But these last few months have been filled with so much emotion that I think I've just been intensely focused on the living of those moments, rather than the writing of them. In the last five months my oldest started kindergarten, I passed the one year anniversary of my miscarriage, survived a difficult pregnancy, and lastly, welcomed our son, Caleb, into our lives.
There are so many topics I want to write about. What is it like to have a baby after miscarriage? What's it like going from two to three children? What's it like knowing that you've given birth to your very last baby ever? I find myself with little time to write these days, so I want to start with the story that is dearest to my heart. Caleb's birth story.
A birth story. It's something we moms swap over coffee, at playdates, even sometimes in the grocery store. It's something that connects women to one another, no matter how different our politics, religion, or lifestyles might be. It's a sacred moment, welcoming a new human into this world. And there is magic in the sacred, capable of knitting us all closely together in this incredible experience of birthing new life. And for each child we birth there is a story as unique as the little human that came forth from us. Just as no two children are alike, neither are two stories of their arrival into this world. My sweet Caleb's birth was full of it's own surprises.
Caleb was born at 2:19pm on Wednesday, November 23rd, 2016. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I had to check his announcement just now for what time he was born because, well, he's the third child. I also have yet to write anything in his baby book. Again... third child. But that's another blog for another day.
Caleb's birth story really starts on Sunday, November 20th, a few days before his birth. On Saturday I'd been experiencing some unusual swelling in my legs, and I woke up that Sunday morning feeling a little "off." I had experienced preeclampsia with both Abby and Josh, so I knew that it was possible the swelling was an early symptom of impending preeclampsia. But when I checked my blood pressure that morning, it was still considered in the safe zone. So we got ready and went to church as usual.
I went into church that day, shook hands, greeted the other parishoners. Then worship began, and the lights dimmed as our voices sang in unified praise. And suddenly, as I sang, I heard a Voice speaking to me. If you remember my miscarriage story, as I was driving to the doctor the day of my ultrasound I heard this same voice. It was the Holy Spirit, reassuring me that no matter what, He was with me. I would find out later that my baby's heartbeat had stopped at 11 weeks.
But this time, the words were different. This time He said, "You will meet your son this week."
You will meet your son this week. I looked up at Ben. Had he heard the voice too? No. He kept singing like nothing had happened. But I had to sit down. Could it be true? Did God really just speak to me? Would this be the week I would finally be restored after my loss just one year ago? I didn't tell anyone at the time what had happened. Even though I believed it to be true, part of me is always nervous to share that I have heard God speak to me.
Later that afternoon Ben and I worked to prepare freezer meals in anticipation of our baby's birth. I was adamant that we finish it that afternoon. I didn't tell Ben at the time, but I knew our baby was coming soon and we weren't going to have another chance to get these meals done. My legs were continuing to swell, and I began experiencing migraine symptoms. I went upstairs and took my blood pressure. It was up to 150/100. I told Ben and he urged me to call the doctor.
When I listed my symptoms, the doctor told me to come in immediately. I kissed my kids goodbye, and put my hospital bag in the car just in case. I was admitted into triage, and it didn't take long for the tests to come back and show that I was indeed experiencing the beginning of preeclampsia.
In case you are not familiar with preeclampsia, it a pregnancy complication characterized by high blood pressure and signs of damage to another organ system, often the kidneys. It is a serious medical condition, that if left untreated, can cause seizures, organ damage, and possible death. The only "cure" for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby.
The doctor said, "Looks like you are going to meet your son this week."
On Sunday, I was 36 weeks and 4 days. The doctors really prefer not to deliver until 37 weeks. This is because at 36 weeks the baby is still considered premature. The lungs may not be fully developed, the suckling reflex is weaker, and in general baby is not usually ready to come out. Even just waiting three more days would give Caleb the extra time he needed to be ready to enter the world.
The doctor gave me the choice to deliver on Wednesday, before Thanksgiving, or Friday, the day after Thanksgiving. I knew from my previous pregnancies that my condition has the tendency to deteriorate rapidly, and that by waiting until Friday it was likely I would be very sick by then. Forget the turkey and the stuffing; I told the doctor that I wanted to deliver on Wednesday.
I was also given a choice to attempt an induction or to have a repeat cesarean. My preference the entire pregnancy was to attempt a VBAC. I was a great candidate, having only delivered via c-section with Josh because of breech presentation. However, at 37 weeks my body was not even close to ready to deliver. The doctor told me I had about a 50% chance of a successful induction and that it could be a multi-day process. Though they were willing to try it, I made the decision to have the repeat c-section.
After being observed for a few hours, the doctor let me go home with strict instructions to rest as much as possible until Wednesday.
Wednesday morning came and I was nervous, excited, and emotional. It's very difficult to describe the anxiety and fear that pregnancy after loss brings. Every doctor appointment, every odd twinge, every time the baby moved less than usual I found myself steeled for the worst. To have finally arrived at the day of his birth brought overwhelming relief and joy, even mixed with the nerves before surgery. I had Ben take one last "bump" picture, kissed Abby and Josh goodbye, thanked my mom for coming to stay, and we were out the door.
We were admitted to the hospital at 11am with surgery scheduled for 1:00pm. The nurses started my IV, and then we waited, and waited, and waited for all my bloodwork to come back from the lab, which is required before surgery begins. I was nervous, knowing that I was about to have major abdominal surgery, but having been through a c-section before, I knew what to expect.
Finally, just before 2:00 I was taken back into the operating room. Ben was asked to stay outside the room until I received my spinal anesthesia. At this point, I was laughing and joking with the doctors, feeling calm because I had done all this before. I bent over my belly as the doctor placed the needle in my back, jumping from the electric shock of the medicine going in. They slowly laid me back on the table, put an oxygen mask over my face, and brought Ben in to sit next to my head.
With Josh's birth, I remember my legs going numb almost immediately after the spinal was given. But as I lay there on the table this time, I could very clearly feel my legs. I waited, hoping that it was just a fluke and that the medicine was taking longer than usual. The doctors began to prep for surgery, getting out the various instruments they would be using. And then, all of the sudden, I felt a very sharp prick on my stomach. Then more sharp pricks. The doctor nonchalantly asked, "How are you doing Jenny?"
And I said, "Well, I can feel you poking me."
Silence. The doctor paused. Pauses are never reassuring in a medical setting.
Then she asked hesitantly, "What does the poke feel like?"
"Like you are poking me with a scalpel."
"Do you feel it up here?"
"Yes."
"Do you feel it down here?"
"Yes."
"Even here?"
"..... yes."
The surgeon exchanged a glance with the anesthesiologist, who was positioned on the other side of my head, away from Ben. There was an entire conversation in that glance, and I knew it wasn't good news.
They said, "Let's just give it a few minutes and see if it starts to numb."
So we waited, and they checked me again. I could still feel it, but it was no longer sharp, and felt more like a pencil eraser poking me rather than the pencil tip.
Encouraged, the doctors said, "We are going to begin, but you let us know if anything is painful."
And so they began the surgery.
And I was not numb. It felt like a sharp knife sliced across my belly and cut me wide open. And I yelled out in pain.
After that, all I remember is the anesthesiologist telling me, "I'm so sorry; we have to put you under."
They clamped a mask on my face and told me to breathe in. Then someone told Ben he would have to leave the room, as it is against hospital policy to have a support person present when general anesthesia is used.
I struggled against them, whipping my face back and forth to avoid the mask, saying over and over, "No. Please. I don't want to miss it. I don't want to miss the birth of my baby." Tears began to flow and I heaved with sobs. In those split seconds I knew I was about to miss one of the most special and important moments of my life.
The anesthesiologist said one more time, "I am so sorry."
And then everything went black.
And here's the part of the story where my son was born. When he took his first breath. And they announced he was a boy. And they weighed him and measured him and took him to a special room where Ben took his very first pictures.
And I can't tell you any of that part of the story because I missed it. I missed the birth of my very last baby.
I awoke from the surgery sometime later, in a recovery room, and immediately began to weep. Even in my disorientation I knew what I had missed. They brought Ben to me after I was awake enough to respond to questions. I was in intense pain, as the spinal hadn't worked to block any pain after surgery, and the doctors and nurses were working quickly to try and get my pain under control. In my groggy state Ben showed me pictures of my baby boy on our camera, but it was hard for me to be happy, realizing the first time I saw my son was on a camera instead of in person.
After a while, I have no idea how long, as time in a recovery room is muddled and confused, they brought me my son. They wheeled him in, unwrapped him, and placed him on my chest, skin to skin. This time I began to weep for a very different reason.
He was here. My rainbow baby. Born exactly five months to the day that I was due with the baby I lost. Born just 10 days shy of the one year anniversary of my loss. The one thing I had prayed consistently for during my pregnancy was that my son would be born before that anniversary, so that on that very hard day I would have a baby to hold in my arms.
And he here was. Caleb Landis Cowan. All 6 pounds 4 ounces of him. We named him Caleb because there is a story in the Bible, where two brave men are sent out with a group to survey the land that God had promised to the Israelite. Everyone in the group is terrified by what they see, and are afraid to go in and conquer the land except for these two men, who know that the Lord is the one who will fight for them. Those two men were Joshua and Caleb. Three and a half years ago, when we welcomed our son Joshua, Ben and I talked about how we would love to have another son one day and name him Caleb, so that our two boys could go out together and conquer the world. We chose Landis for his middle name because my dad's middle name is Landis, and so is my brother's. It was also my grandfather's first name. So it was very special to me to honor my family with that name.
The moment they placed my baby boy on my chest, all of my pain melted away. Though I'm sure it had something to do with the fantastic pain medication they were pumping into my IV, it was also because the joy that I felt in that moment, meeting my son, snuggling him close to me, was more powerful than any pain I was feeling.
But in the time since he has been born, the overwhelming joy that I have experienced far outweighs the sadness of the one moment I missed. People will often say, "As long as my baby is healthy I am happy." I can honestly say that now, two months later, I am so thankful for my healthy, happy, precious son, no matter what I may have missed on that day. In the two months he has been home, I am the one received his first smile, his first coo, and even now I sit with him snuggled warmly in his favorite place, on my chest, wrapped tightly in his Moby wrap, sleeping peacefully.
Welcoming a rainbow baby is an emotional moment. There is joy mixed with grief, and hope mixed with pain. But at the end of it all, I am so very, very thankful for the four children that God has given me the privilege of carrying and birthing. Welcome to our family Caleb, we are so in love with you and so blessed to call you our son.
