A Friday the 13th Anniversary
One year ago, I entered my 20-week ultrasound appointment on a Thursday afternoon with a confidence that comes from having carried and delivered five healthy babies all with uncomplicated pregnancies, labors, and deliveries. In fact, we already knew we were having a boy, and I told my husband I would be fine on my own at the appointment as he headed out on 400-mile road trip earlier that morning with our oldest son who was playing in a state soccer tournament.
I knew something was wrong as soon as the ultrasound tech set down her instrument and said she needed to go grab my midwife. I felt a tight balloon rise in my throat as it pushed tears to my eyes. My heart knew, without the definitive words spoken yet, what my mind suspected but didn’t want to accept. My 2-year-old sat patiently on a chair by me. I tried to talk lightly to him to prevent my tears from falling, a failed attempt to ground myself from the tightness in my throat that wouldn’t go away. The tech came back in and had me follow her to another room. I was shaking and cold. My midwife came in and confirmed they couldn’t find a heartbeat. She pulled out her heartbeat monitor, let me hear my own heartbeat, and checked for the baby’s again. They took me back to the ultrasound room to check again.
They gave me instructions and let me leave out the back door of the office so I wouldn’t have to have waiting-room witnesses to my composure falling apart. I headed to our van, not holding it together. I sat in the driver-seat and heart-brokenly called my husband who was on the road. I tried to maintain a careful tone as I asked him to move it off car speaker, and then I spoke the words, “They couldn’t find a heartbeat.” He said, “No! No no no no!” As I walked him through what happened at my appointment, he said, “Are you sure?” And I said with a confident despair, “I’m sure. They’re sure,” and walked him through a second time everything that had happened at the appointment. He said despite his own tears, “Abbey, this is not your fault.”
I knew something was wrong as soon as the ultrasound tech set down her instrument and said she needed to go grab my midwife. I felt a tight balloon rise in my throat as it pushed tears to my eyes. My heart knew, without the definitive words spoken yet, what my mind suspected but didn’t want to accept. My 2-year-old sat patiently on a chair by me. I tried to talk lightly to him to prevent my tears from falling, a failed attempt to ground myself from the tightness in my throat that wouldn’t go away. The tech came back in and had me follow her to another room. I was shaking and cold. My midwife came in and confirmed they couldn’t find a heartbeat. She pulled out her heartbeat monitor, let me hear my own heartbeat, and checked for the baby’s again. They took me back to the ultrasound room to check again.
They gave me instructions and let me leave out the back door of the office so I wouldn’t have to have waiting-room witnesses to my composure falling apart. I headed to our van, not holding it together. I sat in the driver-seat and heart-brokenly called my husband who was on the road. I tried to maintain a careful tone as I asked him to move it off car speaker, and then I spoke the words, “They couldn’t find a heartbeat.” He said, “No! No no no no!” As I walked him through what happened at my appointment, he said, “Are you sure?” And I said with a confident despair, “I’m sure. They’re sure,” and walked him through a second time everything that had happened at the appointment. He said despite his own tears, “Abbey, this is not your fault.”
I went home and told the kids later that night. We had told them right before Christmas that we were having a baby. We hung up an ultrasound picture next to their pictures and waited for them to see it. They were sad. I had the hardest time as I looked over at my bright, normally cheerful 10-year-old daughter whose face now crumpled in tears, mirroring what was happening to my own heart.
We had just told our parents we were expecting on Christmas Day and subsequently a bunch of other people. After a couple phone calls that night, I spent the night at home. The next morning was Friday the 13th. After arranging everything between my midwife and the hospital, a good friend helped me with logistics I didn’t feel up to doing myself and my mom, one of my sisters, and my mother-in-law drove the hour-plus to our house to be with me while my husband found a teammate for my son to stay with for the remainder of the tournament. My husband began the 400-mile trek back, trying to make it to the hospital in time to be with me.
A lot goes through a person’s brain as to the “why” when something like that happens. Was it {this}? Could it have been {that}? Was it something I did? I was upset pondering one reason family members might have attributed it to and said angrily to myself, “It wasn’t that.” But the truth was, it could have been. It could have been any number of reasons why our baby died. And it could very well have been my fault. My actions could have killed my baby. And that was a huge weight on me. In that heavy moment of realization and acceptance that I could have caused this to happen, the thought came to me, “Do you really believe what Christ did for you?” I had grown up my whole life believing God, studying the gospel of Jesus Christ, serving as a full-time missionary teaching people about Christ for 18 months, gone to church almost every Sunday, tried to be good, but in this moment of crisis where I was facing something horrible that happened, something I couldn’t bear, something I could have caused, I had to confront what I really believed. Did Christ really take upon Him my heavy burden? And I found that I did believe Him. I could trust Him with it. My heart filled with peace and hope amidst the sorrow. I did really believe in the power of Jesus Christ. I truly did believe that everything unfair about life will be made right through the Atonement of Christ, whether in this life or the next. Even the negative consequences happening to this baby because of something I might have done. Even the negative consequences toward this baby because of something beyond my control. And if it was something I had done, Christ would be there and was lifting me through the pain of that too. In overcoming that too. And he has helped me this past year. I had that hope in my spirit even as my heart crumpled in grief. And I called upon God in prayer, and His spirit was there to carry me through it all.
My mom stayed with me from when I entered the hospital a little before 1 pm until my husband made it to the hospital in time for baby to arrive at 9:24 pm that night. When baby arrived, we had a clear understanding of “why” – the cord. Sharing our hearts that night, we had to make decisions that no parent ever thinks about having to make about where their child’s final resting place will be and all the details it involves amidst an extremely emotional time. We talked about how this loss was hard and different than if we were to lose one of our other children we had already come to know and love. It was a loss of not growing to know and enjoy his presence in our family in this life. It was a sorrow that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy the influence of his siblings in this life. With the knowledge of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, I have a hope of God’s plan of salvation and that this life is not the end. Our loved ones who have passed away still live. This experience reaffirmed the truth of that to my soul. But it didn’t impact the great sorrow and loss I was feeling. What didn’t help my heart was quotes about where my baby was or how it would be after this life, but what did help me was that I trusted Christ with it. That gave me peace. He helped me and still does. I didn’t know how it would work out, but I knew I trusted Him with it.
We went home the next morning. My mother-in-law stayed the weekend with us. My sister and both mothers were angels to be there for us that day.
On Sunday, my husband took our kids to church because our small town was getting a visit from one of the 12 Apostles of our church. I watched it from home. In his talk, he shared Job 1:21, “the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” The words of that scripture would come back to me several times over the next few days. And as I reviewed the talk later, I didn’t realize that the experience of his own son’s car crash would be so relevant to us only a couple hours later.
Our oldest son was traveling back from the soccer tournament that Sunday night. They collided with a car, which had illegally passed through a highway intersection, about 25 minutes away from home. The car my son was in spun off the road. My husband got a call from our son to come pick him up. I was so grateful my mother-in-law had stayed. My husband jumped in the car to go get him.
A couple minutes later, my husband called me with the news that our son was headed to the hospital in an ambulance. My throat filled with the same tension, and the tears of that weekend came again, even as my heart pled with God, ‘please No.’ My husband headed to the hospital. Again. It was the same hospital we had just left the day before. After a few silently pleading moments, I had a sense of peace that my oldest son’s mission in life wasn’t complete yet. That he would be okay. That the worst fears we’d spoken hours before in the hospital about losing another one of our kids would not come true that night. A phone call a little while later confirmed that. He had a lung contusion and had some major bruising on his chest in the shape of the seat belt that saved his life, but he was heading home. He had some major highway-travel PTSD for a while that has lessened considerably now a year later, but he was and is okay.
We went home the next morning. My mother-in-law stayed the weekend with us. My sister and both mothers were angels to be there for us that day.
On Sunday, my husband took our kids to church because our small town was getting a visit from one of the 12 Apostles of our church. I watched it from home. In his talk, he shared Job 1:21, “the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” The words of that scripture would come back to me several times over the next few days. And as I reviewed the talk later, I didn’t realize that the experience of his own son’s car crash would be so relevant to us only a couple hours later.
Our oldest son was traveling back from the soccer tournament that Sunday night. They collided with a car, which had illegally passed through a highway intersection, about 25 minutes away from home. The car my son was in spun off the road. My husband got a call from our son to come pick him up. I was so grateful my mother-in-law had stayed. My husband jumped in the car to go get him.
A couple minutes later, my husband called me with the news that our son was headed to the hospital in an ambulance. My throat filled with the same tension, and the tears of that weekend came again, even as my heart pled with God, ‘please No.’ My husband headed to the hospital. Again. It was the same hospital we had just left the day before. After a few silently pleading moments, I had a sense of peace that my oldest son’s mission in life wasn’t complete yet. That he would be okay. That the worst fears we’d spoken hours before in the hospital about losing another one of our kids would not come true that night. A phone call a little while later confirmed that. He had a lung contusion and had some major bruising on his chest in the shape of the seat belt that saved his life, but he was heading home. He had some major highway-travel PTSD for a while that has lessened considerably now a year later, but he was and is okay.
Here are a few of many thoughts I experienced over the course of that weekend:
The angels. The people around us seen and unseen. Did my baby protect my oldest son? My first instinct was to wish I hadn’t even shared with anyone that we were pregnant (but it was getting kind of hard not to). I didn’t want to have to deal with people knowing and feeling awkward, not knowing what to say or do or feel any obligation to reach out. But I quickly realized that I needed them. They were my earthly angels. So many people reached out with notes, meals, love, hugs, and listening ears. Even the ones who were in the place that I had been in many times before – feeling so bad for someone but not knowing what to say, leaving words unsaid. Or those who did reach out and said things that weren’t helpful, I recognized their effort and appreciated them. I became so grateful for everyone who did reach out as my heart was breaking. Also, a great gratitude for the nurse who started Babyland at a local cemetery over a decade ago for grieving parents who had to make decisions they never comprehended they would have to make. Also, a great gratitude for our nurse who was with us in the hospital throughout the delivery who was named after a palace in London, the place I had dreamed my whole life to go and haven’t. As one dream was breaking, it was a chance to look forward to one day travelling another. She was so perfect for us in our grief.
A new perspective on impact. There was a new sort of grief and joy that came as people reached out to us. The juxtaposition of the two events that weekend a year ago made me realize the huge impact that our oldest son had already had in his short almost-13 years of life as so many people from his team (his coaches showed up at the hospital), the neighborhood, teachers, school friends, etc. reached out to him. It was also with a sort of sorrow that our baby son would never have the chance to have the same kind of impact on people in this life. No one would know him here. No one would care about him in this life like we do. Combined with that was the gratitude that we got to keep our oldest son. Job 1:21.
The angels. The people around us seen and unseen. Did my baby protect my oldest son? My first instinct was to wish I hadn’t even shared with anyone that we were pregnant (but it was getting kind of hard not to). I didn’t want to have to deal with people knowing and feeling awkward, not knowing what to say or do or feel any obligation to reach out. But I quickly realized that I needed them. They were my earthly angels. So many people reached out with notes, meals, love, hugs, and listening ears. Even the ones who were in the place that I had been in many times before – feeling so bad for someone but not knowing what to say, leaving words unsaid. Or those who did reach out and said things that weren’t helpful, I recognized their effort and appreciated them. I became so grateful for everyone who did reach out as my heart was breaking. Also, a great gratitude for the nurse who started Babyland at a local cemetery over a decade ago for grieving parents who had to make decisions they never comprehended they would have to make. Also, a great gratitude for our nurse who was with us in the hospital throughout the delivery who was named after a palace in London, the place I had dreamed my whole life to go and haven’t. As one dream was breaking, it was a chance to look forward to one day travelling another. She was so perfect for us in our grief.
A miracle. In the accident, the front of the car was demolished and if my son hadn’t been riding home with his teammate, his teammate could very well have been riding in the front seat instead of keeping him company in the back. His teammate may not have fared as well, possibly not even survived had our son not been with them.
Many moments this year in relation to our loss confirming God is aware and has purpose to things. That our son isn’t gone, but just moved on and is busy in the work he is doing. Also, a greater love and understanding when people we love have experienced loss over the past year.
Many moments this year in relation to our loss confirming God is aware and has purpose to things. That our son isn’t gone, but just moved on and is busy in the work he is doing. Also, a greater love and understanding when people we love have experienced loss over the past year.
I sit here and write this exactly one year after that terrible Friday the 13th. My children are playing in the background. My husband and oldest son are at a soccer tournament. The same tournament my husband rushed home from a year ago. We talked again on the phone yesterday at about the point in his trek where he had been last year when I had called him with the news. He was able to say with confidence, “This has been good. I’m glad I get to do a redo of this trip.”
For me, I contemplated ways to go through this day. This weekend. I decided to write about it. Maybe I can do something to reach out to people who suffer loss in the future, maybe even in a monetary way, but for today, here are my words accompanied by a few tears.
I just saw I haven't posted here in 7 years. Maybe this is a start to sharing a little more words. A little more life and light.
May you get through your Friday the 13th weekends going on in your life right now. There is purpose. Let yourself feel. Let God carry you. Your walk and story of overcoming may just be the path to help another who is suffering. Hold your dear ones tight with a great hope for a glorious reunion with those lost.
May you get through your Friday the 13th weekends going on in your life right now. There is purpose. Let yourself feel. Let God carry you. Your walk and story of overcoming may just be the path to help another who is suffering. Hold your dear ones tight with a great hope for a glorious reunion with those lost.
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