Nothing on this earth can prepare you for the pain of losing your child. Absolutely nothing.
I regularly think back to every part of Lennox’s short life. We tried to get pregnant for several months to the point that trying became exhausting and stressful. It sounds like a short amount of time, but for women who are trying to get pregnant, I am sure you understand when I say it felt long and discouraging. I had taken yet another pregnancy test that yielded a negative result, only days before we found out we were pregnant. I buried the disappointment down deep and figured we would hope for better luck the next month.
Days later at work, I had that “feeling” that I had heard about. I had always wondered what that so-called “feeling” was, and then on December 5th, I felt it. With two pink lines, the story of Lennox began for us.
Bursting with the excitement of positive results, I shut my office door and instantly planned how to surprise my husband, Broc, with the news. I wanted it to be special and memorable. I got home, and put into place a scavenger hunt. I hurried to arrange it before he arrived. The hunt led him to various stops throughout the house, and ended in the room we had always deemed as the nursery. There, our dog, Palmer, and I were hiding. In the corner of the room, I held a sign stating Palmer would be a big sister that August and barely got out the words, “I’m pregnant!”, once he opened the door before we both fell into the most joyful tears. We held one another tightly crying because we were going to become parents. Our dream came true! For 18 weeks.
Starting around 1:00 am on March 10th, I started feeling sharp, stabbing, cramping pains in my lower back and abdomen. At nearly 18 weeks pregnant I was unsure what it could be and various reasons bounced through my head. I kept rotating sides but the discomfort persisted. I woke up that morning at the sound of my work alarm, and told Broc, “my stomach hurts so badly… it feels like someone has been stabbing me all night.” I went to the bathroom thinking that might alleviate my discomfort.
Next, I just remember a lot of blood- that, and it all hitting me like a ton of bricks: the discomfort and pain I was feeling were contractions.
Contractions. At merely 18 weeks.
I remember melting into sobs and hearing the thud of Broc jumping out of bed, and next, seeing him kneeling in front of me. I remember him repeatedly saying “We can do this”, almost as if he was trying to convince himself just as much as he was me.
We had had a previous scare in our pregnancy with bleeding, but there was no pain with it. At that incident, everyone encouraged me by saying the absence of pain was a good sign. I knew things were different this time. Things were bad.
The long drive to our OBGYN office in rush hour traffic still somehow felt short. Tears quietly rolled down my face and I counted time between every contraction. 8 minutes. I kept trying to convince myself that it would be okay. That maybe there was something that someone could do to stop things and to not panic just yet. I begged God.
The ultrasound tech came in, and I prepared mentally for the worst. I prepared myself for her to say they couldn’t find a heartbeat. Our gender reveal was scheduled with friends for that Saturday, and I remember asking her to please not tell me what the gender was so it didn’t ruin the surprise. That we just wanted to make sure the baby was okay. I know that although I was petrified, deep down I just wanted to hold onto any hope.
The gel went on my stomach, and simultaneously I held my breath.
“The heartbeat is 147 and the amniotic fluid level looks good!” Tears of joy at those beautiful words. Our baby was alive! We heard the whooshing sound of her heartbeat. I remember that she was moving around a lot, and now regret that I didn’t soak every ounce of that moment up. That I didn’t pay more attention. I was so focused on soon-to-be shattered relief of thinking that everything was fine, and it was only another “scare” that I didn’t intently watch my baby on the screen.
I wish I'd known that was the last time I would see her body fully while safe inside me.
The nurse practitioner checked me and asked about my contractions, which I had not felt for the last 45 minutes. Another good sign, right? I had convinced myself, maybe in self-protection. Everything must be okay. How could it not be? I just heard and saw my baby’s heart beating and moving all around inside of me.
After performing an exam, the nurse practitioner informed me that my cervix appeared to be thinning, but she was unsure why. She wanted Maternal Fetal Medicine, which was attached to the hospital, to see me and inspect.
The nurse practitioner returned to our room after making a phone call and said, I told them the appointment needs to be “stat.” Stat? This confused me and created unease. My mind started to shift into thinking: maybe it’s not okay.
When the doctor at Maternal Fetal Medicine came to check in on us that afternoon, we were nervous and scared, but still convinced that whatever was happening that there could be something done. Whatever that something was, I was prepared to stop everything in my life and do it. That way, our baby would stay inside me as long as possible and be born healthy, at a much later date.
After assessing the speculum exam, the doctor returned; his face said everything he hadn’t yet. I panicked inside. He let out a deep breath, then words came: “I’m really worried, guys.” He explained as gently and thoroughly as he could that I was 1.5 centimeters dilated, and that my amniotic sac had come down almost to the opening of the cervix. He explained that I was at high risk of infection because of this. My head spun. We asked what our options were. Each option was explained to us and each was followed with why I was not a candidate.
I welled up with tears and asked, almost pleading: “How early can a baby be born and live?” A viable baby, he told us, although still at an extremely high risk for disabilities and developmental abnormalities, is estimated to be 23 weeks. I was one day shy of 18 weeks pregnant.
“Now, I have seen people in your situation not go into labor for 6 weeks.” I prayed silently that that would be the case for us.
We were admitted to the hospital for overnight observation, informed that we would see what happens. If things stalled with labor, we could explore potential options to delay it from progressing.
Contractions that evening would get very close together and then stall for several hours at times. That night was scary, thinking at any time things could progress to the point of active labor. As the time vanished, so did my dreams of mothering this baby.
Throughout the night, Romans 5:3-5 was repeated in my head. I was clinging to those words, clinging so desperately to hope. It was all I possibly had. I remember reading and reciting the words over and over until all the lines blurred through tears. If it's a girl, I would like her middle name to be Hope. I fell asleep, briefly; I was so drained.
Hold on, baby. Please, hold on.
And for a while, she did. That morning at 10:15, they wheeled us down to our follow-up with Maternal Fetal Medicine. By this point, we had both been cruelly stripped of all prior plans of our baby making it to a viable age, and of caring for and watching our baby grow. We were so helpless and so defeated. We begged for the ultrasound tech to please tell us the gender. Our own private reveal. With so little control over our circumstances, we wanted to plan for her and pick a name before birth- at the very least.
We held hands across the exam chair and cried as we saw our precious baby girl’s legs kicking; her head was in my cervix. I received the news we feared most. Labor had progressed, and I was now 3 centimeters dilated. I would be giving birth to her at some point in the next day, two at best. Regardless, she was coming. In the words of our doctor, “all the hope I had is now lost.”
We mustered every ounce of courage we had left, and shared with each of our families that our baby girl would be here soon. We cried, hard. We prayed. And then, Broc and I knew it was time to be strong for our little girl.
At 6:43 pm on March 11th, Lennox Hope Weaver made her grand, unexpected, and very early entrance into the world. I remember looking over to watch as the doctor caught her coming out and lifted her up. I remember that Broc was asked to cut the cord. I remember telling the nurses we wanted to hold her and taking our precious, tiny baby in our arms. I remember the joy of that time with her. I remember the surreal feeling when I looked down and saw her heart beating in her chest. I stared at her chest for so long. The doctor had thought she might be born dead but my baby was alive! I felt so much admiration for her. She was so detailed and so perfect. Her delicate body flinched when you touched it and she wrapped her tiny fingers around mine. It was so incredible to me that a baby born 4.5 months early could have that innate reflex already. I remember Broc dancing with her in the corner, and then coming over and softly saying to me that because they would never get the proper chance to do so at her wedding, they had squeezed their father daughter dance in right then. I gushed over my little family. Her existence created pure elation for both of us that I could never possibly describe.
Some details of those 66 minutes I remember so vividly, but, others, I know happened, and can’t recall. I know she was baptized by Broc, but I don’t remember the act of it. I know I talked to her, but I don’t know what I said. I know I kissed her and stared at her, but I don’t know what my thoughts were. I don’t know if it was the trauma of the situation, but it terrifies me that I can't remember some of these details. Everything in that time was so vivid but also such a blur.
When Lennox’s heart stopped beating, we looked at the clock. 7:49 pm. For some reason, it wasn’t sadness at that moment. In fact, I think I looked at Lennox and smiled. My strong girl held on and spent moments with us we did not expect to have. Blissful moments we will treasure for a lifetime. We were then able to boastfully show off our precious daughter to our families, just like many other new parents. Just like it was supposed to be.
Transferring to postpartum is probably the first definitive moment when I think it hit me. My baby was not going to be coming home with us, and this night with her would be our first and last. We ate our only official family meal close to midnight. I remember as we inhaled our food I kept looking behind me at the cuddle cot checking on her. I kept feeling like she needed me, but would quickly realize she was dead again, and my heart would sink.
Broc and I shared the hospital bed that night; neither one of us wanted to be alone. After we decided to try and get some rest, the realness of the situation hit harder and harder. I wound up sobbing so uncontrollably at times that it would wake Broc up. I would reach for Lennox and hold her in my arms, knowing good and well that was not her anymore. For some reason, though, in the darkness of those moments, it helped.
Leaving the hospital the morning of March 12th was one of the hardest things either of us has had to do. We were able to pray over our deceased baby with the chaplain, decide on a funeral home for her to be sent to, and forced ourselves to say the hardest, most unthinkable goodbye of all.
Walking out of a birthing center without your child is unbearable. It is humiliating and devastating. I remember feeling embarrassed, and thinking that while others were walking out with their swaddled newborns, able to show something for their exciting stay, that we left with our child in the hospital morgue and nothing to show except broken hearts and empty hands. I couldn’t get in the car fast enough, but at the same time never wanted to leave. We were heading to a new reality that I did not want to face. A nightmare. We would never be the same.
The days ever since have been surreal. Being a mother and father to a baby that did not live to see even a full day in your arms is a role that should not exist. It is lonely. It is confusing. It is heartbreaking. It is so utterly and painfully unfair.
I have fleeting moments some days where I truly do feel myself, and hours throughout others that I can create a facade that I’m okay. I can fake it pretty well when I need to. But, the truth is, this grief consumes me right now, affecting every aspect of my life imaginable. Every waking second of every day I am thinking of and missing Lennox, and the girl she would have been. I get lost in daydreams of the time spent with her, and equally of the time robbed from us. I am left trying to piece together the brokenness that remains. I am left facing and figuring out how to exist in a life I never envisioned; a life without my child.
The pain of losing my daughter will never completely leave me, and I don’t want it to. Lennox will always be a huge part of who I am. Although I know I will eventually be okay and can feel happiness again, there is absolutely no happiness to be found in losing your child. I pray that time will heal and I do not become embittered. I pray that I can be helpful to others in this journey. I pray that this will help me see the world in a kinder lens. I pray that this will create a renewed, stronger spirit within me. I pray that I make my little girl proud.
But, most importantly, I pray that through Lennox, I can once again find Hope.
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