Just A Board
I can assure you...this is no normal board. Not "just a board". Why? Well, because the last time I had one of these boards, which are specific to L&D with baby's name, baby's birth information, baby's plan for feeding, baby's physician, etc...it was almost empty. The only thing filled out was my physician, my nurse, and the date. They didn't even bother to fill out the pain scale, because there is not a number high enough to rate the pain that I was going through at the time. My physical pain was controlled but my emotional turmoil was raging and incurable, slicing through my heart like a knife. If I were to have been on the OR table with no anesthesia while they cut me open it couldn't have hurt as bad.
There was no name on the board. Emma's name wasn't written, or even spoken, once she was permanently gone from my womb, arms, and the hospital room #309. There was no marker on my door signifying I had a loss, so every lab tech and every new medical professional besides the people who had my chart came in thinking I had a happy healthy bundle of joy maybe waiting in the nursery. But no, all I had was a deflated abdomen, a crushed heart, an empty soul, empty arms, and a tear stained face.
Bottle or breast? Neither. Just painfully sore and engorged from the milk my body was trying to produce for a baby that would never drink it. No bottles, either, because babies don't need bottles in heaven.
Baby's pediatrician? No, she didn't have one. Babies don't need doctors in Heaven either, as they are with the ultimate physician. Baby's nurse? Didn't need one of those either.
I was forced to stare at that painfully empty board for the duration of my stay. I don't know if anyone else would really notice how much this could bother someone. I know other mothers who went through what I went through. I may have looked as if I were staring off in the distance, but trust me I was not. I was staring at that damned board. That empty, blank, mean board. I fill out boards like this every day in the ER, and I never think about what it could mean to someone. I never think about that someone could have that board in one of their memories, or photographs for instance, if my patient passes away in that room. I'm sure the L&D nurses do the same, fill out their boards and go on about their day. Every time I had an NST in one of the L&D rooms, I would stare at the blank board, anticipating Isaac's arrival and envisioning his name on the board with all of the other sections filled out so perfectly. Its a silly thing to look forward to, but it was part of my journey.
There's always balloons in the room of the new mother, celebrating the arrival of her perfectly living child. Not that time...there were no balloons. No flowers. No cute stuffed animals or bags full of gifts for the bouncing bundle of joy. Just emptiness, quietness, sadness. Visitors didn't come with smiles on their faces and the chairs weren't filled with open arms and happy hearts, they were filled with broken souls and empty stares and tear filled eyes.
The sun rose just the same that morning of the next day, and the world went on without me. I didn't get to hold my newborn or nurse her by the morning light. I didn't see how the sun would glisten on her face. Not that time.
Those 4 walls were a prison, and all I wanted was to claw my way out of my very own mind.
But this time...this was different. My board was full. His name was there, printed, he was alive. "Breast" was checked on the board as I was nourishing my child the way nature intended me to (or trying, haha...FYI it didn't work out and he's happily and healthily formula fed). He had a nurse and a pediatrician. My pain was controlled, because my heart was full.
The sun rose when we were sitting in the hospital bed with him nursing so contently and the sun was shining on his rosy cheeks. Emma's bear was sitting in his bassinet next to the bed. Balloons and gifts filled the room. The chairs were filled with open arms and warm hearts. The walls weren't a prison, but a safe place that I was almost afraid to leave, thinking that if I left, I would leave empty handed like last time.
Having a rainbow pregnancy and a rainbow baby is a hard and rewarding journey. I know that I can do anything because I have endured the world's worst, and I have persevered. I have made my way through a journey that was harder than I ever imagined it would be. Losing Emma showed me that I can literally do anything. I have no fear (other than history repeating itself). I wake up and face the day with zest and strength. If she gave me anything she gave me strength. There are days, however, that I am at my weakest. My spirit is crushed and my heart is broken. Most other days my heart is fused back together, by the love of my living children.
We are Kintsugi. We are broken but fused back together. Our faces hide the deepest of sorrow.
Life is a roller coaster, and when you endure a loss like ours, it turns into the wildest of rides. Life is full of beautiful things, and very ugly and scary things. Very painful things. Depending on what you've been through, life's low points are much lower than the high points can ever be high. But the key is to stay afloat. Isaac by no means has replaced or fixed the loss of Emma. Emma has by no means made Shade less worthy. But the loss of her is so crippling, that the worth of him is sometimes hard to see. The gain of Isaac is so reparable, that sometimes I feel almost normal. I hope that whoever you are reading this does NOT understand what I mean. But if you do, you know exactly what I mean and how hard it is to find balance between it. Living life running from the guilt that tries to swallow you up for thinking any less of the beautiful blessing you've been given just because the curse you've been dealt is so horrible. I know God understands our hearts and I do not think we are judged on that part.
But the next time you see a board like this...remember, its not just a board to some of us. Its so much more.
xoxo
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