There are so many things that—as a parent—you want to hold onto and remember forever. The way your baby smelled after a bath, the way she said ‘elphanant’ for the longest time, the way he will stop what he’s doing just to give you a kiss.
These are bright moments that we hold onto. Why wouldn’t you want to remember those moments of happiness and joy? It makes sense.
But there will inevitably be moments that are darker, scarier, more somber. Those moments are less bright, but to me they’re no less important. They tell the story, too. The moments of fear after Eden was born when the nurses were trying to get her to breathe, the minutes after Adaleine fell into the fire when the realization sunk in that we might have a very different reality now, or when we had to take our little four-month-old boy in for surgery to repair a hernia.
|This is Eden right after she was born. So tiny and fragile at less than 5 lbs.|
|You see that smile?? The ONLY time this girl cried about her burns was when they needed cleaned. She is so amazing.|
|Judah with Sergio, the bear they gave him at the hospital after his surgery|
We had some of those harder times last year here at the Bug household. Something I haven’t shared here in this place up until now simply because I couldn’t think quite how to put it out there. But I decided that I want to remember, so I’m writing it down here.
Last May, we had a brief love affair with our fourth child and then had to say goodbye a week later.
On May 2, 2013 I had a positive pregnancy test that left me numb for about 12 hours. Once the numbness wore off, I realized I was actually excited! This was a surprise to both Mr. Bug and I considering my reaction to the news that I was pregnant with Judah.
For one blissful week, we talked and we planned. We texted and called each other with ideas for names and ways to tell our families. We started brainstorming new sleeping arrangements, figuring out where the baby should be. There wasn’t a cloud on the horizon. This was a bright moment!
Then on the 8th, I started to bleed. I knew immediately something was off because although I knew spotting is common toward the beginning of pregnancy it had never happened with my other kiddos. I made an appointment for a blood draw the next day but wasn’t terribly surprised when the nurse called afterward and said it looked like my levels were dropping. I was losing the baby.
And I cried. I cried for the little person we wouldn’t get to hold. I cried for little Judah who wouldn’t get to be a big brother. I cried for the girls who wouldn’t get to help with their little baby. I cried for me. For the baby I couldn’t carry.
We had agreed on the name Cora for a girl, and that is the name that comes to mind still when that little one is in my thoughts.
Cora. It means ‘filled heart.’ Filled with love. Filled with pain. Filled with loss. But also filled with gratitude. I didn’t get to hold that baby in my arms, but she filled my heart to the brim.
God let us have her for a week. I don’t blame Him for what happened. I never felt He ‘took’ anything away from me. He never promised me that baby but He was there when I couldn’t keep her. And I trust Him and what He wants to do in our lives, even when it doesn’t seem like it makes sense.
One of the things that people say when they hear someone has had a miscarriage is “You’ll get over this eventually. After some time, you’ll forget.” Well, that’s unacceptable to me.
I want to remember. My kids know they have a little brother or sister that they didn’t get to meet and they know that it’s okay to be sad about it. They know that sometimes things don’t work the way we want them to, but that doesn’t mean they’re wrong. I feel the ache from time to time for the baby that we lost, but my arms are never empty with my three beautiful children here with me.