A Road Less Traveled.

Isaac was born early that Wednesday morning, and didn't make a sound. My surgery took longer then I had expected because there was scar tissue to cut through, so I asked the doctor if the baby had born yet. He hadn't. I lay there on the operating table knowing the birth of Isaac would also meant his death. I wondered if my baby would cry. I wondered how severe his defect would be. I wondered if the baby would breath, I wondered if he would even live. And live he did, for 70 minutes. Isaac was born, in all his glory, at 8am, and peacefully slipped away from us at 9:10am.

The section itself was the same old thing. I barfed a couple times. My blood pressure was all over the place. I had a hard time breathing from all the water. They pumped fluids into me like no other. And I was tired. By that point I had already been up 24 hours, and a couple times I felt like closing my eyes and just resting. Part of me wanted to sleep, to escape. I had completed my task. I had carried my baby as long as medically possible, and God was deciding the rest.

Isaac was born, and they whisked him away. I asked the doctor if the baby had attempted to cry, and he said that Isaac had pulled that classic new born grimace face and tried once to breath, once to cry. He couldn't. But. His heart was beating strongly. I knew we had him for a short time. Andrew hovered over the baby. In that moment, it broke him. He brought the baby to me, tears streaming down his face, and told me Isaac was still alive. I looked at the baby. I didn't cry. I stared. I stared and I took deep breaths. I stared and realized that God had given us this child and I loved him. Completely. I looked at Isaac's face and remarked at how pretty he was. His face was complete. He had chubby cheeks and a button nose. His eyes were open and he was looking at me. His defect didn't show, and I began to cry as I told Andrew to take the baby to the children. I knew they needed to meet Isaac alive. So I was left there, getting sewn up. Minutes ago I had been joking about how much water was gushing out of me, and now I was wondering if I would see Isaac again, alive.

About 30 minutes later I was taken into my hospital room. I cried as I was wheeled in through the door as I looked at my family member's faces. I had never seem that look in their eyes before. I told the men in the family to give Isaac a name and a blessing. They prayed over the baby, blessed him, and gave him back to me. Every few minutes or so our nurse would check Isaac's heart beat. I knew he was getting close to leaving us. He and I gazed into each other's eyes, and I held onto him. I held onto him and whispered that I loved him. I told the nurse that I felt like Isaac had died, and indeed he had. He passed quietly back to Jesus that morning, in my loving, adoring arms. At that moment I clutched Isaac to me and wept silently over this body. No one made a sound in the room. Not. One. Sound. They respectfully and quietly watched and grieved with me.

The rest of that day is hard to explain. It was the most horrifyingly spiritual experience of my life. It was the hardest day of my life, yet the most peaceful. At some point, over the next few weeks I'll account for those moments, but for now, this is the next part of our story. There is much that is too sacred and private to share, and there is much left to write about, and I will, as I write on.