Jett’s 1st Birthday

 

Today is Jett’s first birthday.  It’s been a whole year since losing him.  A year of wondering what each day would’ve been like with him laughing, crying, cooing, pulling my hair, learning to crawl.  A year without the sleepless nights or mental breakdowns of being a new parent.  A year of missing that perfect tiny baby who, at a mere 22 weeks, was perfectly formed. A year of touching his picture and remembering the way his tiny hand felt upon my finger.

The first few days and weeks after loss are hard to describe, but I remember them vividly.  I remember thinking that I might never smile again.  I remember wondering if I’d ever wake up and not feel completely apathetic towards everything that wasn’t our baby.  I remember wondering if I could ever love another child the same way if I were to get pregnant again, but I also remember desperately just wanting to try again, even if it was only to mask the pain that felt so unbearable at the time.  I remember feeling like crying every second of every day, and being quiet around family because if I were to open my mouth, I’d likely break down.

It’s an awful feeling to know that you can’t escape the deepest pain you’ve ever felt in your life.  You just have to sit there and bear it.  You can’t run through it to the other side.  It’s not possible.  You just take it. The only thing that helped was having the most incredible human in the world to bear it with.  One of the greatest blessings that Jett gave us was a deeper more compassionate, selfless, supportive marriage.  I’ve heard that grief can tear couples apart, and that separation and divorce are common after the loss of a child.  I can’t personally understand that.  I can’t understand how I could possibly grow distant from the only person who could fully understand my pain.  I’m grateful to Andy for his commitment, strength, encouragement, and presence as we endured our greatest pain of our lives together.  It can’t be easy for a husband to watch his wife lie in a hospital bed for a week, enduring multiple physical discomforts, only to give birth to a stillborn baby.  He probably felt helpless, but he was actually doing more to love and care for his wife and son than he could ever know.  I knew I made a great decision when I said “yes” to marrying him, but my confidence in his enduring faithful love for me was solidified through our suffering. I am a blessed wife.

While the pain we endured has been great, so has the restoration of joy in our lives over the past year.  God has been faithful and compassionate, providing comfort and care through the wonderful friendships we’re so lucky to have.  You’ve all been an indispensable part of our healing.  Thank you to those who entered into our grief and provided meals, counsel, gifts, donations, time, and presence.  Keep loving people well you guys!

Andy and I are happy.  We laugh, we goof around, we go on adventures, we sing dumb songs and dance around the house.  We are not stuck.  We will always miss and treasure our son, but we also know that he was never what gave our lives inherent value.  God did, and does.  We can live fully while anticipating the day we see Jett again, alive and well.  Grief and loss never define a person.  They change you, but they don’t have to dictate the rest of your life.  I fully believe that there are great things ahead, and am thankful for a renewed joy, and even happiness, that characterizes our lives now.

Happy birthday Jett. We LOVE YOU!

 

Four Years

Today is our 4 year anniversary. This one is different than the last three. Year four has brought us the most joy and the most sorrow. From watching Andy’s face light up when he found out I was pregnant, to seeing him gently embrace his stillborn son, I got a glimpse of what it looks like for my husband to be a father. The best thing he ever did for our son was to love his mother well.  Lying in a hospital bed for days waiting to find out if your child will live or die is so hard.  I imagine that watching your wife lie in bed in pain, both physically and emotionally, and being helpless to “fix it” is even harder.  Andy took care of me so well.  He probably didn’t sleep much.  Most of the time he had a chair pulled up to my bed so he could hold my hand and rub my back.  With every shot, every ultrasound, every new piece of difficult information, and every push of labor, he was there.  No one else could’ve done it better.

Many say marriage is hard.  I’ve never really agreed.  I think life is hard, but the marriage part is what gets us through the life part, at least for us.

I really like being married to Andy.  I regularly have the thought, “I can’t believe how lucky I am,” even though “luck” is not why we’re married.  I intentionally married a person who was selfless, kind, patient, and thoughtful.  I don’t say this to brag on myself, but to say to any unmarried person, choose wisely the man/woman you’ll partner with the rest of your life. It’s kind of a big deal.  And it’s kind of awesome when you choose a person of character, a person who will cry with you when you are told the worst news of your life, and then HOPE with you again as you look towards the future despite the reason you’ve been crying.

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While this anniversary is not what I hoped it would be (because I’d hoped I’d still be pregnant), it is more.  We stand together here at four years,

still together

still laughing

still holding hands

still saying “I love you” all day everyday

still acting silly

still supporting

still encouraging

still forgiving

still praying

and still choosing to serve one another even when life sucks.

 

I am genuinely excited about our next 365 days as Mr. and Mrs. Hoover.  Perhaps our 5-year anniversary will look similar to what I thought this year’s would look like.  Perhaps it won’t.  Either way, I fully intend to be celebrating life with my favorite person in the entire world.

I love you Andy Ray Hoover.  Always will.

To Save a Life

Friday I had surgery.  This was a surgery that could have prevented the loss of Jett had we known about my condition.  We couldn’t save him, but we can save his brother(s) and/or sister(s).

I had a transabdominal cerclage (TAC) placed via laparoscopy.  It’s basically a suture to keep my cervix together.  This has a high success rate of enabling pregnancies to go full term.  It was a one-time permanent procedure that should remain effective for all subsequent pregnancies.  The alternative was to do the more common version of the cerclage once I hit 12-14 weeks pregnant, but the stitch would be placed much lower, and the success rate was not as favorable.  Unfortunately, there are few doctors who know how to perform the TAC, and many women with my condition (incompetent cervix) aren’t even aware of the abdominal version of the cerclage and end up suffering more than one loss.  Thankfully, I researched.  I am doing everything within my power to ensure that Jett’s siblings arrive safely at full term.

My stomach is sore.  It looks kind of funny too.  I didn’t have an “open” surgery so there’s no large incision, which is good!  It’s still uncomfortable though.  I also woke up today with swollen feet/ankles/legs.  I was a bit worried at first about blood clots, but apparently it could just be leftover fluid from the surgery.  Hoping that’s all it is!  The doctor’s office is closed on Mondays.  Wonderfully convenient for those of us who had Friday surgeries and need to ask questions.

Even though surgeries (this surgery plus future c-sections) weren’t exactly my preferred route for having children, it’s a small price to pay.  I realize I am very lucky to not suffer from infertility, and there are many women who have had to endure far more than I’ve had to even attempt pregnancy, or who have risked their lives carrying and birthing their children.  I don’t take that lightly.  I am grateful for this surgery and the hope it has given us for the future!

Many women abhor the thought of a c-section.  Then there are those of us who can’t wait for it, because it means a living crying baby will come out of us.  I anxiously anticipate that day!

The First One

This is my first post, about my first baby, and also my first loss.

It happened over 2 months ago.  I’ve been hesitant to write because, well, I don’t even know why.  This is normally the way I’d want to express thoughts and feelings, both positive and negative.  I’ve been largely apathetic these past 10 weeks.  Overwhelmed, really.  How do I begin writing about something so awful?  I’ve been pretty open – verbally – about the whole thing with anyone who has asked, primarily because I see no reason to hide it.  It happened, it’s real, and I see no reason to say “I don’t want to talk about it” other than to practice avoidance, which is no help to me or anyone else who might have something to gain from my words.

Healing comes from bringing things to light.

So, let me shed a little light on the past 2 1/2 months of my (our) life.  Anyone who is reading this knows Andy and I lost our son, Jett, during my second trimester of pregnancy.  He was 21 weeks 6 days when I first noticed minor bleeding.  Bleeding is rarely a good thing in pregnancy.  Sometimes it’s fine, but many times it’s not.  In my case, it was the worst possible scenario.  The on-call doctor told me to go to L&D to get checked, because “it could be nothing, or it could be preterm labor.”  It was preterm labor.

Basically, for the next 5 days I stayed in a hospital bed and did everything in my power to keep Jett inside.  What I was dealing with was called Incompetent Cervix.  Yes, a terrible name for my condition. A little insulting actually! It basically meant that my cervix dilated too soon.  There was an emergency procedure they could have done to try to save his life, but it was too late and too risky to do so.  My only option was to lie there, in trendelenburg position (head lower, feet/hips elevated – not comfortable at all), and hope gravity would work in my favor.

Eventually, on Wednesday morning, August 17th, my water broke and I delivered Jett soon after.  I’d say contractions tie for the worst physical pain I’ve ever felt in my life.  (I’ll spare you the details of their competitor.)  We knew this was the likely outcome of my situation, but had been praying ceaselessly for something different.  Others prayed too.  We were only 3 days away from viability, and only a couple weeks away from a decent chance at life for our boy.  Couldn’t God have just given us a little more time?  Yes, He could have.

He didn’t.  Our son was stillborn around noon that day.  He came out silent. No cry. No breath.  But wow, he was perfect.  22 week fetuses are as human as you could possibly imagine.  He looked perfectly formed, just small – a mere 10.5 inches and 1.1 lbs.  He had soft little hair, tiny eyelashes, little muscles in his arms, precious little lips.  Perfect.  I mean, look at him!

We got to spend over 24 hours holding our son, kissing him, talking to him, crying over him, speaking scripture over him.  Our only comfort was knowing that He was with Jesus. How amazing is that?!   Our love for him will never compare to Jesus’ love for him.  That’s insane to me.  I’ve always heard that you understand the love of God in a whole new way when you have children.  I get it now.

There are obviously more details from that day that I could share, but I won’t.  Some things are just for mine and Andy’s memory.  Special moments that we had with him.  I’ll cherish them forever.  Even though thinking of my stillborn son hurts deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced, it also brings me joy…and even happiness.  Yes, happiness.  He may not have been breathing, but I still got to hold my son, and watch Andy hold him too.  I always imaged that going differently, but even if it wasn’t how I would’ve wanted, there was nothing greater than having that tiny little hand touch mine.

Do you know what’s hard?  A lot of things.  A lot of things are hard.  But, do you know what is the hardest thing I’ve ever done?  Watching Andy call the nurse to come pick up our son and take him away, and then actually handing him off to her, never to see him again on earth.  Wow.

Again, my comfort is that someone else, a perfect someone else, is holding him.  That, my friends, is peace.

We love you Jett.  We think of you ALL THE TIME. We are forever your parents, and you are forever our son. You our our child.  No living child will ever replace you.  You can have brothers and sisters, but none of them can be you.  You’re our precious Little One. Our very first.  My first experience of pregnancy. My first positive pregnancy test, my first ultrasound, my first little heartbeat, my first food aversions, my first belly growth, my first kicks, my first birth.  I’m proud that you were my first.  Our first.