“Held” by Natalie Grant

“Little Soul” by Oswald

• i miss the back pain and how difficult it was to get up
• i miss the waddling
• i miss the growth in my belly
• i miss feeling beautiful because of him
• i miss feeling his movements and the first and only time his daddy felt him move
• i miss going in for ultrasounds to check on him – even if i had 5 intravaginal ultrasounds
• i miss the way orange juice and coffee made me throw up
• i miss craving bacon
• i miss having to say no to coffee, caffeine, and processed foods
• i miss being extra careful with washing fruits & vegetables
• i miss seeing the stretch marks rise up on my hips and sides
• i miss my goddaughter and nephew kissing my belly
• i miss holding my baby niece up to my belly and asking her to give the baby advice
• i miss asking my nephew where my baby is and having him point to my belly
• i miss my coworkers asking how the baby is
• i miss my desk being on the third floor because that’s where the bathroom was – i miss having to fight for that
• i miss my Louie kissing my belly
• i miss Louie doing the sign of the cross on me, then on my belly every morning before i left for work
• i miss the voice Louie would use as he imagined our baby talking to us
• i miss knowing that my baby was in my left uterus
• i miss having to sleep on my side and not being able to lie on my belly
• i miss the milk i produced after i lost him because it meant we were still physically connected
• i miss not having my period
• i miss going to babycenter each week with my husband and checking on our baby’s development
• i miss tweeting about the baby’s size in fruit/vegetable
• i miss people arguing about whether the baby was a boy or a girl
• i miss the anticipation of telling everyone our baby’s name once we found out if the baby was a boy or a girl (i knew he was a boy because my grandma came to me in a dream, touched my belly, and told me so)
• i miss being thankful for each week of my pregnancy
• i miss having to prepare to move in with Louie’s parents
• i miss talking to my baby and singing “You Are My Sunshine” and “Too Good to Be True” to him
• i miss being in the hospital where I delivered him
• i miss holding him and looking at his face
• i miss looking forward to all the holidays with him
• i miss the excitement of my family and friends
• i miss the sense of purpose i felt

grey overwhelms blue
without my light, my sweet son
wet fog surrounds me

I don’t like choking down tears. I don’t like pretending to be happy or content when all I can think about is how my baby should be with me, how I should still be pregnant, how Louie and I should have been celebrating our 10 year anniversary with our first child (instead, we looked at each other and shared the same feelings — It doesn’t feel right celebrating anything without Calvin).

I don’t want to force myself to be strong because others need me to be strong.

It maybe selfish of me, but I think I have the right to be a little selfish in this way. I can’t always be strong. I can’t always seem like I’m “handling it well.” Try replacing the pronoun it with what Louie and I went through, with what we are still going through, and then try telling me that I need to be strong. This is what I need: I need to be able to cry until my eyes sting and my face hurts and my shirt is covered in tears and mucous and every word I try to speak comes out as an incoherent wailing. It may seem unproductive or self-destructive to wallow in my grief, but I think I have the right to fall apart once in awhile.

I can’t always be happy that Calvin is with God.

I just can’t. I try to be a good Christian. I try to accept his will. But does this mean I have to like it all the time? Even Jesus asked God if He would take that cup from him, and, yes, I know, Jesus still only wanted what the Father willed for Him. So what does this mean for me? Everyday, multiple times a day, I prayed: Dear God, please, if it is Your will, please allow me to bring this baby into this world and for and Louie me to raise him. And everyday, I am thankful that Calvin is with God, that his soul is back with the Creator, that he is in the presence of our Savior, that he is surrounded by our departed loved ones. But I still long for my child.

I said, “Yes, Lord, I’ll take it.” to everything. But I guess it wasn’t everything He was asking of me.

When we found out out that the radiologist saw amniotic bands and that our baby was missing the fingertips of his right hand, we chose life for our baby. When we found out that our baby still had his complete fingers, we praised Him, though it was also when we learned that there were three bands that threatened the baby’s face, his right arm, and his left leg. We still chose life, though we were told of risks. And I started researching amniotic band syndrome. I looked up cleft lips and cleft palates and found out that I may not be able to breastfeed, that the baby may need surgery because cleft palates are linked with ear and nose problems, as well. I learned about club feet and the surgeries that are necessary to correct it.

When the screening for Down’s syndrome came back positive; that was the first time I cried at work. I felt like God was testing me by piling more and more challenges for my baby. Still I said, “Yes, Lord, I’ll take.” I decided against the amniocentesis because of the risks of miscarriage. Instead, I started researching on Down’s Syndrome, as well. I was overwhelmed by what I learned because I didn’t know that the mental effects were also accompanied by tendencies for heart problems and muscular issues. But still, I wanted my baby.

Now, I am less than 3 months away from my due date, and I’m trying so hard not to ask why, but there are times when I just can’t get these questions out of my mind. Did I want my baby too much? Is that why God took him from me? Were my sins during this pregnancy so great that God saw me unfit to have my child? Because I questioned becoming a mother so much, did He want me to feel the pain of being denied? I don’t believe that God is cruel. I still believe that God’s love me. I believe that God chose me and Louie to be Calvin’s parents, and I feel so blessed, even in this anguish and despair that overtakes me in waves. I know that children are God’s gift to us. I know that Calvin is God’s child first. I don’t really believe that God would use taking away my child as a punishment, but what of Ramses and his son and all the first born sons?

I know all this questioning does not surprise God.

I know that He is not surprised when I break down. I know that it is when I am in my deepest grieving that He is with me the most. I still trust Him, I do. I believe He has great reason for allowing my child to die. And amidst my desire for understanding and my deep longing for Calvin, I still praise Him. And I hope He forgives my weakness, and my need to fall apart, and I hope Calvin does, too.

A couple weeks ago, I went kite flying at ocean beach with my husband, our roommate, my sister-in-law, and my brother-in-law. It was my first time at the beach since before Louie and I had our church wedding last September. My first time at the beach since knowing my son. It was weird being back there. Not really bad. Just different. Louie bought a piranha stunt kite because he thought Calvin would like it.

While we were there, I decided to write my son’s name in the sand, and with each letter I was overcome…

…with sadness, with love, with happiness, with longing – with every feeling that comes with having a child, with every feeling that comes with losing that child. I felt my heart swell. I loved seeing his name written in such a way – to see him name mark the shoreline in big letters that were crafted by my hands. I felt like a mother.

When I finished, the sun was already beginning to set and the tide was inching ever closer to my baby boy’s name. So I ran up the beach to where my sister-in-law sat taking pictures of everyone else wrestling with our kites in the wind and asked her to take pictures of Calvin’s name. Thank you so much, Claire, for taking these photographs.

The past few days have been difficult. I have been missing Calvin Phoenix so very much, and today my heart was lifted as I processed the pictures of his name and put them together for him, and for myself and his daddy.

As you look at these, please say his name aloud; please say Calvin Phoenix, and think on him for just for a minute.

by Terri Apostolakos

We are connected, my child and I,
By an invisible cord not seen by the eye.
It’s not like the cord that connects us at birth
This cord can’t be seen by any on earth.
This cord does it’s work right from the start
It binds us together attached to my heart
I know that it’s there though no one can see
The invisible cord from my child to me.
The strength of this cord it’s hard to describe
It can’t be destroyed it can’t be denied.
It’s stronger than any cord man could create
It withstands the test can hold any weight
And though you are gone though you’re not here with me
The cord is still there but no one can see
It pulls at my heart I am bruised…I am sore
But this cord is my lifeline as never before.
I am thankful that God connects us this way
A mother and child death can’t take it away!