|Life-size replica of his feet|
I found out I was pregnant again not long after the New Year. Just when I had signed up for a gym membership and even purchased extra personal training sessions (I would be getting back in shape this year, dangit!), I found out I was pregnant. Call it Murphy's Law, but every time I have committed to going on some diet or joining some gym or feeling like maybe there are new adventures or a new direction I can take, pregnancy hits me like a humorous, ironic and fateful force. A reminder that this life is not my own, and I am not in control. So a year and a half after my previous miscarriage, here I was again wondering what was in store for me and this little one.
Week after week went by with no clue as to what was going on in there, what was going to happen. Finally, I had an ultrasound scheduled around 11 weeks. Pretty much right around the time I usually miscarried. I hadn't allowed myself to be emotional and even accept the pregnancy until I saw that little beating heart on the dark screen. Here was my child, still healthy, still moving around, still growing. I went out to my car holding the sonogram pictures in my hand and sat in my car and sobbed. I was going to have another baby! Finally acceptance. Finally hope. One month later, as I sat in bed early one morning unable to sleep, there was a pop and a gush. And just like that I lost him.
Unlike every other miscarriage I'd had, this time I saw him. I saw his little face half covered by one perfect hand. I was struck by the details of him. His nose, his mouth, the little line across his chest that his diaphragm made. He was truly perfect in every way, and he was mine. But I would never hear his cry, never see his eyes open and never watch him grow. My heart shattered, and as I bled out the next few hours and days, it was if all my joy in life and hope in goodness flowed out as well. One week later when I could finally physically stand and walk again, we buried him in the pouring rain under our bleeding heart bush in the backyard. His coffin was a five inch box.
My due date was in September two days after we closed on a new house. I was too busy to truly mourn, but I remembered. In the early days of October, probably about the time I would naturally have birthed him, my body remembered by dredging up nightmares of babies born and unborn. I awoke knowing deep down that this is when I would have had him. It was as if the very tissues and blood and genetic material in the depths of my body and mind remembered him and knew this would have been his time. I would have had another October baby.
I will never be the same again. I will always carry around this sorrow that is a part of me now. And now that I've seen his face and held him, I know the love I have for him is the same love for all his brothers and sisters that have gone before him. When he entered eternity, they were there to welcome him. The first time he opened his eyes, he was able to view heaven. The arms that hold him now are Jesus' arms. And though my arms will always feel his void, he knows I know him and love him. And he knows his name.
|Forever in my love, we miss you greatly, Matthias.|