This is a great article -- I love so many things about it that I don't even know where to start!
Christian Medical Comment: Defending the ‘indefensible’? Twenty reasons to think twice about aborting a baby with anencephaly
Update on the mystery nurse
I got a phone call from a hospital representative today. She believes that they now know the identity of the nurse who worked so hard to provide us with Talitha's footprints. Sadly, she passed away several years ago. The representative also told me that getting the handprints/footprints is something that would have been very true to this nurse's nature, as she had a reputation for being a very loving, caring, and sympathetic nurse.
If nothing else, maybe my story will 1) bring awareness to anencephaly, as well as to the option and blessings of carrying to term, 2) provide some comfort to grieving mothers, and 3) let nurses know how much the little things they do are appreciated and remembered.
I hope that's what it does, anyway.
If nothing else, maybe my story will 1) bring awareness to anencephaly, as well as to the option and blessings of carrying to term, 2) provide some comfort to grieving mothers, and 3) let nurses know how much the little things they do are appreciated and remembered.
I hope that's what it does, anyway.
On the anniversary of her diagnosis
Since this blog is obviously very brand-new-again, I don't have anything new to say. I only have old to say. ;)
But for those of you who may be facing a diagnosis right now, I figured I could share the thoughts I had this year on her diagnosis. It might help somebody.
From my Facebook (seeing a pattern yet?) status on June 21, 2013 --
Waiting Room
^^^ (that's a song and you should listen to it)
For as long as I can remember, June 21 has been my favorite day of the year. I like it more than Christmas; I like it more than my birthday. I like to treat it like a holiday by waking up early to watch the sunrise and by making sure I'm outside to watch the sunset. I relish both events, knowing that I am watching them earlier and later than is possible on any other day of the year. I love the Longest Day of the Year with the same amount of passion that I hate the Shortest Day of the Year (which is really, really, really a lot). I know it's weird to have a favorite day based on how much daylight there is. That doesn't stop me from loving it.
But in 1999, June 21 was not only the Longest Day of the Year, but also the Longest Day of My Life. It was the day that I was unexpectedly ushered into my Waiting Room.
I was 21 weeks pregnant and running late with my sonogram. We had been in North Carolina visiting Walt's family when the scheduled time came, so I had to back it up a bit. I could have scheduled it earlier, before our trip, but the odds of learning the baby's gender would have been slimmer, and we wanted to know if at all possible -- so 21 weeks it was.
We dropped our kids (6 and 2) off at a friend's house and made the drive to San Angelo for my appointment. When we got to the doctor's office, he was running late. We waited and waited, and I began to get nervous (we'd had three losses between our two older kids; staying calm during pregnancy had long since ceased to be my natural tendency). I mentioned to Walt that I was getting nervous, and he helped me brush it off. Everything would be fine.
The doctor finally came in. He told us that we were having a girl, which sounded pretty good to me. I remember him pointing out her heart and saying that it looked great. Then he started looking at her head.
He got very quiet for a long time.
I had only thought I was nervous before.
He walked over to the table where my chart was and flipped through it, looking for something. He went back and forth between the chart and the ultrasound machine, looking intently at both of them, before he said, "I can't find any record of an AFP test -- did you have one?" I told him that we had opted not to. He got very quiet, looked for a while longer, and finally broke the news to us: our daughter had anencephaly.
She would either be stillborn or die shortly after birth, but one thing was certain: our daughter would die.
He sent us for a second opinion and told us that when we were finished we should come back to his office to discuss our options. The second doctor confirmed that our little girl was indeed anencephalic.
Back in the obstetrician's office, he told us that most people choose to terminate anencephalic pregnancies by having labor induced, but that some people do carry to term. He wanted us to know that he would support us no matter which way we decided to go. He advised us not to make any decisions for about a week so that we wouldn't act hastily and regret anything later.
We left, stunned and heartbroken.
I tried to call my parents. They weren't home.
We drove home. We cried a lot on the way.
We picked the kids up. We cried while we did it.
We thought and we cried and we prayed and we cried and we talked and we cried and we planned and we cried and we considered and then we cried some more.
We cried an awful lot that day.
We finally reached my parents. I lost it. I didn't just cry. I sobbed. I bawled. I still remember falling to my knees on the kitchen floor and crying even harder after I realized I had turned 'anencephaly' into an unintelligible mess of about 24 syllables because of my sobbing -- and that I'd have to say that awful word again and do a better job of it.
We told the kids that our baby had a broken head and that she was very, very sick. We tried not to cry. We didn't succeed.
We looked up anencephaly on the internet and realized that one must be very careful how one does that.
It was the day for my weekly internet chat with a group of other mothers who had delivered stillborn babies. Pregnancy after a late loss is a terrifying thing, and they had all been anticipating my sonogram with me. It was hard to tell them - we had all already experienced heartache before, and we had all expected that I would receive good news. Fortunately, 'anencephaly' is easier to type through tears than it is to say through them.
'You've Got Mail' was on TV that evening. I had never seen it before. I have never seen it since. I needed the distraction. I can't tell you much of what it's about. It was kind of hard to see through the tears, and it was kind of hard to concentrate through the thoughts.
After a day that had lasted at least eight million years, it was finally close to sunset. We had a door in our bedroom that opened out to a west-facing doorstep. Walt asked if I wanted company, and I told him no. I sat on that step in my maternity clothes, feeling our daughter move, and I cried and watched the sun set. It was June 21, and I needed some sense of normalcy. And watching the sunset is what I do on June 21, so watch the sun set, I did.
After it set, I continued to sit there for a very long time.
The sky grew dark and the stars came out and the sky looked just like it always does on a normal West Texas night in June. It hadn't changed, though my life had been turned upside down.
It reminded me of the line, 'God's in His heaven, all's right with the world'.
I didn't know it then, but I was getting ready to learn some very important lessons about that. Good lessons -- lessons that I'm glad I learned, though I wasn't a huge fan of the way I had to learn them.
But those are stories for another day, and not for June 21.
This story is about June 21, the Longest Day of the Year and the Longest Day of My Life.
And this is my account of that day, just because I've never put it all down in one place, and I need to write it down before the memories start to get fuzzy.
It's June 21 again. Tonight, I will go out and watch the sunset. And I will remember my Talitha Hope on the longest day of the year.
But for those of you who may be facing a diagnosis right now, I figured I could share the thoughts I had this year on her diagnosis. It might help somebody.
From my Facebook (seeing a pattern yet?) status on June 21, 2013 --
Waiting Room
^^^ (that's a song and you should listen to it)
For as long as I can remember, June 21 has been my favorite day of the year. I like it more than Christmas; I like it more than my birthday. I like to treat it like a holiday by waking up early to watch the sunrise and by making sure I'm outside to watch the sunset. I relish both events, knowing that I am watching them earlier and later than is possible on any other day of the year. I love the Longest Day of the Year with the same amount of passion that I hate the Shortest Day of the Year (which is really, really, really a lot). I know it's weird to have a favorite day based on how much daylight there is. That doesn't stop me from loving it.
But in 1999, June 21 was not only the Longest Day of the Year, but also the Longest Day of My Life. It was the day that I was unexpectedly ushered into my Waiting Room.
I was 21 weeks pregnant and running late with my sonogram. We had been in North Carolina visiting Walt's family when the scheduled time came, so I had to back it up a bit. I could have scheduled it earlier, before our trip, but the odds of learning the baby's gender would have been slimmer, and we wanted to know if at all possible -- so 21 weeks it was.
We dropped our kids (6 and 2) off at a friend's house and made the drive to San Angelo for my appointment. When we got to the doctor's office, he was running late. We waited and waited, and I began to get nervous (we'd had three losses between our two older kids; staying calm during pregnancy had long since ceased to be my natural tendency). I mentioned to Walt that I was getting nervous, and he helped me brush it off. Everything would be fine.
The doctor finally came in. He told us that we were having a girl, which sounded pretty good to me. I remember him pointing out her heart and saying that it looked great. Then he started looking at her head.
He got very quiet for a long time.
I had only thought I was nervous before.
He walked over to the table where my chart was and flipped through it, looking for something. He went back and forth between the chart and the ultrasound machine, looking intently at both of them, before he said, "I can't find any record of an AFP test -- did you have one?" I told him that we had opted not to. He got very quiet, looked for a while longer, and finally broke the news to us: our daughter had anencephaly.
She would either be stillborn or die shortly after birth, but one thing was certain: our daughter would die.
He sent us for a second opinion and told us that when we were finished we should come back to his office to discuss our options. The second doctor confirmed that our little girl was indeed anencephalic.
Back in the obstetrician's office, he told us that most people choose to terminate anencephalic pregnancies by having labor induced, but that some people do carry to term. He wanted us to know that he would support us no matter which way we decided to go. He advised us not to make any decisions for about a week so that we wouldn't act hastily and regret anything later.
We left, stunned and heartbroken.
I tried to call my parents. They weren't home.
We drove home. We cried a lot on the way.
We picked the kids up. We cried while we did it.
We thought and we cried and we prayed and we cried and we talked and we cried and we planned and we cried and we considered and then we cried some more.
We cried an awful lot that day.
We finally reached my parents. I lost it. I didn't just cry. I sobbed. I bawled. I still remember falling to my knees on the kitchen floor and crying even harder after I realized I had turned 'anencephaly' into an unintelligible mess of about 24 syllables because of my sobbing -- and that I'd have to say that awful word again and do a better job of it.
We told the kids that our baby had a broken head and that she was very, very sick. We tried not to cry. We didn't succeed.
We looked up anencephaly on the internet and realized that one must be very careful how one does that.
It was the day for my weekly internet chat with a group of other mothers who had delivered stillborn babies. Pregnancy after a late loss is a terrifying thing, and they had all been anticipating my sonogram with me. It was hard to tell them - we had all already experienced heartache before, and we had all expected that I would receive good news. Fortunately, 'anencephaly' is easier to type through tears than it is to say through them.
'You've Got Mail' was on TV that evening. I had never seen it before. I have never seen it since. I needed the distraction. I can't tell you much of what it's about. It was kind of hard to see through the tears, and it was kind of hard to concentrate through the thoughts.
After a day that had lasted at least eight million years, it was finally close to sunset. We had a door in our bedroom that opened out to a west-facing doorstep. Walt asked if I wanted company, and I told him no. I sat on that step in my maternity clothes, feeling our daughter move, and I cried and watched the sun set. It was June 21, and I needed some sense of normalcy. And watching the sunset is what I do on June 21, so watch the sun set, I did.
After it set, I continued to sit there for a very long time.
The sky grew dark and the stars came out and the sky looked just like it always does on a normal West Texas night in June. It hadn't changed, though my life had been turned upside down.
It reminded me of the line, 'God's in His heaven, all's right with the world'.
I didn't know it then, but I was getting ready to learn some very important lessons about that. Good lessons -- lessons that I'm glad I learned, though I wasn't a huge fan of the way I had to learn them.
But those are stories for another day, and not for June 21.
This story is about June 21, the Longest Day of the Year and the Longest Day of My Life.
And this is my account of that day, just because I've never put it all down in one place, and I need to write it down before the memories start to get fuzzy.
It's June 21 again. Tonight, I will go out and watch the sunset. And I will remember my Talitha Hope on the longest day of the year.
Coming back and starting fresh
This past week, I posted a Facebook status update that
surprised me by taking on a life of its own, and it ended up going viral.
While the attention that it brought me made me very uncomfortable, it also made
me realize that there is still a huge lack of 'in real life' support for carrying fatally ill
babies to term, and that I need to use this huge opportunity to do my part
to help people understand that they don't have to terminate. Not a lot of people realize that it's a real option, but if you know where to look online, there are
fantastic websites out there where you can find a wealth of information and support;
it is my hope that I will eventually be able to link to those and join them in
their endeavor to help families whose babies have been recently diagnosed, as
well as families who are farther along in the journey.
Since that status update got me to this
point, it only seems right that it be my first post as I start up again, so
here it is. It was posted on Facebook for Talitha's 14th birthday on September
30, 2013 .
Sending
a big 'happy birthday!' to heaven and to our middle daughter, Talitha Hope, who
would have been 14 years old at exactly 5:23
am on September 30. We were blessed with her for
52 minutes, and we have missed her greatly ever since.
This
year, I'm going to tell a different part of her story – a part I don't think
I’ve ever told, but a part I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. (My goal in
posting something every year isn't to gain sympathy, but simply to acknowledge
her life, as well as to offer hope to others whose losses are newer. If you are
one of those, please hear me -- it does get better. You will survive. Right now
you're collapsed on the kitchen floor because you were mopping and crying at
the same time and you finally completely lost it and you just gave up on the
stupid floor and slumped down onto it and now you don't know what water is from
the floor and what water is from your eyes and you're just a soaking, sobbing
mess -- oh, wait. that was me -- but you will smile again. You will laugh
again. You will always remember, but one day there will only be sweet memories
and a little scar that hurts a bit when you push on it, some days more than
others. And your child will always, always, always matter. Don't be afraid that
you'll forget. You won't.)
(I forgot to mention that I am frequently prone to overly long parenthetical statements. On we go . . . .)
Because Talitha’s birth was so unexpected (she was over 4 weeks early), because her delivery was an emergency, and because her life was so short, my out-of-town family members were not able to reach the hospital before she died. We kept her with us for a few hours afterward so that everyone could see her as they arrived.
And because she was dying, as soon as she was born she had been cleaned up and immediately handed to us so we could spend as much time as possible with her. (We had learned in June that she had anencephaly, which is always fatal; there was nothing anyone could do to help her.)
And because of those becauses and because we had been so busy trying to cram a lifetime into a morning, we realized too late that getting her handprints and footprints had been neglected. By the time anyone remembered, her little hands had already clenched in death and would not open.
When it's not even lunchtime and your heart has already been stomped on and shredded into a million little pieces, it doesn't take much to ruin your day, and this realization seemed like the proverbial last straw -- but then a nurse who just happened to be in the room asked if she could try something.
She took Talitha down to the nursery and rocked her and rocked her and rocked her, massaging and rubbing her hands the whole time. She was finally able to get them warm and pliable enough to open. After what seemed like an eternity, she came back with these prints for me.
I don’t remember her name. I’ve never been able to thank her other than at the moment she brought the papers to me, but I often wish I could. I know that cradling a stranger’s dead newborn certainly was not what she had been planning on doing when she got out of bed that morning, and I am tremendously grateful for the time and effort she took to give me such a treasure.
It is the best birthday gift I’ve ever gotten, especially on someone else’s birthday.
So wherever you are, young nurse with the brown hair who was working atShannon Hospital San
Angelo , Texas Thursday,
September 30, 1999 , thank you. You gave my baby an hour or
so of your time. And through that act, you gave me a lifetime of memories.
I wish I knew your name.
(I forgot to mention that I am frequently prone to overly long parenthetical statements. On we go . . . .)
Because Talitha’s birth was so unexpected (she was over 4 weeks early), because her delivery was an emergency, and because her life was so short, my out-of-town family members were not able to reach the hospital before she died. We kept her with us for a few hours afterward so that everyone could see her as they arrived.
And because she was dying, as soon as she was born she had been cleaned up and immediately handed to us so we could spend as much time as possible with her. (We had learned in June that she had anencephaly, which is always fatal; there was nothing anyone could do to help her.)
And because of those becauses and because we had been so busy trying to cram a lifetime into a morning, we realized too late that getting her handprints and footprints had been neglected. By the time anyone remembered, her little hands had already clenched in death and would not open.
When it's not even lunchtime and your heart has already been stomped on and shredded into a million little pieces, it doesn't take much to ruin your day, and this realization seemed like the proverbial last straw -- but then a nurse who just happened to be in the room asked if she could try something.
She took Talitha down to the nursery and rocked her and rocked her and rocked her, massaging and rubbing her hands the whole time. She was finally able to get them warm and pliable enough to open. After what seemed like an eternity, she came back with these prints for me.
I don’t remember her name. I’ve never been able to thank her other than at the moment she brought the papers to me, but I often wish I could. I know that cradling a stranger’s dead newborn certainly was not what she had been planning on doing when she got out of bed that morning, and I am tremendously grateful for the time and effort she took to give me such a treasure.
It is the best birthday gift I’ve ever gotten, especially on someone else’s birthday.
So wherever you are, young nurse with the brown hair who was working at
I wish I knew your name.
Talitha's Life
On March 1, 1999, we learned that we were expecting a baby sometime around November 2. Because we had been through three losses between our daughter (then 6) and our son (then 2), we had decided that we would stop at two children. As a result, we were completely surprised by the news, but once we got used to the idea of a third child, we were excited. Deep down, I had always wanted a houseful of kids. It didn't take long for us to decide that this was very good news, indeed.
It was an uneventful pregnancy until I had my first sonogram on June 21. The doctor told us that we were having a girl, and I remember him pointing out her heart and saying that it looked great. Then the doctor started looking at her head. He got very quiet for a long time, and it was at this point that I began to get nervous. He walked over to the table where my chart was and flipped through it, obviously looking for something. He then went back and forth between the chart and the ultrasound machine, looking intently at both of them, before he said, "I can't find any record of an AFP test -- did you have one?" I told him that we had opted not to. He looked for a while longer and finally broke the news to us: our daughter had anencephaly.
Anencephaly is a fatal birth defect which occurs early in pregnancy. The neural tube fails to close and, as a result, most of the baby's brain is missing. The doctor told us that she would be normal from the eyebrows down, but that her head would stop at the eyebrows. He told us that she would either be stillborn or die shortly after birth, but that survival was impossible.
He sent us for a second opinion and told us that when we were finished we should come back to his office to discuss our options. The second doctor confirmed that our little girl was indeed anencephalic. Back in the obstetrician's office, he told us that most people choose to terminate the pregnancy by having labor induced, but that some people do carry to term, and that he would support us no matter which way we decided to go. He advised us not to make any decisions for about a week so that we wouldn't act hastily and regret anything later.
I knew immediately that I wanted to carry our daughter for as long as possible, but I wasn't sure how Walt was feeling about it. After a few days of talking and praying and researching and questioning and exploring every possible option and every possible emotion we each had on the subject, we came to the very definite conclusion that we were agreed: we would love our daughter for as long as we had the privilege. We would not "play God". We would not give our surviving children the chance to ever look at us and say, "You say we serve a miracle-working God. Why did you deny Him the opportunity?"
As the days passed, I knew I wanted to choose a very special name for our very special girl, and I found the perfect one in the New Testament. My baby name book says that Talitha is Arabic/Aramaic for 'little girl', and I took her name from the following passage of Scripture:
"When they came to the home of the synagogue ruler, Jesus saw a commotion, with people crying and wailing loudly. He went in and said to them, "Why all this commotion and wailing? The child is not dead but asleep." But they laughed at him. After he put them all out, he took the child's father and mother and the disciples who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, "Talitha koum!" (which means, "Little girl, I say to you, get up!"). Immediately the girl stood up and walked around (she was twelve years old). At this they were completely astonished." (Mark 5:38-42 NIV)
I chose the name Talitha for a couple of reasons. First, if we received a miracle and our daughter survived, it would be the perfect name for her. But if she died at birth, I loved the idea of my deaf, blind, and so-much-more little girl arriving in heaven, hearing the voice of her Savior saying to her, "Talitha koum!", and doing it.
It was an uneventful pregnancy until I had my first sonogram on June 21. The doctor told us that we were having a girl, and I remember him pointing out her heart and saying that it looked great. Then the doctor started looking at her head. He got very quiet for a long time, and it was at this point that I began to get nervous. He walked over to the table where my chart was and flipped through it, obviously looking for something. He then went back and forth between the chart and the ultrasound machine, looking intently at both of them, before he said, "I can't find any record of an AFP test -- did you have one?" I told him that we had opted not to. He looked for a while longer and finally broke the news to us: our daughter had anencephaly.
Anencephaly is a fatal birth defect which occurs early in pregnancy. The neural tube fails to close and, as a result, most of the baby's brain is missing. The doctor told us that she would be normal from the eyebrows down, but that her head would stop at the eyebrows. He told us that she would either be stillborn or die shortly after birth, but that survival was impossible.
He sent us for a second opinion and told us that when we were finished we should come back to his office to discuss our options. The second doctor confirmed that our little girl was indeed anencephalic. Back in the obstetrician's office, he told us that most people choose to terminate the pregnancy by having labor induced, but that some people do carry to term, and that he would support us no matter which way we decided to go. He advised us not to make any decisions for about a week so that we wouldn't act hastily and regret anything later.
I knew immediately that I wanted to carry our daughter for as long as possible, but I wasn't sure how Walt was feeling about it. After a few days of talking and praying and researching and questioning and exploring every possible option and every possible emotion we each had on the subject, we came to the very definite conclusion that we were agreed: we would love our daughter for as long as we had the privilege. We would not "play God". We would not give our surviving children the chance to ever look at us and say, "You say we serve a miracle-working God. Why did you deny Him the opportunity?"
As the days passed, I knew I wanted to choose a very special name for our very special girl, and I found the perfect one in the New Testament. My baby name book says that Talitha is Arabic/Aramaic for 'little girl', and I took her name from the following passage of Scripture:
"When they came to the home of the synagogue ruler, Jesus saw a commotion, with people crying and wailing loudly. He went in and said to them, "Why all this commotion and wailing? The child is not dead but asleep." But they laughed at him. After he put them all out, he took the child's father and mother and the disciples who were with him, and went in where the child was. He took her by the hand and said to her, "Talitha koum!" (which means, "Little girl, I say to you, get up!"). Immediately the girl stood up and walked around (she was twelve years old). At this they were completely astonished." (Mark 5:38-42 NIV)
I chose the name Talitha for a couple of reasons. First, if we received a miracle and our daughter survived, it would be the perfect name for her. But if she died at birth, I loved the idea of my deaf, blind, and so-much-more little girl arriving in heaven, hearing the voice of her Savior saying to her, "Talitha koum!", and doing it.
I chose the name Hope because nobody else was giving her any.
One day while Torey was at school and Jonah was at Mother's Day Out, we went to the funeral home to discuss our options with the funeral director. After we left, we went for a drive in order to sort through everything.
Walt told me that he wanted to dig Talitha's grave. Thinking he was doing it in order to save money, I told him that it wouldn't be necessary. I thought there were far better ways to save money than to skimp on funeral costs by digging the grave of one's own child. He again stated that it's what he wanted to do. Once again, I protested.
He took my hand and started crying. "You don't get it," he said. "You are actively being her mother. You are carrying her and you are giving her life. I will never get to do anything for her. I will never teach her how to ride a bike, I will never spank her little bottom, and I will never walk her down the aisle. I will never actively be her father. This is the only thing I can ever do for her. Please let me do it."
So that was settled.
On September 29, I began feeling some contractions. I told Walt that it felt like true labor, but I assumed that it wasn't. Torey and Jonah both took their time getting her, and anencephalics are very frequently late, so it honestly never occured to me that I was really in labor. That night I woke up at about 1:00 am and immediately passed a couple of blood clots that were larger than my fist. We called a friend to come stay with our kids, and Walt took me to the emergency room there in town. They kept me just long enough to prepare me for the trip to my OB's hospital (45 miles away -- we lived in a small town and they don't deliver babies there). I was given an IV and put on the ambulance. Walt followed in our van. By the time we got to the hospital, my blood pressure was down to 52/15, I was dilated to 3 cm, and I had lost so much blood that a c-section was necessary.
One day while Torey was at school and Jonah was at Mother's Day Out, we went to the funeral home to discuss our options with the funeral director. After we left, we went for a drive in order to sort through everything.
Walt told me that he wanted to dig Talitha's grave. Thinking he was doing it in order to save money, I told him that it wouldn't be necessary. I thought there were far better ways to save money than to skimp on funeral costs by digging the grave of one's own child. He again stated that it's what he wanted to do. Once again, I protested.
He took my hand and started crying. "You don't get it," he said. "You are actively being her mother. You are carrying her and you are giving her life. I will never get to do anything for her. I will never teach her how to ride a bike, I will never spank her little bottom, and I will never walk her down the aisle. I will never actively be her father. This is the only thing I can ever do for her. Please let me do it."
So that was settled.
On September 29, I began feeling some contractions. I told Walt that it felt like true labor, but I assumed that it wasn't. Torey and Jonah both took their time getting her, and anencephalics are very frequently late, so it honestly never occured to me that I was really in labor. That night I woke up at about 1:00 am and immediately passed a couple of blood clots that were larger than my fist. We called a friend to come stay with our kids, and Walt took me to the emergency room there in town. They kept me just long enough to prepare me for the trip to my OB's hospital (45 miles away -- we lived in a small town and they don't deliver babies there). I was given an IV and put on the ambulance. Walt followed in our van. By the time we got to the hospital, my blood pressure was down to 52/15, I was dilated to 3 cm, and I had lost so much blood that a c-section was necessary.
(Believe it or not, that was actually an answer to prayer. I knew ahead of time that a c-section would increase her chances of being born alive, but when I asked my doctor to schedule one, he said, "I'll only do a c-section if there's an emergency with your health. You don't need to be recovering from a c-section while you're burying your child." Though I saw his logic, I was already a c-section veteran and didn't know what the big deal was. I began to pray that I would have a c-section and that Talitha would be born alive.)
Talitha was born at 5:23 am. The doctors and nurses cleaned her off and immediately gave her to us so that we could spend as much time as possible with her. They moved us to the recovery room and allowed us privacy. The nurse and the pediatrician (who remained in order to note the time of death) stayed over on the other side of the room, respectfully awaiting the time when they were needed.
Walt and I took turns holding her, each trying to cram a lifetime's worth of love into whatever time we were given. I took my little girl in my arms and sang "You Are My Sunshine". Walt picked her up and carried her over to the window. Knowing that she was blind and deaf, he still showed her the view and told her all about the beautiful world God had made. He told her about the grass and the trees and the sky. He told her that soon she would be going somewhere even more beautiful, that she would be meeting Jesus, and that Jesus would be both her Healer and her Savior.
And then my husband sang to her:
"Sunlight, sunlight in my soul today
Sunlight, sunlight all along the way
Since the Savior found me, took away my sin
I have had the sunlight of his love within."
He moved from that into "Jesus Loves Me", and as he sang to her about Jesus, she went straight from her father's arms into her Father's arms. It was 6:15 am. We had been blessed with her for 52 minutes.
My only redhead, she looked a lot like Torey, and I am grateful for that. I like knowing that I can look at Torey's pictures from any given age and know that Talitha would probably have resembled her.
We kept her with us until around noon. My parents and my brother and his wife were unable to make it before she died, but did arrive in time to see and hold her. Walt and my dad drove back to our town to pick Torey up so she could see her sister. We left Jonah with a friend -- he had just turned 3 three weeks earlier, and we weren't sure how confusing it would have been for him to have only seen her after she died. Had he been able to see her alive, we would not have hesitated.
It was amazing to watch Torey with the baby. As soon as she got to my hospital room, she asked, "Where's my sister?" and then ran over to my mother, who was holding Talitha at the time. My mom gave Talitha to Torey. Torey held her for quite a while, beaming from ear to ear the whole time. She never seemed to notice the defect -- all she saw was her sister. Torey stayed with us until it was time to send Talitha to the funeral home. She got very upset when she realized that Talitha was leaving for good, so she told her goodbye and my parents took her out for lunch, and Talitha was taken away after they left.
Because I had had a c-section, I had to stay in the hospital for a few days. Walt had to handle all the final arrangements by himself. We had done some preparation, but because Talitha was born just over a month early, we weren't completely ready. Walt got the plot at the cemetery and purchased the casket.
I went home on Sunday and we stopped by the funeral home on the way home so I could see Talitha's casket. Because we had kept her with us for several hours after her death, we weren't able to have the casket open at all. Seeing such a tiny casket and knowing that it was my own daughter in there literally took my breath away for a minute. I think that was the saddest moment of my life.
Walt and my father dug her grave on Monday, and we buried her on Tuesday, October 5, 1999. We had a private burial at 1:00 and a public memorial service at 2:00.
AFTERWARD . . .
22 months after Talitha's birth and death, we were blessed by the arrival of EJ. We thank the Lord that she is perfectly healthy.
Talitha was born at 5:23 am. The doctors and nurses cleaned her off and immediately gave her to us so that we could spend as much time as possible with her. They moved us to the recovery room and allowed us privacy. The nurse and the pediatrician (who remained in order to note the time of death) stayed over on the other side of the room, respectfully awaiting the time when they were needed.
Walt and I took turns holding her, each trying to cram a lifetime's worth of love into whatever time we were given. I took my little girl in my arms and sang "You Are My Sunshine". Walt picked her up and carried her over to the window. Knowing that she was blind and deaf, he still showed her the view and told her all about the beautiful world God had made. He told her about the grass and the trees and the sky. He told her that soon she would be going somewhere even more beautiful, that she would be meeting Jesus, and that Jesus would be both her Healer and her Savior.
And then my husband sang to her:
"Sunlight, sunlight in my soul today
Sunlight, sunlight all along the way
Since the Savior found me, took away my sin
I have had the sunlight of his love within."
He moved from that into "Jesus Loves Me", and as he sang to her about Jesus, she went straight from her father's arms into her Father's arms. It was 6:15 am. We had been blessed with her for 52 minutes.
My only redhead, she looked a lot like Torey, and I am grateful for that. I like knowing that I can look at Torey's pictures from any given age and know that Talitha would probably have resembled her.
We kept her with us until around noon. My parents and my brother and his wife were unable to make it before she died, but did arrive in time to see and hold her. Walt and my dad drove back to our town to pick Torey up so she could see her sister. We left Jonah with a friend -- he had just turned 3 three weeks earlier, and we weren't sure how confusing it would have been for him to have only seen her after she died. Had he been able to see her alive, we would not have hesitated.
It was amazing to watch Torey with the baby. As soon as she got to my hospital room, she asked, "Where's my sister?" and then ran over to my mother, who was holding Talitha at the time. My mom gave Talitha to Torey. Torey held her for quite a while, beaming from ear to ear the whole time. She never seemed to notice the defect -- all she saw was her sister. Torey stayed with us until it was time to send Talitha to the funeral home. She got very upset when she realized that Talitha was leaving for good, so she told her goodbye and my parents took her out for lunch, and Talitha was taken away after they left.
Because I had had a c-section, I had to stay in the hospital for a few days. Walt had to handle all the final arrangements by himself. We had done some preparation, but because Talitha was born just over a month early, we weren't completely ready. Walt got the plot at the cemetery and purchased the casket.
I went home on Sunday and we stopped by the funeral home on the way home so I could see Talitha's casket. Because we had kept her with us for several hours after her death, we weren't able to have the casket open at all. Seeing such a tiny casket and knowing that it was my own daughter in there literally took my breath away for a minute. I think that was the saddest moment of my life.
Walt and my father dug her grave on Monday, and we buried her on Tuesday, October 5, 1999. We had a private burial at 1:00 and a public memorial service at 2:00.
AFTERWARD . . .
22 months after Talitha's birth and death, we were blessed by the arrival of EJ. We thank the Lord that she is perfectly healthy.
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