This sweet mother writes very candidly about her experience in the birth and death of her son, Matthew. I was instantly drawn to her words, because although it has been years, I felt much of what she felt. I imagine many mothers who have lost a baby experience these same emotions. She writes:
". . . everyone was so kind, but no one could help me. I woke up, and found no comfort in being awake. [Her husband] held me close--against my will--while I cried."
I also loved how she regarded the hospital room where they held little Matthew after "the respirator went quiet." It became a sacred place. I am amazed at the tender tutoring that happens from on high at a time like that. She speaks of "hard" not being "bad." "Hard" moves us forward. Just as Matthew does for his family. Rachel has learned many insights from Matthew.
And she, in turn, has taught me.
Below, she shares some of her journal entries. She, her husband Bryant, and their three other children will be joining us as Dove Releasers on May 20th at the Running with Angels 5K.
Read more about this adventurous family at livingandtravelingwithkids.com.
101DaysofAngels
Do you say in your prayers: 'Thy will be done'? Are you courageous enough to pray that prayer?
Spencer W Kimball
8 October 2012
London, England Today, Bryant and I brought all three children with us to the hospital for an ultrasound of our fourth child. A boy!
At the appointment, we also discovered that there are some complications with the baby.
I remember the technician at the hospital, sitting me down after the ultrasound was completed. She began, “There is a muscle that stretches across the baby’s abdomen.” I interrupted her, understanding that a lesson on the anatomy of the diaphragm was probably not normal procedure.
“The diaphragm. What is wrong with my baby?”
“The baby’s diaphragm has a hole in it…”
I interrupted her again, “A Diaphragmatic Hernia.” I had been born with the same condition 32 years ago.
I Skyped my mom. “We are having a boy!” She was happy. “Mom, there is something else. My baby has a diaphragmatic hernia.” I could only barely get the last part out. And I remember her face when I said it. I will always remember her face. She knew, and I knew, what that meant. And we cried. I will always remember that moment.
9 October 2012 The baby's diaphragm is herniated on its left side. The intestines have entered the chest cavity, collapsing the left lung and pushing the heart into the right side of his chest. The right lung - the only working lung - is at about 25% capacity.
On my knees last night and this morning, I wasn't even sure what to pray for. I wrote down so many questions:
What do I pray for? Do I pray that the baby survives? Do I pray for my own health? What lesson am I supposed to learn from this experience? Who should I turn to for help? How do I keep the other three children's lives "normal" and happy during this time?
And in that prayer, it was "given unto (me) what (I) should pray..." (3 Nephi 19:24).
1. I felt to pray for Bryant and myself. For peace and strength, and especially inspiration as we seek answers to the lists of questions and concerns. And even strength as we continue to raise three healthy children.
2. Pray that this little boy will fight! That, for whatever time he has on earth, he will fight and struggle to fulfill whatever purpose he was sent here to fulfill.
3. Pray "Come what may, and love it!"
5 February 2013 Tomorrow I will be induced at Kings College Hospital, London. As soon as our son is born, he will be stabilized and taken to the NICU. Then, when he is deemed strong enough, surgery will happen (1-4 days after birth).
We are so grateful for so many prayers, so much love over the past few months. I want the children to feel how blessed we are to have this baby coming to our family. It has been a rough go, and I know they have noted the difficulties. I want them to know that we can do difficult things, because of LOVE.
7 March 2013 Four weeks ago today, I was in the King’s College Hospital. And Matthew was alive. Not just living on a respirator, but very much alive inside my womb.
I labored for several hours. When the epidural started wearing off, I told the midwife that I didn’t mind feeling. I didn’t mind hurting. I could feel my baby moving inside of me. And I felt a mutual communication with my baby – we were “in this” together.
I had suffered a severe cough since November.
I remember thinking, This is ridiculous. This dang cough is what caused two pulled rib muscles in the last month of pregnancy, and the torn stomach muscle.
I thought to myself, lying there on the delivery table, This is ridiculous! What does this cough have to do with anything? Isn’t pregnancy alone difficult enough?
It was so ridiculous, in fact, that I found it funny. And I laughed to myself.
But later, after all was said and done, I thought on my “ridiculous” cough, and found myself thanking the Lord for that cough. For, just before 9:00pm Friday night, the midwife made the call to the pediatric doctors, all things were put in order, and I was asked to begin pushing. After a long stay in the hospital and the medications I had been on, I did not have the energy or control to push anything. The midwife would say “push”, and I would take the position and even make the face, but nothing would happen.
Every time I coughed, though, the baby was pushed a little closer. The midwife stopped saying, push push, and instead urged, cough cough! And coughing I could do! Ultimately, I coughed that baby right out of me!
On 8 February 2013, I delivered an 8 pound 9 ounce baby boy. I watched his lifeless body flop onto the delivery table. I remember frantically calling out, “My baby!” while the midwife unwrapped the cord from his neck. As soon as that cord was unwrapped, Matthew’s arms and legs jerked out. And, he opened his eyes. It was just for a second, and just the one time, but Matthew opened his eyes. No sound came out of him, but his eyes opened, and I would like to always remember that moment.
I do not imagine he could see me. I do not think he had the ability to see me. Me – the one person out of billions who have ever lived or will ever live, who would mother him.
Tonight I sit and wonder, Did he think of me? Did he know who I was? Did he understand what I had done for him? Was he in pain? Was he scared? Did he know before he was born what would be asked of him? Did he understand what would be required of me? He opened his eyes once, and I wondered. And he was my baby. And he was absolutely beautiful to me.
Once his umbilical cord was cut and Matthew was moved to the table just feet to the left of my bed. The pediatricians went to insert two tubes down his throat, and Matthew fought them. Then he was held down and he was paralyzed. I have thought on those 60 seconds over and over again over the past four weeks. From birth to the moment he was disarmed, for lack of a better word. I am so grateful to the Lord for those 60 seconds.
I was thrilled to be a mother! I smiled and laughed with the midwives. I felt stress, yes, but I also felt confident! I had done it! I had managed the pain during labor, I had delivered my baby. I felt so good. I felt so grateful. I felt so relieved. I felt I could conquer the world at that moment!
I had no idea that, just feet away, my Matthew was slipping from the very world I felt I had conquered.
Morning couldn’t come soon enough. Once we were settled in the consultation room, Dr L came in. He had been the head pediatrician in the delivery room. Dr L wanted to meet with us before we visited Matthew in the NICU.
I expected a stay in the NICU. I had thought it would be our "home" for the first few months after Matthew's birth, in fact. It is strange, but expectations tend to form our perspective, and thus our comfort (or discomfort). I expected the NICU. I was comfortable with the NICU. But that morning when Dr L told us that our baby would not survive, that was unexpected. I do not remember the consultation well. I remember phrases like "most sick baby in the NICU", "his chest is solid", "We don’t like to see this", and "I don’t see how he could recover", stick out in my mind. I wanted him to be strait with me. I asked, “What chance does my baby have of living?” Dr. L just shook his head. He didn’t say “no chance” but he said he had no hope that Matthew would live even long enough to have surgery.
I didn't even cry. All my hopes for my boy, all I expected for our future together - and Dr L was telling me that Matthew wouldn't live even the week. That was unexpected. I was not sure how to process the unexpected.
Bryant wheeled me into Matthew's NICU room, to see my baby for the first time since his birth, and for the first time since we had learned of his imminent death. And there I wept. I prayed out loud to our Heavenly Father, and I pled with Matthew, "If you have any say in this, please stay with us! I will be a good mom! I promise. Whatever I need to change or do better, I will! I promise. We are in this together. Don't leave me. Don't leave me. If you can help it at all, don't leave me."
Meanwhile, my mom was back at the flat with the other three children, praying.
I phoned my mom. She later wrote: Saturday, I received one of those calls that will never be forgotten. Cried Rachel, “We are losing him! We are losing him quickly! He is not strong enough to have surgery, and the doctor said he has done all he could – and he is losing. I am thinking things through. I am crying things through.”
Bryant arranged for a car to pick them up and bring them to the hospital immediately.
When the children arrived, in their pajamas, we sat with them on the floor of the hallway in the NICU outside Matthew’s room, while the nurses set up a screen around Matthew’s incubator.
Matthew was unplugged from some of the tubes that tethered him to his bed, and he was taken off the large ventilator, enabling us to hold him while the smaller ventilator kept him breathing. I held him first, on a pillow the nurse offered me. I passed him carefully to Bryant. Then on to my mom. And finally he was put back into my arms.
There he died.
I do not remember all that happened after that. I remember the respirator went quiet. Bryant put Matthew back in the incubator and we returned to our hospital room, without our baby. And there I stayed and wept and prayed. And there the nurse brought Matthew's body back to us, to be dressed in his burial clothes. And there we held that precious body in our arms and on our chests.
That room became sacred to me.
13 February 2013 There was a moment when Bryant and I were looking at all the pictures we had compiled of Matthew, that I felt such peace. Such peace. And I turned to Bryant and said, it was such a pleasure. The pregnancy, the labor, the delivery, the time in the NICU, and even the heart-wrenching hours and days after Matthew's death. It was such a pleasure. And I cried, because I felt it with all my heart. For those 33 hours with my boy, I would do it all again. He is a part of our eternal family, and bringing him into our family was such a pleasure.
20 February 2013
Utah, USA
One week after delivering Matthew, I was on a flight from London to Utah. And one week after Matthew’s death, I was hugging and catching-up with dozens of family members and friends, and friends of family, and family of friends.
Tuesday, we picked up Matthew from the airport. We didn't get to see the body. The casket was secured tightly. The tiny package was the size of the pillow I sleep with at night. Bryant wrapped his arms around the box, and we had our baby's body with us again.
Bryant had sat down in quiet last week, and written out what he wanted on the headstone. And I was so grateful he had. It was beautiful.
5 March 2013 This morning was the first time since the moment Matthew died in my arms, that I despaired. I cry every single day. But this morning, it went beyond mourning. I felt angry - not at any one person, and certainly not at God or my too-quiet Matthew. I just felt angry. I didn't want advice, I didn't want a hug, I didn't want to pray, I didn't want to feel better again...ever. Last night I had such distressing dreams. Stairs that I climbed and climbed and would never come to an end, buildings that turned as if on a turn table that I could never get off of, my J didn't recognize me, and my other two children were gone, to death or something else, I don't know. And everyone was so kind, but no one could help me. I woke up, and found no comfort in being awake. Bryant held me close - against my will - while I cried.
We drove to the cemetery, so we could spend some time close to Matthew's body before our flight. It is only his body that we are leaving in Utah. But, at this point, it is all I have of him.
12 March 2013
London, England
Facing people without Bryant is difficult. I have not gone through hardly an hour without him by my side.
14 October 2013 I spend time journaling every day. I journal positive things. I am not being dishonest about the difficult things, but I find journaling negative emotions enlarges those emotions. And journaling positive emotions does likewise. It invites the Spirit of hope into our home, and enables the Savior to succor me.
I struggle. But, like I keep telling my seminary students, HARD does not mean BAD. HARD moves us forward, like a ship which only moved forward by using what would resist it - the water (Howard W Hunter, 1980).
We move forward, using experiences that would resist us, near well damn us. Instead, God wills it to jettison us forward and upward.
