One June afternoon Misty and I were catching up in her kitchen. Even though we were living in the same house together, days would go by without us seeing one another. We had just been through one such stint and had a lot to talk about.
She mentioned off-handedly that she had taken off work early on the previous Saturday because she wasn't feeling well, probably due to a stomach virus. As I listened to her recount the day, I was hit with the realization that she must be pregnant. I asked her and she said she didn't think so, but I was convinced.
At that point it was too early for a pregnancy test, but I shared with Jared that he should probably prepare himself for becoming a daddy yet again because my friend was, in fact, expecting. He later joked that it was that conversation (the idea of being pregnant) that actually caused the pregnancy (the theory that if you speak something, it becomes true in action).
I kept pestering Misty to take a pregnancy test, but she kept saying that she didn't really think she was pregnant. I actually went out and bought tests for her because I just wanted to know. I couldn't take the test for her, however, and she put it off for a couple days (which felt more like a couple weeks to me).
Around the dinner table one night, shortly after Father's Day, I brought up the pregnancy again. Jared still soundly rejected it, unwilling to admit the possibility. In the middle of our spirited conversation, Misty announced she would just take a test and settle the argument. We continued our bickering as she left the table.
Mid-sentence we were interrupted: "Jared..."
That caused my surety to increase even more. When I saw their faces, I knew EVEN more. I hugged my friend, then looked at the two lines for the solid proof. We cried tears of joy together that night. The once reluctant father's face now beamed with pride and smiles.
And suddenly, with that change that wasn't even really a change at all yet for me, I had peace and understanding and purpose. The tumultuousness of the move, the incessant questioning of whether or not we made the right decision, the mystery of why, seemingly all-of-a-sudden, I became completely obsessed with getting back to Kentucky as quickly as possible, seemed to make sense.
Even if it wasn't my full purpose for being back, I began thinking -- even before that night, actually -- of all that I could experience with this new baby. I had missed out on so much with Julian and Abby. I was trying to make up for lost time and not miss out on anything else, but you can't get ultrasound appointments, birthday parties, and evenings filled with laughter back.
This baby was instantly special in a way no other baby ever had been.
Julian was special because he was my first baby. First nephew is much more appropriate, but when the girl you look at just like a sister has a baby, you feel a bit of claim to him, too. Abby was special because she sneaked in my wedding party without any of us even knowing at the time. And, she was absolutely perfect and absolutely gorgeous from the very second she emerged from the womb. She wasn't splotchy or red and I still hold that she probably didn't even need all the usual post-birth gunk washed off her. I've never seen a more instantly perfect and beautiful baby and doubt I'll ever see one to top her.
Even as they grew up, Julian remained special because he was still first and always would be. Each time I played with him, I would marvel at his handsomeness, intelligence, and humor. He would always say something to make me laugh, something endearingly sweet, or cuddle into that special place in my heart that only he can reach. And each time I would hold him in my arms, I was certain he would always be my favorite.
Until Abby would walk into the room -- the most beautiful little girl ever to have lived. She is 100% girl and loves dolls and hair and cooking, but will be rough with her brother and isn't afraid of a little mud and dirt. And each time I would look into her eyes that felt identical to me to the four-year-old eyes I looked into more than twenty years ago when I played with her mother, I was certain she was my favorite.
Just as my 'favorite' depended on which child was in my line of vision at the moment, a little third one got thrown in the mix immediately. When I would think of the new baby and getting to be as involved as I wanted with the pregnancy and birth, and being able to make every single birthday and watch every single milestone, he became my new favorite whenever he was on my mind, whenever we were making plans for him.
Misty had an ultrasound and got pictures of the little one early on. I began counting down the days until the baby would have ears so I could start reading to him and I could be more sure he could hear and understand me when I talked to him.
I celebrated my birthday that year -- for the first time -- with Misty AND her kids, and looked forward to the next year when this new little one would be more physically present.
But that would not be.
Five days later, I came downstairs to find Misty on the couch. I had just woken up and learned via facebook she had gone to the emergency room after work the night before. I needed to question her myself.
She let me know she had been hurt at work, recounted the incident to me, and the findings at the hospital. They thought things were fine with the baby after checking his heartbeat and considering her symptoms, but suggested she follow up with her OBGYN the following day.
After a few minutes of my own quizzing as to how she was feeling, any symptoms she may be experiencing, and exactly what they did to check on the baby at the hospital, I felt relieved. It sounded like everything was fine and an overly-cautious doctor just wanted to cover all his bases with a follow-up.
I prayed for the baby and thanked God for protecting him in the incident.
It was a few hours later when I heard Misty return from her appointment. I could tell she did not get good news. "They couldn't find a heartbeat today," she said.
And that one sentence brought the world to a screeching halt. It even seemed like I was experiencing the loss of gravity as I needed to cling to things more stable than myself. This was not right. This was not the way things were supposed to be. I was in disbelief. Shock.
Babies do not die after freak work accidents. There must be some mistake. There MUST be some mistake.
Misty told me her doctor had said they would do another ultrasound the following day if she would prefer. I was glad to hear it was something Misty had opted for. We were going to have this baby, and I was certain we would hear that precious beating heart the next day.
I immediately started discussing this with God and asked others to pray as well. People believe in varying degrees of miracles. I personally think He is quite capable of re-starting a still heart. Of bringing a perfectly cold, dead person completely back to life. Even today.
I told Him that I didn't know whether or not the baby's heart was actually beating today, but whether or not it was, I was looking forward to hearing it beat the following day. I told Him we could work out the details about how I would talk about it later. That if He wanted me to play it cool, like it was just a technician error that caused undue alarm, I could do that. Or, if He wanted me to climb proverbial mountains and proclaim this miracle work of bringing a dead person back to life, I would share it passionately and unapologetically with every critic.
I never had to work out any details of the beating heart. For it still didn't beat the next day.
And we stood before the thick, unbending brick wall of a dead baby. A wall I wanted to pound on, kick and claw at until I chipped it away and willed the baby back to life. But at the same time, we were being hurtled forward, pushed roughly through door frames we fought against into rooms we never wanted to enter.
I say 'we' like it was happening to me, too. It sure felt like it was happening to me, but I know I was just an observer. With each painful step of the process of losing a baby, I was in near-equal parts grieving and looking to my friend, unable to fathom what her feelings must be. I was just watching; this was actually happening to her.
I remember the evening Julian realized the baby had died. The look of confusion and disbelief at first, then anger and fist pumping and declarations that this just couldn't be. Then a final resignation, sharing tears and an embrace just feet from where we learned of the baby's life what seemed like an eternity ago. And the most poignant summation of the situation I could have imagined. 'But I really loved that baby.'
I agreed with him. That should have been enough. But it wasn't.
The year since has been rancid and overwhelmingly unjust.
Implications on women's rights, moral responsibility and all that goes with it disappear when you learn your once very-alive nephew, your best friend's baby, was not old enough to legally be considered a person. Any reason offered is sickeningly weak.
Medical fact and scientific probability are meaningless when no one steps up to comfort a grieving mother with empty arms. Just because nothing can replace a life, doesn't mean there shouldn't be anything at all offered in its place.
I have managed, I think maybe, to find peace for myself if not for my friend yet. I trust that God has this thing under control. He cried with us -- in joy at the new life and in anguish at the abrupt end to it -- and He's working it all out as He always does. In ways I don't expect. As a friend said a few weeks ago, in ways that feel completely inefficient at the time. But, in the end, that will be perfectly beautiful.
And, for the rest of my story I will carry with me the indelible stamp left by a short-lived life that in the eyes of some never even was. But to me was as real, as significant and as exceptional as any other life has been.
