We're waiting on a phone call from Dr. Conway, the head doctor of labor and delivery at the hospital. They've been running tests on my placenta to see if they can determine what went wrong with Gwen's labor.
I don't want her to have anything conclusive. I don't want her to tell me that something is wrong with my body, that i did something wrong during pregnancy or labor, or that my body should not try to conceive again. These, i think, are the worst possible things she could say to me.
A friend sent the book, Holding On To Hope by Nancy Guthrie. I'm only in the 1st chapter and already have been so grateful to fully resonate with another woman:
"Our culture wants to put the Band-Aid of heaven on the hurt of losing someone we love. Sometimes it seems like the people around us think that because we know the one we love is in heaven, we shouldn't be sad. But they don't understand how far away heaven feels, and how long the future seems as we see before us the years we have to spend on this earth before we see the one we love again."
Now i have definitely not felt the first section... people are so gracious to me in my grief, crying with me and encouraging me to continue to cry out to the Lord. But heaven does feel so far away. And while i hope in heaven, and have the security of heaven awaiting me, i feel the loss of "upcoming" hope. I hoped for October 14. I lived in constant anticipation of Gwen's birth. I reveled in every baby blanket, cloth diaper, and knit hat i planned on her wearing. I looked forward to sewing her christmas stocking, excited to take her for holidays with the family. When i finally started having contractions, I was unable to sleep, even though they were light. And every moment during labor brought me closer to her, and that made the pain of contractions bearable.
Now i have no 'upcoming' hope. Nothing awaiting me, nothing joyful on the horizon. I love my husband, i love our ministry, i love my life. those are still all good things, and i'm very thankful for them. but i am missing something small, round and pink, weighing a beautiful 10 pounds, 1 ounce. I identify with Nancy,
"Part of my heart is no longer mine. I gave it to [Gwendolyn] and she took it with her, and i will forever feel that amputation."
Sweet Erin. My heart is absolutely aching for you. I have cried and cried and prayed and prayed reading your story. A friend just sent me your blog and told me about you. My husband and I said goodbye to our precious son on August 28th of this year. My email is sarahdanae83@yahoo.com. I would love to talk to you when you are ready. Erin, we are on our knees for you and your family. Gwen is beautiful and is in Glory with our Holden. Much love in Christ. ~Chet and Sarah Erwin
ReplyDeleteErin,
ReplyDeleteSo sorry if we're bombarding you. But, Sarah (who commented above) sent me your blog as well. My heart is broken for you, as I have read your words and seen your beautiful baby girl...I, too, have walked the road you are walking, losing our son Chase last September, at 35 weeks pregnant. The pain of losing our little ones is absolutely devastating, and I feel it all again as I read your words. I know so well the emptiness you feel in your heart and in your arms, and how you long for your daughter with everything in you. I am praying for Him to take care of your every moment. I pray for your heart....for the Lord's great comfort to surround you and for Him to be the "lifter of your head". Thank you for sharing your story---and more importantly, sharing your precious Gwen---with all of us.
Love,
Chelsea Jacobs
chelsea@hischase.org
Tears. Beautifully, honestly said.
ReplyDeleteDear Erin,
ReplyDeleteYou are on my mind a lot and I pray for you and your husband a lot.........
"amputee" wow - truer words have never been spoken - i forwarded your words to my
two best friends who lost their youngest sons and have struggled so much for the last 4 and 2 years.
thank you for giving those wise words to us.......
May God wrap his arms around you and hold you tight......
In him,
Gabrielle Gilmore