Eli James

Eli James was born alive and crying at 9:29am Friday morning. We estimate he lived around an hour. He was our smallest baby yet at 5lb 3oz and just the sweetest little thing. We even saw him sucking his thumb briefly. Our girls got to love and snuggle him throughout the day.

Eli entered my life in a very forceful way but lived his brief brief life so much the opposite. I now realize that his life within me mirrored his life outside. He was unassuming, unintrusive, such a gentle soul. Our gift to Eli was a soft fuzzy white lamb. His gift to us was gentleness. Inside me I mistook his gentle movements as a lack of strength. Even hearing his first cry I was taken aback by its gentle sound. I was misled by my hopes for Eli. Just as all children, he began to show me his personality from the moment I first felt him move. I now know Eli and can see the little boy he would have become. He was the perfect addition to our family. A little boy slipped in on the tide after a sea of strong little girls. He fit like a missing puzzle piece. He was the best of both of us in life and I will miss that.

Unfortunately Eli lived most, if not all of his life, inside of the operating room. We were so blessed that day, probably more so than we deserve, we'll never know. We went to the hospital on a relatively chilly but clear March morning. Snow on the ground, melting, but firm. Preparations for surgery began and were carried out at an easy pace. The hospital not only adhered to our birth plan, but improved it. They provided a special area separate from birthing rooms and waiting rooms for our family to gather and had ordered a continental breakfast for them to have when they arrived. For our daughters they had prepared coloring books and crayons. I held it together until it was time for everyone to leave our room. One by one they stopped to hug me and wish me luck. They allowed not one photographer, but three, and my priest into the operating room. Our NILMDTS photographer, my father and my father in law (the fathers were also both allowed into the OR after Wyatt's c-section for photos) were all permitted in the operating room for the entirety of the c-section. They captured video and images that are beyond words and beyond priceless to our family. There is no value which can be placed on the whole of a child's life and I hope someday they receive great reward in heaven. I know capturing those images could not have been easy. There is so much pain on my face in most of them. But there is also so much beauty, things I could not see without their eyes. I had felt my husband's hand caressing my hair but now I can see that hand.

Eli was born crying and I was able to see him over the curtain. They had placed the warmer inside the OR within my line of sight so I was mostly able to see him being cleaned up and dressed. I have never seen a baby so quickly cleaned or clothed, diaper included, ever. We watched him cry, move his arms and legs and even briefly suck his thumb. This must have been exhausting for little Eli. He was lovingly wrapped and handed to my husband so we could more properly greet our son. Eli fit perfectly into our arms and I was able to snuggle him, kiss him and stroke his little cheeks. It is amazing how a baby goes from a wriggling mass inside of your belly to a beautiful little person who must be completely absorbed by the senses in just minutes. He continued to cry little cries and wiggle his hands while we held him but it was clear his time with us would not be long. The priest baptized Eli. We clung to him with all the love any parent could ever have. It was so wonderful and so very painful at the same time.

Soon enough, surgery was complete and my husband carried our precious baby down the hall to meet all of the family gathered for him. Eli was first greeted by all three of his big sisters who each had their cameras ready. I felt like a movie star that day, so many people, so many cameras. The girls each held Eli and embraced him in a way my heart had not expected. He was nothing but their brother and they loved every inch of him. Eli was then carefully passed around the room from person to person, brief moments I'm sure, that I hope were enough.

Our nurses that day were heaven sent. Eli was then carefully undressed, weighed and measured. It was the first time I really got to see his body. He reminded me so much of our middle daughter. He was thin without much chub, but so cute in his little diaper and gown. Once wrapped again he was mine. I don't know how many times I held Eli that day or for how long, but I do know it was never enough. I don't know how many times I kissed him or told him I loved him but I do know it was never enough. People eventually left, dwindling down to our daughters and my in laws. We asked our daughters to say goodbye to Eli as we did not know if he'd be there when they came back. They left the room and the two oldest returned sobbing. That moment said so much. It told me that there was some understanding of what was happening and that it hurt them and of course that broke my heart. We had them snuggle Eli and mommy for a while longer and assured them it was okay to feel sad because we did too.

Not knowing what to expect, I was especially stricken by my middle daughter. She, of the three, snuggled Eli the most. She took the most pictures. Her hand is in so many pictures while he is in my arms, stroking his nose, his cheeks, his hands. She was so in love with him. I saw my daughter in a new light that day and she is nearer and dearer to my heart than ever. I will never forget the way she loved her little brother, never.

Soon, it was just my husband, Eli, and myself. We held him, we rocked him, we sat with him, talked to him, kissed and snuggled him. Those were probably the most gentle and precious hours of my life. We were able to bathe him and explore every inch of his body. He was lotioned and dressed in an outfit which fit him perfectly. We both took photos and our NILMDTS photographer returned to capture those precious moments of bathing and loving that afternoon. We kept Eli well into the evening and as those dark moments approached my heart panicked and sadness took over. My head told me it was time again and again but my heart, and my arms, could not let go. I cried until I thought my heart would literally shatter into a million pieces. I held on with every ounce of strength I had left. Letting him go was the hardest thing I have ever done and yet it wasn't the first time I had done it.

By the time I was able to let go nature had unleashed a fury unseen yet this winter, as if it had come as unglued as I felt. We literally could not see across the street from our hospital window. The winds raged at 60mph and the snow blew completely white.

There are no regrets, just love. We celebrated Eli's birthday, thanks to our daughters and family, the way a birthday should be. With laughter, cupcakes, balloons, family and some tears. We shared hugs, smiles and kisses. Eli was loved perfectly.

Hoping to Hold Baby In

We've had some developments which have me very worried that baby will make an early arrival. I've never gone into labor after carrying four full term pregnancies so, believe it or not, this is a new experience for me. I told my husband last night that I find it very irritating. With a "normal" pregnancy this would be no big deal but this is a one time thing. We have one chance to have everyone there that we want to be there. One chance, no do overs. A middle of the night delivery would not be ideal for our small children. A last minute delivery would mean that almost all of our family would miss the delivery and the chance to meet our baby. To complicate matters, my OB is also currently out of town and she has delivered all four of our children so far. I would be devastated if she could not deliver this little one. March 11th couldn't be any farther away today. Please pray that we will not need to deliver this little one prior to my scheduled March 11th c-section.

I feel the need to update this post now that I've had a chance to catch my breath. I realize that it is a luxury for me to know the date of my baby's death and that very few parents ever get that opportunity. It is selfish in a way for me to complain that baby might not come when I expect baby to come because in the world of babies, they usually come when they are ready to come which is not always when parents intend for them to come. I get that. Wyatt's birth was probably the best day of my life and part of that was knowing when he was going to be born and being able to make those preparations, painful though they were. That experience clouds my current perspective on this pregnancy and delivery and the expectations that I have based on that experience are hard to let go of.

I Have Nothing Left to Give

Yesterday I reached a point of physical, mental and emotional exhaustion that has left me with nothing left to give anyone. Monday my husband and I spent some quality time at the birthing floor of the hospital where I have given birth to all of my children and where I will welcome this one in just about seven weeks. In the same room as Wyatt left this world. We met with hospital personnel to create a birth plan for this little one, a mesh of hospital policy, forms and our own special wishes for this child. It was determined, primarily by me, that I will spend my hospital stay in the same room that I spent with Wyatt. I could feel him all around me and I can't think of a better place to welcome his little brother or sister. It was a day of anticipation and dread and one that left me satisfied but empty. Our wishes will be honored and I fully expect to welcome Wyatt's sibling in a very eerily similar way to the way we celebrated his birth and death.

Yesterday I spent almost my entire morning at the hospital, beginning with a one hour glucose test which always entails spending more than an hour in the lab. My day started off late and progressively ran later which did little for my stress level. I failed my one hour glucose test with my first two pregnancies and passed with my second two so it was a crap shoot at best and I could think of no worse torture than having to spend three plus hours in a waiting room with other pregnant women knowing that I would lose my pregnancy. I guardedly crocheted this baby's white blanket hoping no one would approach me or ask about my pregnancy. I was blessed that no one did. A double blessing later in the morning when I got the news that I passed the glucose test and would be spared from the three hour torture that follows a failing result. Of course, few roses are thorn-free, so I did have to endure a RhoGam shot for good measure.

I was able to schedule baby's birth date and can now share that he or she will hopefully enter this world no sooner than March 11, 2011. The events of the previous two days have left me completely spent, today with a rare headache. I pray for our little one to grow and thrive in utero so that he or she may be born alive and kicking on March 11th and be strong enough to spend some time with us before joining his or her little brother.

Hello Wyatt

Finally, the big day arrived.  Even though it was early June, it was still pitch dark as we made our way to the hospital that morning.  I clearly remember what I wore that day, a bright pink flowy top with pink Winnie the Pooh knit capri pants (I have worn the same outfit for the birth of all of my children since).  We were surprised by a wonderful balloon bouquet placed in our room by one of my husband's co-workers.  It was no nice to see something cheerful and baby-like first thing.  We began prepping for the c-section.  My mind was a blur but a few things stood out  that morning:  the lab technician took probably close to a half dozen stabs at my arm and hand before finally getting my blood drawn and the anesthesiologist shared with us that he had also lost a baby prior to me entering surgery.  I remember family was there, a few pictures were taken and a few nervous laughs shared.

After getting my spinal,  I only remember waiting waiting for baby to be born, I'm sure it was much quicker than my memory recalls.  Finally we heard "It's a boy!" and tears exploded from my eyes.  Then I heard a sound I had been completely unprepared for - the sound of my baby's voice.  He cried and I will carry those cries with me always.  It never occurred to me that such a thing would be possible because of the underdeveloped lungs.  One of many surprises that morning.  The staff quickly cleaned up little Wyatt, a name chosen by my husband, and handed him to my husband.  We had a priest come into the OR to baptize Wyatt as well as my father and father-in-law who were master photographers that morning.  Every moment captured is a precious reminder of his brief life.

Because of the c-section I was confined to the operating room table for a while after Wyatt's birth and could only look at him and snuggle from the side.  I remember softly caressing his chubby little cheeks.  He was a good sized baby for 37 weeks and for having Potter's Syndrome, six and a half pounds!  He had short fuzzy dark hair, dark eyes and his hands were curled into the cutest little fists.  Appropriate for my little fighter.  His blue hat kept popping off his chubby little head!  We were soon taken back to my hospital room to meet the family gathered there.  Everyone had a chance to cuddle sweet Wyatt.  I don't remember how or when people started leaving, but I know the numbers dwindled and that we were given interludes with just me, my husband and Wyatt in the room.  We took turns taking pictures, both color and black and white.  Pictures of his hands, hair, ears, face.  We kissed and snuggled and told him how much he was loved.  My husband was especially giving that day, he unselfishly let me spend the most time touching and snuggling our child, a kindness I could never forget.

Wyatt was undressed and weighed in the typical hospital bassinet in our room.  It had been raining all morning but when he was placed in the bassinet in front of the window sunlight flowed into the room and landed where he lay.  The chaplain told us she believed this was the moment that his soul left us.  Sure enough, shortly after his heartbeat was gone.