August 1st, exactly three months ago: the day I ruptured feels like both yesterday and a thousand years ago. It's not that time has faded those memories, just that so much has happened since then; how could a few months and a couple of hands really hold it all? I remember every detail with painful vibrancy, and, although I'd like to forget most of it, nestled within the trauma are moments of courage I want to remember and re-remember, things I sang and spoke that I still need today.
Dad met us at the hospital and wheeled me straight to L&D while Sam checked me in and waited for my mom to arrive for the kids. And in the elevator on the way up I saw the anguish in my dad's face and the tears and I felt every bit of that myself, but something inside of me knew what to say: "Dad, it's ok. This is all going to be O.K. And even if it's not O.K, somehow it will be." Even if it's not O.K, somehow it will be...In those moments, my soul clung to words that carried hope I had heard in times past. "All shall be well. And all shall be well. And all manner of things shall be well." (Julian of Norwich.)
And when they told me not to listen to my baby's heart beat, as there was nothing they could do if it faltered and faded--I listened anyway. All night long I listened to my baby's heart beat. An act of defiance--I will not give up on my baby. I will trust--his heart will continue to beat.
And they told us that we shouldn't resuscitate after his birth. He was transverse and his odds of surviving delivery were 50/50, and even if he did survive delivery his brain and body would be too severely damaged to make anything resembling "living" possible. "We strongly advise against intervention," they said. But I insisted that, should he be born alive and crying and kicking, they would do everything they could for our boy. This baby will be strong. I know he will be.
Miracle of miracles, Alder didn't come that day, or the next, or the one after that. Ten whole days passed before Alder arrived, ten beautiful days of gestating (!), singing, laughing, of praying, of hoping and gloriously wondering at God's mercy in sparing our Alder on the day of August 1st.
Eventually the night came when I knew I'd meet my baby by sunrise. So I sang some more. Even though my mouth was dry and my hands were trembling and my heart was aching. I sang in rebellion. I girded up my loins; I'm a fightin' woman and I went in swinging my battle ax. "Red Sea Road" by Ellie Holcomb was sung on full volume, Karaoke style, all night long until they wheeled me into the operating room just before dawn cracked the skies.
I sang that song for months on end. But couple of weeks ago we reached a new ocean and I just couldn't keep singing. My throat got sore and my voice kept cracking and, to be honest, I just didn't feel like serenading any longer. I put up a post informing all our friends and family of the abrupt and shattering shift to a new hospital 80 miles west, slumped into the back of the car, and road to new desert places I didn't want to go.
As it turns out, though, someone else was ready to pick up the singing for me. "We are praying and praying and have been all day," her note glowed on my screen, "Praying of course for healing, but also for divine comfort for all of you and that what feels like chaos and stress is truly God working miracles in sweet Alder. For some reason, I am picturing Moses parting the Red Sea. Perhaps these unexpected changes are a path where none was before to a place of safety, comfort, and rest..." Her words--a variation of the theme--a reminder nothing short of divine.
It's been two weeks since that transfer to the ocean of unknown I felt sure would swallow us alive. But we've been watching Him breathe apart the seas and breathe life into our baby boy. Alder, who's been struggling to breathe since the day he was born, is nearly breathing on his own.
He has led us to places we don't want to go, yes, but He knows the way. And, as it turns out, I can keep singing. Sometimes I just need someone else to lead the anthem until I can remember the words.
“We buried dreams,
laid them deep into the earth behind us.
Said our goodbyes at the grave
but everything reminds us.
God knows we ache
when He asks us to go on.
How do we go on?
We will sing to our souls.
We won’t bury our hope.
Where He leads us to go,
there’s a Red Sea road.
When we can’t see the way,
He will part the way,
and we’ll never walk alone
down the Red Sea Road.
How can we trust
when You say You will deliver us
from all of this pain
that threatens to take over us?
This desert’s dry,
but the ocean may consume,
and we’re scared to follow You.
We will sing to our souls.
We won’t bury our hope.
Where He leads us to go,
there’s a Red Sea road.
When we can’t see the way,
He will part the way,
and we’ll never walk alone
down the Red Sea Road.
Oh help us believe,
You are faithful, You’re faithful.
When our hearts are breaking,
You are faithful, You’re faithful.
Oh grant our eyes to see,
You are faithful, You’re faithful.
Teach us to sing,
You are faithful, You’re faithful, You’re faithful.
We will sing to our souls.
We won’t bury our hope.
Where He leads us to go,
there’s a Red Sea road.
When we can’t see the way,
He will part the way,
and we’ll never walk alone
down the Red Sea Road.”