Sunday, May 31, 2009


Lisa, with Isaac, after we had bathed and dressed him.

I finished getting my blog in order. Quotes had been deleted - I fixed them. I had photos up of only Olivia and Isaac on the side bar - I added more. I've gotten things switched around and simplified, just how I want. I found myself sitting here with tears rolling down my cheeks, gazing at Isaac's sweet little face. Many days I drift back to the day he was born, and I find myself wishing to go back, to visit with him, to hug him and to kiss him.

Did you know Isaac had golden blond hair? Of course his hair was wet when he was born, but when I bathed him. I could see the golden shade, as his hair dried. Because of his deformity, I couldn't see a "full head" of hair, but the hair that he had was long - an inch in length. It would have been fuzzy and poofy like Ian's had been. Ian had so much hair that when he was first brought to me after he was born, the nurse had parted his hair. I immediately messed that part right up, but when I think of it now, it makes me chuckle.

I enjoyed bathing Isaac. Holy crap was it hard to clean the vernex off of his skin. Liken it to trying to clean diaper ointment off with water - - doesn't work. Lisa was there with me, as was Andrew. The children had left with Grandma, and I was left to do what mothers do - - fuss over their babies. This time I inspected Isaac from head to toe. I asked about his head and was told it looked pretty bad. I looked anyway, and my heart skipped a beat. It was bad. Much worse than I had seen online. But. I quickly snapped into mama mode, and I asked for clean gauze and ointment, and I took care of my child's wound no different than I had taken care of my other children's wounds before. Lisa and I washed Isaac and laughed and giggled over him. He was a thick little boy. Wide shoulders like Ian's. Burly and sweet. I had my Johnsons and Johnsons baby lotion with me - the pink, origional kind, which is my favorite. I've used it on all of my babies, just like my grandmother had used it on me when I was a child. I rubbed lotion onto Isaac and loved him and kissed him. Lisa helped me dress him and we situated a hat on his sweet little head. I could NOT believe how sweet he looked, perfect in every way. I was amazed at how quickly his body turned cold. I didn't like the feeling. He body was becoming stiff, and I felt better to have his sweet little self wrapped snuggly in a blanket. Soon after we took more pictures, soon after that, they moved me to the Mother Baby floor..........

Did I mention it is summer vacation here? I've got some pictures to post, I'll do that later in the week. It's been a little hectic. It's a little tiresome working out all of the bickering and arguements, but I feel so content that my house is full. I try not to think about Isaac missing. I think about the coming year, and I am looking forward to the fall months. We had the ok to start trying for another baby in October. For a minute today I thought about that, and felt the same excitement I've felt in the past thinking about that possibility.... buying a new crib, new clothes, a car seat, lotions and shampoos, bottles, formula..... It would be a dream come true. A dream come true. And then, I admit, a little panic set in, and I'm snapped back to reality. I can worry about that another day...........

Do me a favor, if I haven't been to your blog yet, comment and let me know. I'm trying harder to visit blogs and trying harder to get to know you better. Let me know where you are, and I'll stop by.... It's important to me.

Till then, I'll be thanking God for your support.

Saturday, May 30, 2009

Let me clarify....

I wanted to make sure that you women knew how much I love and appreciate you. There are women (you) who read my blog, and comment knowing I don't get back to you often. I'm working on that. What I didn't mention is that I need YOU to keep reading and sharing your support and stories with me. I pull much strength from those, who are strangers, and have reached out to touch my hand, through blogging and emails. Thank you. Thank you for loving me, although you're still getting to know me. Thank you for cheering me on and telling me you care, and telling me how you relate to me, or even if you don't. I just need to be accepted. Accepted now that I am different than I was before, and that I am pulling whom I'm close to, closer.... which is some of my readers, too. I appreciate that you get and try to understand my struggle right now. I'm just in a different place. I knew this was a make it or break it kind of trial I was facing. People would have a chance to prove their love to me, as I proved my love for them, right back. For some it's worked, for others, it hasn't. What ever it means, thank YOU for still reading, although I am a whole ball of nut job right now. Don't you just wish you were my neighbor, too??

Love, Misty

The new....


Few people know her. It's how you change after your baby dies in your arms. It's how I noticed I trust less people, yet trust others more. It's how I prefer to stay at home, and prefer to not see anyone, except my own family, and a best friend or two. I have been so thankful for my best friend. She lives across the street. She has really, really come through for me. She calls me every day. She involves me in her every day plans like she said she would. I'm not alone. I have her. She made promises, she kept them, I trust her. Completely.

I don't like other people's babies. I don't want to HOLD other people's babies or hear about them. I want my own baby. I don't want to hear about pregnancy, I want to be pregnant myself. And I can be, starting in October. The doctor said. I wish it was October. I hate being asked "How are you doing?" by random people. How do they think I'm doing?? How do they think they'd be doing if their baby died? I hate how people make my emotional distance from them about them. I think it's safe in this situation to assume my sorrow has nothing to do with you. Right? You bet it is. My already tight circle has tightened more. That's just how it is, and how it's going to stay. I choose - - it's my choice to have very few friends, and the ones I have, I LOVE. There isn't anything wrong with that. I don't need therapy over it, don't need to be discussed, don't need help - - it's my nature, it's who I am. My friends are my family. I don't need dozens of them.

The children are home for the SUMMER! Can I say I'm happy?? I'm HAPPY!! Really, really, really, REALLY happy. All three of my babies are home with me, for three months. Bliss. Late nights. Late mornings. No homework. All play. You just can't beat it.

I think about Isaac all of the time. I cry when I see my Ian grow, because I think that Isaac should have been that little boy, too. I was at the music festival at the kid's school today, and I thought about how I should have just given birth to Isaac, and that he would have been only a week or so old. But he's not. He's dead. I should have him to hold, but I don't.

And that, my friends, is just how it is............. Life moves on in a different sort of way. I've changed, I have new challenges, different things are important and less important to me, and I simply am learning how to live knowing I have a child, whom is a living part of our family, yet he soars above me, but is mine just the same.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

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.

Monday, May 11, 2009

This road.

Friends, this road is so long and so hard. Grieving seems to have a time and season of it's own. Some days are good - - really, really good. And some days are hard - - really, really hard. Mothers Day hurt this year. Today hurt. Tonight hurts.

Today my heart aches for my friend Celia. Today I carry her heartache and my own. She gave birth to Noah on Mothers Day, born with anencephaly, as Isaac was. Noah has entered this world, and slipped onto the next. In part, this is an update I read tonight, written by Celia's husband:

"Today was another hard part of Noah's Journey. I carried Little Noah to the funeral home. My heart broke as I pulled little Noah from Celia's arms and carried him on the last part of his journey... My tears soaked his little face as I held him close."

My heart aches for that sweet family, and my heart aches for myself. I remember watching the clock after Isaac was born and then died. I watched the clock as I knew 24 hours later, I would have to call the mortuary. I stayed up with Isaac all night, as did Andrew. I did my best to not nod off, even though I was delirious from exhaustion. I would catch myself sleeping and rub my face to wake myself up. I would shake my head and stretch my arms. I knew I needed to spend each minute with my baby. I knew the minutes would fly by, and I knew the time to say goodbye was drawing close. I knew the time I had would never be enough. It wasn't. Is still isn't. As the night turned into morning, Andrew called the funeral home. Some one was dispatched to the hospital. A kind man walked in, and I began to sob. I asked the man if I had to give him the baby, and he said that I did. I kissed Isaac over and over again, and handed him to Andrew, and looked away as he carried him out the door. I held myself and rocked and stared ahead blankly. The man passed by the door way with Isaac, and I laid back on my pillow and fell asleep. Now was the time to sleep. Now was the time to sleep and dream of my son that had just been taken from my arms. Now was the time to sleep and pretend none of what had just passed had never happened.

Stop by and offer Celia and her sweet family words of comfort. Do it for me. And for her. Tell her I sent you so that she knows that I love her.