only a flood of silent tears rolling down my cheeks and staining the pretty blue hospital gown I wore. I was moved to a different room; whether it was for my privacy or to hide the sadness from other women giving birth, I don’t know.

I found myself holding this tiny little baby girl, who's hands weren't even big enough to wrap around my finger. This beautifully formed, amazingly intricate little child that the world would call a "specimen" or a "fetus". The world doesn't acknowledge our beautiful, formed by God, babies when they're that young. And maybe that led to how I felt after they took her away. I dont know why, but it all felt clinical after that. Like I was just doing some normal, everyday sort of thing. But it wasn't normal. There's nothing normal about death, especially the death of a pre-born child. And yet, we were home by lunchtime. It was as if nothing had happened. We played some games, ate dinner; it was as if it was just a typical day like any other. I don't know which is worse. A traumatic, near death experience like I had with Denver's birth, or the bizarrely normal seeming birth of Izzy. It seems to me that, either way, I did what was needed. A funeral was planned, family and friends were informed, and I remained eerily calm through it all. Maybe the calm was a blessing, God's way of helping you make it through one of the worst things this life can bring.

Izzy's funeral was so much sadder than Denver's. Covid has affected so much, taken so much away from us, and even in this, its mark was made. There was 7 people at Izzy's funeral. None of her aunts or uncles or cousins, just her parents, grandparents and a pastor. No other family to see our little child, or to give us hugs and comfort us. It felt so wrong.

The days went by and I felt a strange mix of confusion and guilt that there was no "big deal" made. How could I be "fine" (relatively) when there was no longer a little heartbeat echoing mine inside me? How did life go on so normally when something so horribly awful had happened? It was all just so wrong, and yet life just went on. As if my beautiful little Izzy never even existed. But she did! And other than some tearful hugs when I finally got to see people, they all went on with their lives.

I've learned a strange thing happens when you lose a child. You spend the first few months being strong and comforting everyone you see. They see you, know your loss and need you to comfort them. My poor pregnant sister was hit hard by it all. The loss of her neice caused her to go through feelings of guilt, anger and deep sorrow. When I saw her for the first time afterwards she cried to me, "How come I get to keep all my children and you don't get to keep any of yours?" I didn't have an answer for her question. I may never have an answer. 

Today is December 25th. This time of year we celebrate the birth of a child. It's because of that child, and what He did that I know I'll see my children again. I didn't have a happy or merry day. I didn't have celebrations and do what most do at Christmas, but I know God understands. I look forward to the day that I'll get to hold all those tiny hands that I miss so dearly.

Melynda.