It was Christmas Eve, 1997. We had been trying for two years to
become pregnant again. What a wonderful present it would be to be
able to tell
my husband that we were expecting at this special time of year! Unfortunately,
a home pregnancy test did not support my suspicions, and I had no good
news that day. Eight days later, though, my body was still sending me confusing
signals...aches and pains, and more telling--weepiness for no reason, any
time of day or night. Could I dare hope? Didn't we just have a negative
result?
Well, on the way home from a play on the evening of Saturday, January 3rd,
we ran into an all-night drug store and bought
another home pregnancy test. A
positive result! I could hardly believe my eyes as I watched that little
pink
line creep across the window!
Just to be sure, I did another test the next day after we came home from
church. (When you don't have a regular cycle, you seem to spend a lot of
money on pregnancy tests!) Oh, yes, it was still positive! Now, I
began to allow
myself to be excited....I called my diabetes educator and we made an
appointment with my doctor for the next day! I was taking no chances!
In his office the next day, he was almost as excited as I was, and we
giggled together like children in the office. The receptionists, the diabetes
educator, the nurses, EVERYONE was thrilled in the expectation of this
child.
I was referred to a maternal- fetal specialist in the care of women with
diabetes. Through my diet and use of insulin, my blood sugar levels were
already so well regulated that my three month average, as tested by the
HA1C
test, was well within the normal range! I was reassured that I had nothing
to
worry about, and on January 9, 1998, I heard my baby's heartbeat for the
first
time through the use of trans-vaginal ultrasound. The due date was
determined to be August 26th, 1998. Oh, how I floated out of the
office that
day, on the arm of my husband! He had left to move the car to a better
parking
spot while I was waiting my turn, and by the time he had returned,
my visit was
over. He voiced his disappointment at having missed hearing
the baby's little
heart beating. We like to fool ourselves that we can determine
the gender of
any baby just by hearing the rate of heartbeat. Then, with
an assuredness that I
doubt I will ever feel about anything again, I replied...."Oh, Hon...there
will be so many other times in the next eight months!" Now, thinking back
over all of this, I realize that he never did get to hear it
at all....
Since we are born-again Christians in our home, praying together is an
important part of the time that we share, both as a couple in our quiet
times,
and as a family with our children. Boy, did we just THANK God for this
miracle that was unfolding in our lives!!! Since we were two adults,
two little
boys, a dog and a baby on the way all in one tiny condominium
apartment, you
just KNOW that one of the things we prayed about was selling
our apartment
and moving to a house. But, the real estate market had changed so
much in the
ten years since we had bought the apartment, that it lost a lot of
its value, and
a lot of sellers in my development had their places on the market for a
year
or more. Well, in the excitement that was our lives at the time, we signed
the apartment with a real estate agent, and GUESS WHAT! It was sold for
our asking price in ONE DAY. Well, everything just seemed to be going
our
way.
Due to sensitivity to the hormones of pregnancy, I tend to suffer throughout
the duration of my pregnancies. It really didn't matter about the time
of
day, but my "Morning Sickness" would be a constant companion during
these months! I would even wake up at night from a sound sleep
to be sick.
Ah, well, the joys of pregnancy. I kept looking toward that proverbial
three
month mark with the unsinkable hope that THIS time it would get better
after
that, but I really didn't think it would. With my first son, I had lost
40
pounds DURING the pregnancy due to the constant sickness, and with my
second son it was only a bit better.
I set to work writing in the little pregnancy journal that I had bought,
reading my old "What to Expect When You're Expecting" books, racking my
brains for the PERFECT baby names. To be honest, I had a lot of baby
names picked out already. I WILL never bear enough
children to use all
the names that I love!
I allowed myself time to rest in the afternoons, letting my children
play quietly
in the apartment on those cold afternoons, while I sat with my feet
up after a
trying day at work. It was all very peaceful, which is a wonderful
thing,
because I come from a past filled with chaos, confusion, anxiety and pain.
I planned my leave from work, allowing the extra time before summer vacation
that I needed to move out of our home, and into the perfect new home that
we
had found; a house complete with a playroom, a backyard, and an extra
bedroom for our new little bundle of joy! Oh, yes...everything was
going our
way! It took me a long time to do things, always allowing an
extra fifteen
minutes for a nosebleed or to make my customary run to the bathroom, but
I
was getting everything done!
Toward the end of February, I thought I began to feel the light fluttering
and butterfly kisses that were my baby's tumbling and movement. A little
gymnast, I thought! Even though this was relatively early, I went running
for
my other two pregnancy journals and found that I felt life very early on
with
my second son, too. I bet I would have with my first one, but I didn't
know
what I was waiting for! He was the first, after all!
As the three month mark dawned, Surprise! I had good mornings,
pleasant afternoons, calm evenings. This time it WOULD be different!
Little
did I realize.
March 3rd, I again went to the doctors' office, and got a glowing
report! I hadn't gained too much weight, my blood pressure was fine, the
blood sugar results that I faxed into the office every day were excellent.
At
that visit, I heard the heart beating and smiled to myself.
"Boy, " I thought, convinced. How wonderful! A brother for Peter and Neil.
Just what they always wanted! With a big grin, My doctor took my hand,
and
helped me up from the stirrups.
"Last trans-vaginal," he said. "Next time, through the belly!"
So, we were getting too far along for trans-vaginal ultrasound! Well, that
was a milestone of some sort! Not one of the major ones, but, a milestone
nevertheless! I went home and told my husband what I suspected about the
gender of the baby, and we joked a bit about the new Yankee outfield
---"Holy Cow, look at those Falcone boys!" to paraphrase our favorite
Yankee announcer Phil Rizzutto. He also mentioned that
three of a kind
wasn't a bad poker hand, either, and we laughed and joked our way
through a few more days.
A few nights later, laying in bed, he was terribly troubled and felt led
to
pray for the child we were expecting. In our church, we do not have infant
baptisms, but rather a ceremony of dedication. It is not a rite of membership
for the church, but rather a sign to the rest of the congregation that
the
parents are acknowledging the sovereignty of the Lord; that this life does
not
BELONG to the parents, but have been entrusted to them to raise and train
up for the service of the Lord. Also, it acknowledges that God is
responsible
for the child. We have dedicated our two boys during church services, and
it
was very moving. This night, Neil was led to dedicate our child in utero.
He
prayed, acknowledging all the things that I mentioned here.
The following Tuesday was March 10th. (When do we ever forget the dates
that are so intricately woven into the details of these stories? I would
bet
never.) The visit started out routinely enough. Blood pressure? Fine. Weight?
Not bad. Puffiness? None. Blood sugar levels? Excellent. Lay down and lets
see this little one. And then, everything was different, and my life
would never
be the same again.
How can I describe a moment that will be forever burned into this page
of my
memory? I can't. I will be able to describe the events. I will be able
to
tell the sequence in which they happened, but never will I be able to convey
to anyone the emotions, the feelings, the thoughts; the physical, emotional
and spiritual reactions that occurred. Even other women who have
experienced the same thing cannot understand, because it is, of course,
colored by the light of each woman's makeup, and the things she has
brought
with her from other areas of her life. It is subjective, shapeless, unmeasurable,
and yet, to be endured.
"There is your beautiful baby!" Zarina (the technician) announced, pointing
out the different body parts. But then there was a catch in her conversation.
I knew why. The baby was still. Too still. No movement. And when the
screen showed the area of the thoracic cavity, where the tiny little
heart
should have been beating...no movement again.
Now, I am an intelligent woman. I should have known what this meant. But
I
allowed myself to become numb. I dressed. I listened to the doctor tell
me
that there was no movement, no heartbeat. I listened to him tell me that
in
these cases, the body usually takes care of this "Naturally" and I listened
to
him give me his emergency number at the hospital in case I noticed any
bleeding or cramping. My intellect KNEW what all this meant, but my heart
did not accept it.
The receptionist knew immediately that something was wrong when she saw
my face. I am usually filled with joviality, and other people often
depend on
me to be a steady source of good nature. I'm not bragging. I'm just
trying to
explain what might have been different in me that clued her in. She helped
me
call my husband, because in my numbed state, I couldn't remember his
phone number at work. And she gave me privacy to speak with him on
the
phone.
He met me at home immediately, calling everyone that we knew to pray
for
us.
I took the next two days off from work, unable to explain to everyone what
was happening. My best friend at work was due the same week as me, and
of all things, I DIDN'T WANT TO FRIGHTEN HER. Go figure! My
diabetes doctor called me to reassure
me that I had done everything right,
that there was nothing I could have possibly done that I didn't do.
Finally, I
went back to work. I shared with my closest friends what was happening,
and they helped me be strong. I worked,
I played with children, I ate lunch, I
did all the mundane things that make up a life, and yet, something
was
missing...the joy of expectation was
gone. And you know what? That's when
I knew. That's when I accepted the truth to myself and
absorbed it
completely. The joy of my expectation was gone, and that spoke volumes
into my spirit.
Despite all this, I had a great peace, and went about doing the things
that I
had to do until the next appointment. No bleeding, no cramps. Nothing out
of
the ordinary, except that I knew.
The next week, St. Patrick's Day, my husband stayed home from work, and
went with me to the appointment. Not even any preliminaries this
time. Just
up on the table, and that terrible silence.
The technician couldn't look at me.
The receptionist hadn't been able to speak to me on the way in, the
doctor
had tears in his eyes. We had to talk about what came next. My husband
held
my hand, and we listened to his instructions. I had to arrange a
babysitter for
the next day and go to the hospital early in the morning to report to,
of all
places...labor and delivery!
And so, we went. Early on a rainy, dreary morning. March 18th, 1998. The
day before St. Joseph's Day. We watched "I Love Lucy" reruns on the t.v.
while a clerical worker filled out papers. I remember the episode...the
one
with John Wayne's footprints. Then I was taken to the labor room.
The I.V.
was begun, the Prostin suppository inserted, and we were off. That
was
11:00 A.M.
Six hours later, I was still there. No cramps. No bleeding. Nothing. Oh,
my
poor little baby. What happened to us? What was going to happen to us?
How would they take you from me?
4:00 P.M. Another Prostin suppository. Another shift of nurses. Another
baby born in the room next to mine. Another bottle of champagne that I
couldn't share. Well, to their credit...they DID send a chaplain...a Catholic
nun. I'm Protestant. Clearly indicated on the admissions form. Oh,
well...SNAFUs happen, I guess.
My husband left to ease the transition for our boys between their babysitter
and My sister, who has never babysat for them before. We don't have a lot
of
help. He went to pick up my son's report card and have the parent teacher
conference, and to update my colleagues at school as to what was going
on.
He came back to the hospital in Staten Island from Brooklyn at about
7:00
P.M. I was uncomfortable. I was frightened. I was cold and hot. I
missed the
life that was in me...even though the baby had not passed from my
body yet.
I cried. For the first time in all this, since it began two weeks ago,
I cried.
11:00 P.M. and still nothing. Another Prostin suppository, another shift
of
nurses. My doctor introduced me to the doctor who would be responsible
for
my care overnight. My husband had to leave because my sister had
to get up
for work at 5:00 A.M. I acted brave. I told him it's O.K. I lied. I told
him that
the boys needed him, that they needed to feel security and continuity.
I
harbored anger and bitterness because, even in this hospital bed, if I
didn't
make arrangements and schedule things, they did not get done. And deep
inside, I knew that he does not WANT to be here, and this is convenient.
He
left.
11:30 P.M. I did not have labor pains per se. . .at least not contractions
that come and go. Just one constant pain that grew and grew and GREW into
a TREMENDOUS urge to push. Bright red blood and a gush of fluid. I
could not look. My body struggled to push, and yet, with everything
in me, I
wanted to hold this inside, and not give it up to ANYONE! This was
my
hope. This was my expectation. This was my joy. Even so, the
child
passed from me, and I was spent with
the effort, drenched in perspiration
and tears.
The nurse and doctor examined my baby, and told me that it appeared to
be
a boy. Well developed and whole. Complete. Something I thought about
but
never spoke. But they knew my questions and answered them. It was now
St. Joseph's Day which has always been a significant
day for my family. My
Grandfather's name day. A special day. Even though I had the name Thomas
Paul picked out if we had a son, the calendar pulled at me and pulled at
me. This child will forever be Josiah Joseph in my memory.
I never held him. I never SAW him. I only have the memory of what it was
like to feel the promise of his little flutterings...my little gymnast.
The
hospital workers swept him away, to what end, I'll never know. Maybe I
know that I don't WANT to know, and I leave it at that.
For some reason, the placenta did not deliver. I agreed to the Demerol
that
they offered me...there was no reason not to, and I cried myself to sleep
between contractions. At about 3:00 A.M. the doctor helped to deliver the
placenta. I have had two C-sections, and now, a premature delivery, but
I
have never felt that much pain...even though I had the Demerol. I have
a
feeling that my emotional state may have had something to do with that.
You
know what? As they delivered the placenta, I heard a baby cry in another
room. A baby being born! And I fell asleep with peace.
The next morning, after a room change and a quick exam, I left the hospital
on the arm of my husband. The same hospital that I had floated out of when
I
first heard my baby's heart beating way back in January. The slow drizzle
only dampened my feelings, and I felt as if the very SKY was crying.
This
was not a good way to begin my healing.
The past six weeks have been the most difficult time that I have ever had
to
endure, I must admit. To have to go through all of the usual post partum
bleeding and healing, and the emotional roller coaster associated with
it,
without having the benefit of the baby to validate the whole experience
and
help me say "Yes, it's bad, but this makes it all worthwhile!" was draining
on
so many different levels. Just when I was on the road back, my milk came
in!
I don't know why I was totally surprised, after all I had nursed two babies
in
the past, but this time it released in me terrible depression and sadness.
My
longing and my desire, however, was not for the baby himself anymore. I
knew that he was really gone, and I could do nothing to bring him
back.
My desire was to have him remembered. I needed to feel that the promise
of
his existence was something more than just emptiness to his Dad and me.
It
always helped, however, to know that I was not alone...My God has been
there with me the whole time, and I KNOW that He will turn my mourning
into dancing in the fullness of time!
EPILOGUE
On April 26th, 1998, my church had a ceremony of Baby Dedication for
three babies that had been born during the past few months. Even though
I
had been doing very well (as a matter of fact,
my husband and I have been
discussing trying to increase our family again! Wish us luck!), I was thinking
of
avoiding this particular Sunday, not knowing how I might react in a sensitive
situation. It was exactly six weeks since Josiah Joseph's delivery. We
were
prepared to stay home until the very moment we needed to leave. It was
then
that I realized how I was being robbed of my joy, and my son of his legacy.
Not only did I decide to attend the service, but I decided to use it as
an
opportunity to give my testimony and, in doing so, honor my son.
What follows is an excerpt from what I presented to the Pastors and the
congregation on that day:
"Today is the day of Baby Dedication in our church. We had dedicated our
son to the Lord during my pregnancy. When he died, even though this
was a
terrible thing, we KNEW that this child belonged to the Lord, and would
never
be out of God's care...I KNOW that God did not TAKE my son from me, but
in His hands, "...all things work for the good of those whom are called
according to His purpose....."(Romans 8:28)
And, so, we give back what we have already given back. Baby Joey never
belonged to us, just like Peter and Neil Jr. do not belong to us. We have
covenanted to care for them and love them, and to teach them about our
glorious Lord, but in the end, we are only the stewards of these little
lives.
Our God is a God of strength, and the care of one little angel is not too
hard
for Him!!!!!
In addition, it has caused me to re-examine my relationship with the two
that
God has left in my care....Peter and Little Neil. I was reminded of the
story
of the servants left with the care of the "talents" while the king was
away.
I want to challenge the new mothers here today and encourage them to build
up their "ministries" of motherhood, to validate their servanthood
in that area;
to tell them that every investment of time and labor and love that we make
into these little heavenly bank accounts is all to the glory of God, so
that
we may see the "multiplicity" of his grace in their lives....
And so that when we stand before the King when He comes back from
travelling in a distant land, He will look on how we have nurtured
His
investment,and tell us "Well done, good and faithful servant!!!!!!"
I am healed, I am whole... My God is a God of VICTORY!"
ALL of her sons! He has left us with an undying memory of hope and
excitement.
He has helped us to build up our faith, and lean on our Lord for all the
strength that we do not have in ourselves. His presence, though maybe not
considered life by some, was not in vain!
Justina J Falcone
Completed April 30, 1998
in memory of
Josiah Joseph Falcone
born still on March 18, 1998
