“God has been gracious” – Happy Birthday, Jackson

My broken heart asks your permission to spill itself out before you, that you might rejoice with me.

♪♪♪♪

3pm

Sunday, January 29th, 2017

It’s been a long weekend, but my heart is full. Two of my favorite little people came to spend Friday night with us, and then I couldn’t help but ask all of my brothers to come join in the fun… So it was a full and noisy (messy!) house until Sunday afternoon, after Mass, where my sweet husband and I soak up the silence and each other’s friendship.

I’m so uncomfortable today. It’s been a joyful but trying pregnancy, and I am struggling to be still as my body aches and cramps periodically. I think nothing of it, I have felt all of this off and on already. Rex flips through channels on TV while I stretch out on the floor, trying to find a good position to rest in. I say to him, “If these are just gas pains, how am I going to actually make it through labor?!”

5pm
We go for a drive in Rex’s new (old) pickup. This truck has a bench seat so I can snuggle up to him while we go along.  The sunset is beautiful… It’s been too long since we’ve taken a sunset drive.

I don’t feel like cooking, but spaghetti is easy and one of his favorites, so we have PBnJ sandwiches and spaghetti for supper. I don’t finish because my stomach is just not sitting right.

8pm
Early to bed since it will be an early morning… I’m not looking forward to waking up at 4am to drive Rex into work where his car is at.

9pm
I can’t get comfortable. I can’t lay down. I try to position myself with pillows and stretches and Rex rubs my back. It’s painful now, and I want to go to sleep.

9:21pm
I ask Rex to call my mom. I tell him I can’t do this all night. I need to get out of the house. I need some help. Please call my mom to see if she has any ideas. The cramping in my uterus is continuous and when I apply pressure it feels tender. This isn’t right. I am worried suddenly for the baby. I need to go and make sure everything is okay. Maybe it’s a placental abruption or something crazy. Let’s go.

9:29pm
The pain is unbearable and I know I will be throwing up soon. That is my reaction to pain I can’t control. I run to the toilet and begin vomiting. Oh, I am hurting. In the next big heave, my water breaks with a big splash all over me and the floor. I cry out for Rex. I feel the baby. I know right away I am giving birth. I cry out for Rex again. He comes running to me; he has called my mom for help. I am trembling violently as I slide off my favorite pair of sweat pants and reach down to feel my baby’s feet dangling from inside my body. I begin sobbing. My baby is too early. I can’t stop what is happening. I don’t want this. I am scared to touch his feet.

Rex runs me some bathwater and I crawl in the tub in my sweatshirt and no pants. I understand now that the cramping is actually contractions; I try to relax and let them come. I don’t care anymore what it feels like, now I try to focus. Wave after wave rushing through my body; the tub is filled with blood and pieces of birth.

9:31pm
In the next small gush, our baby is born into Rex’s hands. I cry because I am too scared to touch his body. I don’t want to remember the feeling of a cold dead body. I am so upset this is happening.

I force myself to look. I have to look. I need to see what is happening. I need to see our baby. Rex slides the baby’s body into my hands and I sob harder. It’s a boy. He is perfectly formed and I can see clearly his little boy parts sticking out to tell us.

Rex is holding me, stroking my hair. We are crying. We don’t know what to do. I am shaking. I am cold and hurting and broken. Rex’s shoulders are shaking with his own silent sobs. We exclaim our surprise as our little boy begins to move in my hands. We realize he is alive! His umbelical cord is still attached to the placenta, undelivered in my womb. His tiny chest thumps for us to see his heart beating strong. He is so beautiful. I stroke his fingers with one of mine.

9:50pm
Our friend arrives (called by my mom) and comes running upstairs. I briefly wonder if she cares that I’m naked. She tells us we need to get to the hospital right away. I think she means we can save the baby. Dare I to hope? I try to stand, clutching my baby to my abdomen as he is still attached, and my head is flooded with warmth and white light. Too much. I can’t stand on my own. Rex catches me and carries me down the stairs. I am dripping blood everywhere. They wrap our wet and naked bodies together in a blanket and carry us outside to the waiting truck. She drives 90mph to Onamia hospital. We pass a cop with his lights flashing. I am praying the Memorare over and over, struggling to breath, trying to get to ten like Mother Theresa, begging Saint Gerard to pray for my baby’s survival. I know exactly how much of a miracle that would be; he doesn’t have lungs yet. My baby moves again in my hands. I whisper to Rex, “He is still alive.” He is still alive. I ask him if this is Jackson, Our boy name. He starts to cry. Can it be, he asks me? Yes, this is Jackson.

10:15pm
We arrive at the emergency room entrance. I am not about to let that bitter January air steal the life from my baby. I hold him closer and tell Rex to get ready in case they drop me, as they place me on a stretcher and roll us in the doors. Rex doesn’t have shoes or coat. My sweet husband.

It is chaos. It is so bright. I’m glad my baby can’t see the crazy bright lights. I’m glad I can shield him from this madness. This is not the peaceful world he has known. They begin a blood transfusion in my arm. I won’t let go of him. He is still alive. They listen to our heartbeats. He sounds just like he did inside my womb. I am so proud. I refuse to let them take him while his heart is beating. Maybe not even then.

The whole ceiling is white, typical of a hospital room, yet on one square of the ceiling above my head, there is a weird painting of feathers and one rain drop. I tell my dad and hope they don’t think I’m out of it. It’s just weird.

Needles and more needles. IVs in both arms. Pitocin in both legs. Is it worth it? I clench my eyes tightly and whisper, I love you baby. I love you so much.

It seems like only minutes have passed but someone says it’s been over an hour. I can hear the doctor calling hospital after hospital. “Hello, this is Dr. Somebody from Onamia hospital. We have a unique situation on our hands. A mother has been brought to us who has delivered her 18 or 19 week old fetus who is still alive. Would you be willing to send a flight to pick them up and transfer advanced care?”

He’s a baby, I think to myself. Not a fetus anymore. He is outside the womb. He is a baby. He is 17 weeks tomorrow (Monday) but I don’t correct anyone. If someone will try to help because he’s a week older, let them.

They all turn him down. There’s nothing they can do. He is too small. I clench my eyes shut. Mother Mary, pray for my baby. We need a miracle. I am tempted to become angry at the doctors turning away my baby’s chances. They don’t know my God. They don’t know my husband and I. They don’t know our baby. How can they say no? I refuse to dwell on it. God’s will be done. Your will, not mine, Father.

Mom and dad are here. Evie is here. She stands near me, tears streaming down her cheeks. She is so full of compassion. I cry too. I ask her to come to me. I lift the blankets to show her baby Jackson, curled up on my belly. We cry harder.

I am soaking wet and shaking, despite being underneath several heated blankets. Rex asks them to cut the wet sweatshirt off of me.

Dad asks if he should call Angela. Yes! Angela! Warriors! I need everyone! Tell her to call Caitlin, I say. They will get everyone. They will know. I have so much peace. I am thankful for my warriors in Christ.

The hospital is practically next door to the Crosiers monastery, where our parish priest lives. They call to see if Fr. Jim can come to baptize our baby. He is not home, but someone is coming. I pray they will get here soon.

The concern in the room has shifted. I don’t understand right now but I feel the shift. I realize they are telling me with their bodies that my baby is dying. The nurses are poking with needles and want to massage my uterus. I panic. I am in intense pain from my own body working on contractions still. I am soaking the blankets with blood. Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me. I want to ask them to wait, tell them it hurts, but my voice is a whisper. Rex. Rex. Help me. Don’t let them take him. I don’t want any more.

Rex brings water and baptizes our son Jackson, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.” My beautiful family. Then an elderly priest arrives and I ask Rex to cover me more modestly to guard his eyes. The priest seems a little out of his comfort zone and I wonder if we’ve woken him up. What time is it? My baby’s face is uncovered and Father gives him the official rite of baptism and blesses us all. I have so much peace. My baby is going straight into Jesus’ arms.

11:30pm
My momma stands with me and takes the place of the nurse who was to massage my uterus. They want me to deliver the placenta. I don’t want to. My baby will die. I don’t want to. Lord, Lord.

I don’t have a choice. They can’t control my bleeding. They give me pitocin to cause my uterus to contract and deliver. My momma is gentle with me and is pushing on my tummy. I’m okay with that. The doctor is digging the placenta out. I wonder if Rex is weirded out by the sight of another man so close to my naked body. So much pain. Jesus, Mary, Joseph. I think, there must be a better way. Can’t they just wait for my body to do this? They tell me I have lost too much blood and can’t wait anymore. My body isn’t doing what it’s supposed to.

I am listening intently to everything. I feel the tugging of the placenta being removed in pieces. I hear the tiny snap of my baby’s cord break in two. I squeeze my eyes shut. He is gone. It doesn’t hit me. I want to be upset. Why didn’t they ask me? It’s too soon. Not enough time.

12am
Monday, January 30th, 2017
A helicopter comes to bring us to the University of MN hospital. I am on my third unit of blood. They transfer me and little Jackson, hidden in my hands, to another stretcher and begin strapping us in. Rex is given permission to come; he will ride in front with the pilot. They place a thick pair of headphones over my ears to mask the noise of the flight. I am wheeled outside across the parking lot. They apologize it’s so cold, but I breathe it in deeply. I love this weather. But my baby needs to be warm.

They load the stretcher into the helicopter. It’s a tight fit. I wonder how larger people fit in here. They tell me it will be a 40 minute ride. Hurry, I pray. I don’t know why. I stare up at the ceiling; I don’t care to look outside. Thoughts swirl in my head. I replay the night over and over. What did I do wrong? How did this happen? I think of a million mistakes. I’m so sorry, Jackson. I’m so sorry.

1am
We get to the U of M and wait for the blades to stop spinning. They unload us on the stretcher and begin wheeling us down the ramp to the doors. I notice Rex has someone’s boots on his feet. Thank You Lord.

Inside the hospital, the nurses lead us to a room they have readied. Baby and I are transferred from the stretcher to the bed. So much better. I hear the helicopter team relaying our vitals and info to the nursing team. “The mother is actually still holding onto the fetus, who passed just before we left the other hospital.”

The night nurses are so tender. They call him a baby. They ask his name. They comfort me. They introduce themselves to Rex. They don’t shy away from the bloody mess I have made, caked on my legs and soaked into the blankets. I cannot even bring myself to be embarrassed.

A nurse asks if she can hold Jackson for me and measure him. I say yes and  follow him with my eyes every step. He is measured at 8 inches long, weighing 131 grams (4.6 ounces) and his tiny head is 5 1/4 inches around. Oh, my perfect baby. My eyes fill with tears as she tenderly stamps his footprints onto a memory card… Each little toe she captured. Oh, my perfect baby.

She brings in a beautiful little blanket and wraps him in it. She places a tiny, tiny hand-crocheted hat upon his head… I gasp when I see that it fits. How could someone have known a baby so small would need a hat? He is so perfect. Oh, my baby.

The pelvic exam is excruciating and I am so done being touched. Leave me with my husband and our baby. I try to be gracious. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, I repeat over and over. Rex squeezes my hand and tells me he is so sorry.

My family eventually catches up to us and are escorted to our room (the helicopter was quite a bit faster than their vehicle) and by now it is so late. The nurses ask me if we want to do pictures for the baby. I want to wait a little while. I want to hold him.

We all admire the work of the Creator. Look… Look at his fingers and toes. Look at his hereditary nose. Look at his ears and his tummy and his long legs like his daddy. Look at his tiny little manhood! I am struck again and again. I can’t take my eyes off him. Wow. Wow. Mama Mary, kiss him for me.

My family stays with us, talking, till 5 in the morning. I don’t feel an ounce of tired. Rex has fallen asleep beside me. My sweet husband. You are such a good daddy, I whisper. The moment my family is gone…. A wave of grief hits my body. The tears are flowing and the silent sobs are deep within. Jesus, Mary, Joseph. Lord, I give you my baby. Jackson I am so so sorry. I love you, I love you, I love you. An hour I cry, holding my son. Then I take Rex’s phone from the bedside, and begin to write. I need to express these words. He is so beautiful. I love you. God is so good. Oh, the graces. I am thankful. I am broken. I take a picture of my brand new family- my sleeping husband, arms of strength wrapped around his treasure, and my eternally sleeping baby, swaddled in my arms.

My soul is at peace and I can lay my head to sleep. It is almost 7am.