Happy 1st Birthday, Baby Boy!

To you, it’s Valentine’s Day—the one day celebrated worldwide when your sweetie gives you flowers and chocolates, when your kids trade greeting cards and candy at school, when you dress up and enjoy a candlelight dinner with the one you love.

To me, it’s no longer just Valentine’s Day. No, this day of love will forever primarily be celebrated by our family as the day I gave birth to our precious baby boy, Joel Nathan Preuss. 

On this day last year, Nathan and I fell madly in love with another little human being all over again—the mightiest little man, who looked so much like his sister, who fought with everything until his last breath. It was also the one day in both our lives when we’ve never hoped or prayed more.

Here we sit, one year out, and it’s the perfect time to reflect. At this major milestone, I think I was expecting fireworks or a parting of clouds or a loud voice from heaven or something similarly dramatic. In all honesty, my anxious heart has felt a little Y2K up until this point.

But what we got was a big sigh of relief. Phew. We made it. One year. We’re still breathing. We didn’t completely fall apart. When we woke up this morning, we felt peace and joy alongside sadness and sorrow—and the Holy Spirit hovering over us.

A lot has happened in one year—and it’s happened fast. We buried that precious baby boy, got pregnant again (oh yeah, you heard me right), had another loss by miscarriage at 13 weeks, left our son buried in a foreign city, moved to a new city, started a new job, and bought our first home together.

But healing? Oh, that’s a different story. There’s nothing fast about it. It’s been a slllllooooowwwww, drawn-out process. 

February–May

Those first months were THE worst. I’m ashamed to tell you what some of my thoughts were. I was angry at God. No, I’m just going to say it—I WAS ROYALLY PISSED. We both were. I was also equally heartbroken, bewildered, depressed, ashamed, regretful, etc.

It was a roller coaster of emotions that moved so fast I didn’t know when I was up or down. I just know I felt like I was living in a dark, black hole. I didn’t think I’d ever come out.

June

Finally, things were marginally better. We could breathe a bit easier. We started seeing an amazing counselor who walked us through all the crazy emotions and told us we weren’t (crazy, that is). 

Just when we saw some progress in our journey toward healing, I got pregnant again. 

The long and the short of it is that we were definitely NOT planning to get pregnant. It just happened very unexpectedly despite all our efforts to delay it. Needless to say, if you know me at all, you know I get violently ill with morning sickness in those first months, so that was fun.

July–September

So there I was, puking and rallying. There was no time to grieve. All of a sudden, there was a new baby on the way that I had to think about. It was too much to handle all the emotions, so I had to put my grief and incessant thoughts of Joel on the back burner.

But let me be completely transparent in this moment: I felt guilty every single day of my pregnancy with Baby #4 because I didn’t want a new baby. I did, but I didn’t, you know what I mean? Yes, I 100% valued this baby’s life and was thankful for this gift, but I had a hard time grasping the reality of it. 

All I could think about was that I wanted my Baby Joel back. I wanted a miracle. I wanted him to rise from the dead. I wanted him back in my arms. I wanted him healed and whole. But death is so final and non-refundable. The reality of it hits and hurts like a fist to the gut.

Needless to say, when we went in for an ultrasound at 13 weeks and 4 days, that sweet baby’s heart had stopped—which ushered in even more guilt. Nathan and I literally didn’t know which way to turn. How do we grieve two babies? Who do we grieve first? How could this happen? Why did this happen?

Let me stop because I have to insert this here (Isaiah 55:8-9):

“My thoughts are nothing like your thoughts,” says the Lord. “And my ways are far beyond anything you could imagine. For just as the heavens are higher than the earth, so my ways are higher than your ways and my thoughts higher than your thoughts.”

That one verse is the first thing that came to mind. And it stayed there—rolling around and around and around for weeks. 

I don’t know why God allowed us to get pregnant again so soon—only to take that baby too. But He did. After everything, our weary hearts had to surrender once again and say, “OK. We don’t understand it, but OK. We trust You again and again.”

(Full disclosure. This might be too much information for some, but I’m going to share it anyway. I had to have a D&C with Baby #4. I don’t remember a lick of it as I was under anesthesia, but I’m told that when I was coming out of it, I said to my mom and Nathan, “Is Joel OK? Is he still sick? Will he be OK? Where is he?” Guys. At seven months after his death, my heart was still so broken, raw, and vulnerable. It just goes to show what was in my subconscious.)

Thank God for our counselor. He assured me I wasn’t a horrible person. The body and heart and mind can only handle so much emotional intensity. I had compartmentalized. After this last miscarriage, I was able to once again turn on the grief over Joel and get on with it.

October

Thanks to Nathan’s compassionate boss, who got wind of our situation and wanted to show us mercy as quickly as possible, we got moved to a new job and city. I spent the month frantically packing, cleaning, and downsizing. We wanted—no needed—to get the heck out of Dodge.

We needed a fresh start, a change of scenery.

In those last weeks in Mississippi, I visited Joel’s grave as much as possible. It had became a sacred place for me to reflect and heal and remember him.

In late October, with cars loaded, we drove away from Columbus and stopped by Joels' grave for a final time. No one panicked. There was no uncontrollable sobbing. Just peace that passes all understanding. Jesus was near.

November–December

Finally, a new chapter. 

Finally, we both could look behind us and see progress in our healing. 

Finally, I could open my Bible and spend time with Jesus without throwing it against the wall. 

Finally, I could talk to him without getting angry. 

Finally, I didn’t cry every single day—just every other day.

Of course, the excitement of a new place, being back home in Texas, and being closer to family helped tremendously.

Our counselor had warned us of the upcoming holidays and the onslaught of emotions they would bring. Friends, I actually scoffed at him. I said, “No, no, no. I’m doing much better. Don’t you see? That won’t happen to me. I’ll be fine.”

Ron the Counselor was, oh, so right—and God’s timing was, oh, so perfect.

The day before Thanksgiving, I lost it—completely. And thank God we weren’t in Mississippi when it happened, where I was reminded of our loss at every turn. By the grace of Christ, He removed us from those memories just in time. He delivered us to a safe place where we could deal.

For a while there, throughout the holidays, I slid downhill fast. But my wise husband reminded me that it was this time last year when we found out Joel was sick and started seeing specialists every week. It all made perfect sense and I tried to view grief through those lenses.

It didn't mean I still wouldn't spend an entire church worship service in a bathroom stall, weeping uncontrollably, trying to recover.

It didn't mean I still wouldn't escape to a restroom, my car, or a dark corner on numerous occasions while out in public—especially if I ran into another mom holding a brand-new baby.

It didn't mean I still wouldn't completely lose it with Nathan at the end of an evening for weeks on end because I could no longer keep it together and smile through it.

Grief is what it is—and sadness is needed to do the work of processing through it.

2018

There’s no flowery ending to this. I wish I could tell you we were "all better" (as Madelyn likes to say) or that we'd gained a measure of genius because of it. But to put it plainly, it’s been a crappy year. We’re still in the thick of it. 

But today, unlike last February, is filled with both joy and grief, peace and sorrow, healing and heartache. It’s not all sackcloth and ashes. Jesus has pared these unlikely friends and used them in our family to bring about healing and restoration.

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again. It’s no coincidence that God allowed our son to be born on February 14. It will always be a reminder to us of His unending, immeasurable, deep, abiding love. On Valentine’s Day 2017, He gave us one of the greatest gifts of our lives in the form of that baby boy and said, “This is how much I love you.”

Despite everything—the tears, questions, sadness, loss—we still mean what we said one year ago when we first told you Joel’s story. He’s good. He’s faithful. He’s for us.

We’re certainly not healed—that will be a lifelong process—but at least there’s some clarity now. As his parents, we're proud to continue sharing the legacy of his life. Joel’s story, which is a part of our story, is all part of God’s grander story to know Him and make Him known. 

Everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.

—Joel 2:32

You can read about the day Joel was born here!

In memory of our Joel

It's not just a headstone. It tells his story.

It tells of a baby who was named after a great biblical prophet (Joel = "Yahweh is his God") and his own father (Nathan = "gift from God")—two incredible men who have committed their lives to following Christ.

It tells of a mighty little man—a bold, courageous warrior—who fought hard against Hydrops for 30 weeks and was more influential in his short life than most old men ever are.

It tells of a little boy who was born on Valentine's Day, a day when most in our country celebrate love. To us, it was God's divine way of smiling on us in this grander story, reminding us how much he loves us and Joel.

It tells of a little boy who died one day after he was born, but that he LIVED. We met him. He met us. We held him close and loved him and sealed a bond face-to-face, skin-to-skin that will never be replaced.

It tells of our prayers and the foundation for his life and story—that those who see Joel 2:32 etched into the stone will know they, too, can call on the name of the Lord, be saved, and spend an eternity with Jesus.

It tells of a family who has lost someone so very special—a daddy and mama who lost a son, and a big sister who lost her little brother. We're not a family of 3. We're a family of 4. It's just that one of us has gone home to be with Jesus sooner than the others.

We'll never forget him. There will always be a hole in our hearts and family where he was meant to be. But we trust Jesus to fill that hole until we see him again one day.

If you're reading this and don't know Jesus but would like to ask questions and know more, we'd love to talk with you—plainly, candidly, honestly.

We put our full weight on what we believe, even in the wake of the greatest tragedy of our lives. God has been gracious through it. We'd like to share how you can also have unexplainable hope and peace and healing, how you can walk with a God who knows you and loves you deeply, and how you can spend eternity in heaven with him.

Real grief is scary

Grief can manifest itself in all sorts of unusual ways: screaming fits so fierce that you think you might lose your mind, hysterical crying so consuming that it leaves you gasping for breath, exhaustion so heavy that sleep can't even fix it, physical ailments so wacky that you think you may be dying too, sadness so deep that you feel like your heart is literally breaking in two. Just to name a few.

I've participated in all the above. I hear this is completely normal (thank goodness).

But people in our culture aren't OK with this kind of grief. The very mention of it makes them start to twitch and shift awkwardly in their seats.

It should be private, right? No.
It should be neat and dignified, right? No.
It should end after an appropriate amount of time, right? No.

It's messy and ugly and sloppy and chaotic and unprocessed and unscripted.

It's taking your kid on a playdate with other friends and crumpling down on the kitchen floor of a mere acquaintance into the fetal position because your heart hurts too bad to stand and talk about your dead son.

It's taking 10 minutes to hide and weep in between the bread and chip aisle at the grocery store because you just ran into someone who asked how you're doing and you feel like your insides may tumble out for everyone to see.

It's arriving five minutes late to church, sitting on the back row in the balcony, and leaving five minutes early—for weeks and weeks and weeks—because you're afraid the smallest interaction with someone may lead to an embarrassing meltdown in front of a crowd.

It's going to a restaurant with your husband and not making it five feet in the doors before you frantically turn and run back to the car because you walked into a time machine, remembering the last time you were here you carried that sweet baby boy inside you.

I'm learning who in my life can handle my ugly cries and who I need to rein it in for. I'm learning what I can handle and what I can't. I try to spare most people, but real grief can be scary and disturbing.

Don't you feel uncomfortable even now as you read this? I sort of feel uncomfortable writing about it. But gut-wrenching, sackcloth-and-ashes, emotionally-charged grief is very real. The emotions are raw and unrefined. The reality of it is weighty. And dare I say it? It should be freely expressed.

The Bible actually talks about those who grieved this way over and over.

"A cry is heard in Ramah—deep anguish and bitter weeping. Rachel weeps for her children, refusing to be comforted—for her children are gone." —Jeremiah 31:15

Jeremiah prophesied it. Later, Herod fulfilled it. He murdered all baby boys, who were 2 years old and under, in Bethlehem (Matthew 2:17-18).

Can you imagine the mothers and fathers who mourned their children and cried out to God over the insanity of the nut job sitting on the throne? Deep anguish. Bitter weeping. That's exactly how we've felt.

"Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am in distress. Tears blur my eyes. My body and soul are withering away. I am dying from grief; my years are shortened by sadness..." —Psalm 31:9-10

There it is. From King David's own mouth. He was grieving over the many distresses in his life, including the deaths of others and his own narrow escapes from death.

Distress. Tears. A physical wasting away. That's exactly how we've felt.

"I wear burlap to show my grief. My pride lies in the dust. My eyes are red with weeping. Dark shadows circle my eyes." —Job 16:15-16

Job lost it all—home, children, health, wealth, etc. He had good reason to grieve. Over and over again he asked for relief from his sorrow, even by way of death.

He wept—and he looked the part. That's exactly how we've felt.

"We were crushed and overwhelmed beyond our ability to endure, and we thought we would never live through it." —2 Corinthians 1:8

Paul suffered with depression and anguish. He grieved so deeply that he didn't think he'd live through it. That's exactly how we've felt.

"'Father, if you are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.' ... He prayed more fervently, and he was in such agony of spirit that his sweat fell to the ground like great drops of blood." —Luke 22:42-44

Thank God we're not alone! The Bible says Jesus was a "man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief" (Isaiah 53:3). Christ suffered beyond what we can even imagine. He knows exactly how we've felt.

Even though culture shakes its head in pity and turns a blind eye to this kind of primitive, unlovely grief, we, here in the Preuss household, have embraced it.  We've mourned as much as we want, for as long as we want, exactly as we should. It's been the pathway to honest, whole healing. And we're not done.

Thanks to a handful of our closest family and friends, we've been given a safe place and permission to grieve this way. They've sat and wept with us. They've comforted with and without words. They've let us be sad. They've willingly jumped into the trenches with us, refusing to leave until we've ready.

Romans 12:15 says, "Be happy with those who are happy, and weep with those who weep."

Real grief can be scary. If you know someone who is grieving, reach out and embrace them in it. You don't need to say the right words. In fact, trash the condolences and pleasantries. Just be there and give them the green light to express their true emotions. It may be transforming for both of you.

How We Grieve

Grief is so universal but so very individual. Just as each person gravitates toward their own style of music, clothing, and tastes—based on how they're wired, so does each person also journey through grief at his own pace and in her own way. It's unique to the person.

Therefore, no one can tell me or you how to feel or process. And there's certainly no timeline to this.

To be honest, a few people have either hinted or blatantly told me it's time to move on. In fact, at 57 days out, someone said, "The best thing you can do is not focus on what has happened. Leave the past in the past. Let's focus on your future instead." 

I'm sure it was offered up with the best intentions, but some free advice? Never say that to a grieving mother. That's my son you're asking me to forget. 

My past has bled into my present and will forever affect my future. For one person, it may take 6 months to fully grieve. And still for another, it may take 3 years to heal. For me? Who knows. I'll know when I know. None of these scenarios are wrong.

My introverted husband has wanted to be out in public. He's itched to get back into his job and be with the bros. And my extroverted self has holed up in the four walls of our home, paranoid that if I see you in the grocery store and make eye contact, I may have an epic meltdown. 

I promise we're getting better and better. But there are still triggers of our son's death all around us.

Brand-new babies in carriers. Hospitals right around the corner. A cemetery just a few miles away where Joel's body lies. Follow-up correspondence from doctors we visited. A sweet baby daughter that occasionally calls out, "Brudder," at random. A due date that just recently passed.

It is what it is. Give us time. Bless us in the grieving.

Literal waves of emotions can hit at any time that make me think I'll never be normal again. And the fact is, I won't. We may find our new normal, but the truth is, there’s no moving on from this as "The Old Us." Those people are gone. There’s only "The New Us" now—or rather "The Changed Us." (I like the latter one better.)

But hopefully, "The Changed Us" is a good thing. We'll be more sanctified when this window of sadness comes to a close. We believe Jesus will bring restoration and redemption as time moves on. 

So for that, we ask you to continue to pray for our family. Pray that God would be so very near, give us new hearts, and give us fresh eyes for the bigger picture in this grand story he's writing.

30 Days

We've needed our people now more than ever.

For 37 years, my dad and mom have walked closely with me through my poorest decisions, greatest accomplishments, worst heartbreaks, and highest triumphs. And so it goes with this, they've been imperative to this process. We literally could not have survived from one day to the next without them.

However, they've never experienced the death of a child, so they'll readily admit they can't speak from having worn these shoes before.

On the other hand, the death of a child isn't new for Nathan's family. His parents also experienced the death of their youngest daughter and Nathan's little sister, Esther, more than 25 years ago, just hours after she was born. As a result of their own heartache, they've been massive encouragers for us as we've tried to put the pieces back together.

For me, Nathan's mom has been a God-send since she's walked through this muck and mire before. Our hearts automatically bonded even closer when Joel died because of her loss of sweet Esther. It's no coincidence that God placed her in my life by marriage nearly three years ago.

I wish you could know her like I do. She's kind, thoughtful, considerate, and wise. And when she speaks, it's always carefully thought out, so you perk up and listen. Nathan is the same way. He gets it from her.

Just a few days after Joel died, I'll never forget the time she sat down next to me in my favorite chair in our living room as I wept. She wrapped her arms around me, and said, "Thirty days. Live fully in the grief. Feel every emotion. Embrace it all. Then, after 30 days, you'll see a difference. Trust me. It's biblical."

I listened because I knew she knew.

In those first 30 days, Nathan and I both experienced every sort of crazy emotion: anger, denial, depression, abandonment, sadness, anger, confusion, acceptance, guilt, regret. Did I mention anger? (That one came up a lot—and it still does.)

But by Day 31, I didn't feel any better so I thought her theory didn't apply to me. Then, in walks Day 32. Miraculously, I woke up and said, "I feel marginally better." And Nathan seemed to be better too.

She was right.

In that chair, she painted a few pictures to prepare me for what was to come. One was called "The Roller Coaster." Up and down and up and down. She said I'd ride it for a while—experiencing every emotion in the book—and then I'd start to see it even out more and more as time went on.

She was right.

Then, she painted a picture called "The Well." There would be days when we'd be in the bottom of it, in the darkness, wondering if we'd every get out and see light again. And other days, we'd find ourselves at the top looking down into it, thanking God we weren't in the bottom. But don't call it too soon because we could be back in the pits again within minutes.

Boy, was she right.

We'll still there. Some days, we're up. Some days, we're down. But each day since Day 32 has been an ever-so-slight improvement from the day before. I know in six months, we'll look back and breathe a bit easier. I pray after a year, we'll look back and see Joel's birth and death with eyes of joy instead of pure sadness.

Those practical pieces of advice from all sides have sustained us—especially on the days God has felt so silent. They've reminded us we aren't alone. We'll breathe again. There's hope for tomorrow.

The Aftermath

We're 54 days out and I still have no words.

I've never in my life been without them before. Typically, I can talk the bark off a tree. I've always been an external processor, easily able to share my feelings and regurgitate exactly what's going on in my heart and head. Maybe that's why writing has always come easy to me. I've got a lot to say.

But not for the past 7 weeks. I've been speechless.

Experts say there's a process to this thing called "grief." I have no clue what that is because our emotions and thoughts have literally been all over the place. There has been no rhyme or reason to this. We've never, in our lives, known this kind of crushing sadness and pain.

For the first two weeks after Joel's death, I felt like I couldn't take the next breath. I wondered how I was going to make it through each night to the next morning. You wouldn't have recognized me from how swollen my face was from the endless weeping. It didn't seem like his death was real, but the pain was oh so real.

Just days after he passed away, I can't tell you the number of times I heard my husband cry out, "I want my son back!" I can't tell you how many times he had to hold me tight because I told him my insides were going to burst from the overwhelming grief. My arms ached to hold him again—they still do.

When we finally left the hospital, I had my first coherent thoughts:

This is real, but it's not right.

I should be leaving here with my baby in the car seat behind me. 
He shouldn't be dead in a wooden coffin in our trunk.

I should be sore and barely able to walk, but full of joy knowing I'll get to feed my baby soon. 
I shouldn't be leaving here in such physical pain with nothing to show for it.

I should be going home to recover and hold my sweet boy as much as I want. 
I shouldn't have to leave and go directly to his funeral service this afternoon.

This is real, but it's not right.

I honestly don't know how I even made it through the funeral, much less that I showed up to it after just having had major surgery three days earlier.

Nathan tried to have Joel buried in Natchez where his infant sister, Esther, had been buried 25 years earlier—a special tribute to both aunt and nephew—but it didn't pan out. So we took his body back with us to Columbus and buried him in historic Friendship Cemetery.

Our family came to the small service—four parents, one grandparent, two brothers, a sister-in-love, a niece and a nephew.  Our dads spoke. I can't remember everything that was said, but I do remember my dad assuring us that Joel was no longer in pain and that we'd see him again one day in heaven. It gave me an ounce of comfort in those moments.

In the weeks leading up to Joel's birth and death, I made some pretty bold statements on behalf of our family. I called God good, faithful, and for us. I said that, come what may, whatever God chose for our son, our faith wouldn't be shaken.

I believed it then and I truly do believe it now—deep down in the depths of my soul.

But I'd be lying if I told you my faith—our faith—has been rock solid since he took his last breath in my arms on February 15. It hasn't. I've doubted and questioned. We've both dealt with anger, guilt, regret, and depression. I've felt betrayed and forsaken by God. I've wondered if he can be trusted again. And ultimately, I've felt like a complete fraud because of my weak faith.

Nathan has been the stronger one. He's helped me take the next step when I haven't had the energy to move an inch forward. He's filled my ears with God's Word when I've felt my emptiest. He's injected Christ's hope back into my heart when I've felt numb.

I've hesitated to tell anyone about these real, raw struggles.

What I really want is to be able to tell you that I have pure joy in my grief. But I'm not joyful. I want you to see me and be inspired by my strength in these dark moments. But I'm not strong. I want you to be awed by my faith in the midst of tragedy. But my faith stinks right now.

Instead, I'd rather you see the real me. I'd rather let you in on my brokenness. I'd rather be honest with you.

Nothing could've prepared us for this. NOTHING. We said we were ready. We'd suited up with what we thought was the appropriate armor. But grief pierced through our every defense and it crushed us. It blinded us and it has suffocated me. It's not just an emotional pain, it's also physical.

But just because I'm weak doesn't mean God isn't still who he says he is.

At the end of the day, I know there's no reason to be ashamed of how we've responded. We're guilty of being human and responding exactly as we should. Until you've experienced this kind of loss (which experts say between this and the loss of a spouse are the two most difficult tragedies to recover from), you can't know how you'll think or feel in this kind of situation.

But please hear me say, we don't "grieve as people who have no hope" (1 Thessalonians 4:13). I may be a hot mess right now and it may seem like I've crumbled under the weight of this thing, but Christ is near. We've been shaken to the core, but...

• God is good—even though we don't understand him or his ways.
• God is faithful—even though he didn't answer the way we thought he would.
• God is for us—even though there are days when we don't feel his presence.
• Joel is no longer sick. He's healed and whole with Jesus at this very moment.
• We'll get to see Joel again in heaven one day.

In these darkest of days, I have no words, but I don't need them because he's carrying us. It's not the time for words and explanations. It's the time for trust. It's the time to be held. It's the time for healing. It's the time for renewal.

Blessings

Right now, I'm still struggling to spend time with the Lord. I've been taught that when I sit down to read the Word, I'm sitting down to spend time with the person of Jesus. And right now, I'm having a hard time talking with him.

I'll get back there again—to a new normal. But in the meantime, I've been advised by people, who have walked before me in these shoes of grief, that I should still find some way to connect with him. For me, that's through worship. This song has been on repeat in our home since Joel passed away.

We pray for blessings, we pray for peace

Comfort for family, protection while we sleep

We pray for healing, for prosperity

We pray for your mighty hand to ease our suffering

And all the while, you hear each spoken need

Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things

What if your blessings come through rain drops

What if your healing comes through tears

What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know you're near

What if trials of this life are your mercies in disguise

We pray for wisdom, your voice to hear

We cry in anger when we cannot feel you near

We doubt your goodness, we doubt your love

As if every promise from your Word is not enough

And all the while, you hear each desperate plea

And long that we'd have faith to believe

What if your blessings come through rain drops

What if your healing comes through tears

What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know you're near

What if trials of this life are your mercies in disguise

When friends betray us

When darkness seems to win

We know that pain reminds this heart

This is not our home, it's not our home

What if your blessings come through rain drops

What if your healing comes through tears

What if a thousand sleepless nights are what it takes to know you're near

What if my greatest disappointments or the aching of this life

Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can't satisfy

What if trials of this life—

The rain, the storms, the hardest nights—

Are your mercies in disguise

17 Hours of Life

It's taken me weeks to write this. Some days, I've sat down in front of the laptop and all I've had to pour out on my keyboard are tears. I haven't typed one word. Other days, I've only made it through a sentence before I lose it.

Today marks one month since we lost our son on Wednesday, February 15. Most of the last 28 days, we've been crushed under the weight of grief and desperately want Joel back. But as each day has passed, the pressure has lifted ever so slightly so that we can breathe a bit easier and see Christ more clearly. Let it be known—we certainly grieve, but not without hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13-14).

Today is one of those hard days for us. It's a milestone of sorts. But it's important that I share the story of Joel's birth and life. I believe it will honor him—especially today.

Back to Tuesday, February 14...

5:26 PM

Joel entered the world. I saw him for two seconds after the C-section before he was taken to the resuscitation room nearby and I was wheeled into recovery. The NICU team worked and worked and worked on him while Nathan stood as close to them as allowable so he'd know we were with him.

The first thing they did was get a breathing tube down his throat. (Remember? Doctor after doctor didn't even think that would happen.) Praise God! Another miracle.

They first estimated he weighed 8 lbs 4 oz. But after they drained vials upon vials of fluid from his chest and abdomen, their second estimate put him weighing in at 7 lbs 5 oz. They could only estimate his weight because actually putting him on scales meant they would have to remove tubes and wires and that wasn't possible.

At least they were able to initially remove some fluid and he was stabilized.

Meanwhile, God bless my poor nurse in the recovery room. I probably told her no less than 17 times, "My baby is in the NICU. When can I go? Did I tell you my baby is in the NICU? Is it time for me to go yet? Get me out of here. I need to get to the NICU right now."

I think she got sick of me saying that—or maybe just sick of me in general—because it didn't seem like I stayed there long before she finally released me.

9:30 PM

Since I couldn't handle a wheelchair quite yet, I was rolled down to the NICU on a stretcher where I got to actually spend time with our baby.

He was housed in an incubator and hooked up to everything imaginable. Cords, tubes, and IVs protruded from his little body. His little chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm, and you could hear him occasionally wheeze, trying to catch a full breath on his own. But he'd still not cried, opened his eyes, or moved very much. He was so very sick, but he was ours and we still had hope for his healing.

Exhaustion doesn't even cover what we felt. We'd not slept in what seemed like forever. But we journeyed back and forth and back and forth from our L&D room to the NICU. We'd stay with Joel until we couldn't keep our eyes open anymore, then we'd go back to the room for 30 minutes of sleep—a pattern we kept all night long until the next morning.

During our visits to the NICU, we didn't care that there were 4-6 people always within earshot—we held him, rocked him, sang to him, prayed over him, read Scripture to him, and told him how much we love him.

I played with his hair, felt his soft skin, kissed all over his face. Nathan said he was proud of him and reminded him what a fighter and Mighty Man he was. And there were a few times when we both held his hand and he squeezed back! That tiny gesture gave us so much hope.

At one point, I looked over to Dr. Hersey standing nearby. His eyes were closed and his hand was outstretched toward Joel's bed. He was praying over him. I knew it! I just knew he was a believer from the beginning. He radiated it. (And Dr. Shifflett confirmed it for us later.)

How amazing is it that God gave us these incredible believers at the last minute to walk us through such a difficult time? This was another miracle we couldn't have seen coming. We'll never forget God's providence in ways we never could've anticipated.

2:30 AM

Dr. Hersey visited us in our room with an update. The previous evening, right after he was born, Joel had somewhat improved. But by this point, things had started to "trend downward." They were getting bad. His blood oxygen levels were low, meaning he was struggling to take in oxygen and process it out as carbon dioxide.

They'd done everything they could: given him plasma and transfusions; pierced a hole in his chest to drain more fluid and release pressure off his lungs; and raised his oxygen levels significantly. The bottom line was that his little lungs were just too underdeveloped.

8:30 AM

Dr. Hersey and a team full of people met with us again in our room. He introduced one of the team members as Dr. Driver, the neonatologist who would be taking over for him, as his shift was ending. She invited us to their morning meeting at 9:30 a.m., when the next shift of NICU doctors visited all the babies, discussed their prognoses, and prepared treatment plans for the day.

Dr. Driver said they would start with the sickest baby in the NICU—our Baby Joel.

9:25 AM

We were at Joel's bedside, ready to hear the status of things. At first, they spoke in a language we didn't understand.

Dr. Driver then turned to us and said, "Let me explain. Your baby is very sick. His blood oxygen levels are very low and he's on 97% oxygen right now. We've done everything we can. I've been told that when you've held him throughout the night his heart rate and blood pressure stabilize, so I want to encourage you to hold him as much as possible."

10:15 AM

I immediately asked the nurse to take him out of the incubator and give him to me.

It all happened so fast. Within a few minutes, numbers on the screen started dropping fast. Lights started flashing and monitors started screaming at us. I looked down and my precious baby grimaced in pain.

I panicked and handed him back to the nurse, who then placed him back in the incubator and called for help. The same team of doctors and nurses, who had just been at his bedside, rejoined to stabilize him. I can't express enough how much the whole scenario was chaotic and surreal.

Oddly enough, my mom and dad joined us at that very moment. Only two people per patient were allowed in the NICU at a time, but my mom had a feeling something was wrong, so they raced down from our room and blew past the NICU front desk to check on us. They made it just in time.

As doctors hovered over Joel, poking and prodding him, something happened in me in that moment. Maybe it was the Holy Spirit who spoke to my heart.

I knew. I looked at Nathan and he knew too.

Through a torrent of tears, I said to him, "We have to say goodbye."

He shook his head yes and said, "We do."

Right then and there, Nathan asked Dr. Driver, "Are we sustaining the unsustainable?"

The pained look on her face said it all. "Yes, you are."

That was it for us. We didn't want to see our child suffer anymore. We didn't want to see any more blood drawn or needles put through his chest or grimaces of pain. I asked them to take the wires out and put him back in my arms. I didn't want to watch my baby die hooked up to machines.

As I cradled him, the nurses started removing things. I helped—frantically but gently peeling off tape. All the while, we told him how much we love him, how he wasn't alone, and that Mama and Daddy were right there with him. Then, they removed the final piece that was keeping him alive—the breathing tube.

He was struggling to catch a breath. I knew the end was coming quickly, so I handed him to Nathan so he could say goodbye. That little fighter—who hadn't had the strength to move much or open his eyes since he entered the world—raised both of his arms in the air as if reaching toward heaven. We know Jesus was there to take hold of him.

I said, "Joel, you're not alone. We're here with you, baby. We love you. We're going to hand you over to Jesus now."

He was ready to go home. And at that moment, our precious son took his last breath.

10:30 AM

I'll never in my life forget those moments. EVER. Neither will Nathan.

They put us in a quiet room, away from doctors and incubators and watchful eyes. The sadness hit us like a ton of bricks. We wept like we've never wept before. We held that baby so close, trying to make time stand still just for a few moments and take as many mental snapshots as possible before we had to hand over his body.

I've said before that Joel's story is coming out in pieces, and there's even more to his story in the aftermath of his life and death that I'll write about later. But I will say this for now until I can post again:

Even in those first devastating moments, when we had to give our son back to Jesus, when we felt like we couldn't breathe at the loss of him, when we didn't know how we'd move forward from this heartbreak, what we've said all along was still there at the core of us—even when we couldn't understand or fathom His ways.

He's good. 
He's faithful. 
He's for us. 
To God be the glory.
SaveSave

Our Valentine's Baby

We were operating on very little sleep from the "monitoring" that went on the night before, but we had a serious decision to make.

Our two options were:

1. Do we deliver Joel immediately?
2. Do we push the pregnancy further to give him a better chance?

From the beginning, Dr. Jackson #1 always told us we should be looking for the optimal moment to deliver Joel. It looked like we had come upon that moment, so we decided to move forward.

All along, it seems nothing had ever been set in stone. Remember? No cause. No cure. No permanent doctors. No plan. We wandered aimlessly, waiting for God to give us direction. We tried to be flexible the whole time.

But now, I can look back and see how we never needed a plan. At the midnight hour, God took care of all the details and put all the right people in our path.

1:00 PM

A doctor we'd never seen walked in and introduced herself as Dr. Shifflett. By this point, 5-6 random doctors had stopped by, so it was nothing new.

We soon found out that Dr. Columbus is a good friend of hers. She was concerned about us being in Jackson and not knowing anyone, so she called Dr. Shifflett and asked her to check in on us. We immediately connected with her. You could tell she loves Jesus because she talked about Him like we do.

We explained our situation and she said, "When my clinicals are over at 4:00 p.m. today, I can come back up and deliver your baby if you'd like."

YES, Dr. Shifflett, we would! Another miracle. God had provided an incredible doctor at the last minute to deliver our precious Joel.

2:30 PM

My mom and dad left Texas early in the morning and finally showed up in Jackson. They prayed over us and didn't leave our sides from that point forward.

4:00 PM

Another doctor came in and introduced himself as Dr. Hersey, the head neonatologist who, along with his team, would be taking care of Joel. Immediately, I could tell he had a kind, compassionate spirit about him. Another miracle.

4:55 PM

I was wheeled back and prepped for surgery. I didn't have a C-section with Madelyn, so this controlled chaos and unknown atmosphere, surrounded by 8-9 people shouting things I didn't understand, was completely new and scary. But my heart and mind were stayed on Joel and how he would fare once he made his debut.

Nathan had already prepped me with a battle cry before I even entered the room. From the moment they began with the spinal block, I was praying and quoting Scripture out loud: "Fear not, for I am with you. Don't be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you. Yes, I will help you. I will uphold you with my righteous right hand" (Isaiah 41:10). Over and over and over again.

Guess who stopped what she was doing and came over to stand in front of me, hold my hands and, I believe, pray with me? Dr. Shifflett. Another miracle.

5:05 PM

Nathan joined me and they began the procedure.

5:26 PM

After what seemed like forever, I heard finally heard, "Happy birthday, sweet boy!"

My heart leapt with joy. He was here at last. But there was no crying or squealing—not what we remember hearing from Madelyn when she took her first breath outside the womb.

They lifted my precious, fluid-filled baby boy up over the curtain so I could say hello for 2.2 seconds, then they whisked him away to the resuscitation room.

As I sit here and type this, I'm weeping as I think of that moment. (Nathan and I have done a lot of that over the last two weeks.) That first snapshot of Joel's face will forever be etched in my mind. 

My first thought was: "Thank you, Jesus, for bringing him this far! He's so beautiful, but he's such a sick baby. Be with him. Heal him. He needs you. We need you."

I was still doped up from the C-section, so I don't really remember much after this for the next hour or two, but I do know I told Nathan to go and be with our son—and he practically ran out of the room to join him.

As for me, it's like I never had preeclampsia. My blood pressure normalized, the headache went away, and I started to feel normal again--almost in a matter of minutes after Joel was delivered. 

As for our boy, we both still prayed and hoped God would come through and heal him.

24-Hour Monitoring + Preeclampsia

Many of you have asked how we got to where we are now. It started the week before Joel was born.

I started experiencing several things physically—and they all came on fairly rapidly:
swelling
contractions
blurred vision
high blood pressure
excess fluid (polyhydramnios)
an overall sense of not being well
constant headache (that OTC meds wouldn't cure)

Sunday, February 12

This day was the worst. We went to church and lunch out at a restaurant after that, but I had to leave the restaurant to go sit in the car early. I'd been having contractions all morning, and I knew something wasn't right.

We got home that afternoon and I think Nathan realized how serious things were getting. So we decided to pay Dr. Columbus a visit the next day.

Monday, February 13

3:00 PM

At Dr. Columbus' office, we explained my symptoms—except they ran an additional test and added "protein in urine" to the long line-up. Apparently, this is a key marker in determining whether a pregnant woman has developed preeclampsia.

Dr. Columbus called to talk with Dr. Jackson #1 (who, if you'll remember, is on maternity leave) and they both decided it was best to send me to Jackson immediately for 24 hours of monitoring. That's all. Just monitoring. Nothing else—or so we thought.

5:00 PM

We dropped Madelyn off with our awesome neighbors. (They've been a God-send to us throughout this.) They readily took her into their home and we took off with just an overnight bag. Because remember? Just 24 hours of monitoring. We'd be home the next day.

My parents were already planning on coming to Mississippi that week to help me with Madelyn. I was getting way too big to pick her up or walk long distances (see: excess fluid build-up). So we called and explained to them the monitoring that would take place overnight. They agreed to leave Texas the next morning and even stop by Jackson to check on us before they went on to Columbus to get Madelyn.

8:30 PM

We got to Jackson and I was admitted to the Women's and Children's Urgent Care Center—basically an ER for women and kids. Immediately, they began to check vitals and draw blood. Needless to say, the whole experience didn't even start off well.

The first nurse who tried to take my blood gouged around my veins so many times that I passed out and woke up not knowing where I was or who I was. I opened my eyes to Nathan hovering over me along with a team of nurses trying to raise my blood pressure back to normal and asked, "Where are we? Is Madelyn OK? Am I OK?"

11:00 PM

We were moved to a room on the Labor and Delivery floor to begin monitoring. They started me on Magnesium Sulfate to bring my blood pressure down, plus a bunch of other stuff I can't remember. (P.S. "Mag," as they call it, is ridiculous. I felt like I'd contracted the flu. Now, along with everything else I'd been experiencing, I also had body aches and shivering. Ummm—thanks a bunch, medical community.)

They started a 12-hour series of tests to monitor the levels of protein in my urine. If you've ever had a baby, or been with someone who had a baby, you know as soon as you step foot in the hospital, all modesty and propriety goes straight into the toilet (excuse the reference, but since we're on the topic). I was poked, prodded, and awakened every hour on the hour all night long.

Tuesday, February 14

9:00 AM

Maternal Fetal Medicine called and they wanted us downstairs in their offices to check on me and Joel. This was the same place we'd visited so many times over the last 10 weeks. As we entered the room, guess who walked through the door? Dr. Jackson #2.

Not. Kidding.

What were the chances? It wasn't even supposed to be his day in office. Where was Dr. Jackson #3? Wasn't she supposed to be here today?

I could see the blood in Nathan's face rising. He was moving and shifting in his seat, ready to protect his wife and baby if anything untoward was said or done.

I grabbed his arm and said, "Not today, Babe. Let's just do this and get out of here."

So we sat silent and let them do their job. They did a routine ultrasound and found that Joel was still stable with a great heartbeat and no worsening of fluid.

But Mama? Not so much. I think I freaked them out. They were very concerned about my condition and said urine tests were no longer needed to determine that I did indeed have preeclampsia.

Dr. Jackson #2 and his colleagues highly recommended that we move toward delivering Joel as soon as possible for the safety of us both. At that point, additional steroid shots to boost Joel's lungs wouldn't help him. In fact, we were told that I was hours, if not a few days, away from a deadly seizure, so time was of the essence.

We had a lot to think about.