She arrived mid-morning on the first day of a new month, nineteen weeks pregnant and bleeding. And I volunteered to take care of her.
She needed somebody to be willing. And I knew what to do because I’d done it so many times before.
We sped her to ultrasound. And then, the radiologist called.
He told me the results first. And as soon as I hung up, I wished his words away. No matter how many times this happens, it never, ever, gets easier.
To know information that will change the course of someone’s life, before they are informed, is a suffocating weight each and every time.
The doctor tells her. And she cries.
And pulling up a chair, I sit like a bird perched on a wire with nowhere to go–content to stay with her as long as it takes.
Because who just walks in like an impersonal robot to begin admission forms and start an IV, when a woman has been told terribly horrifying news?
That the bleeding means she’s in labor,
That the baby’s heart is strong right now, but it won’t be for long,
That when babies are born this young, they can not survive.
Today is her baby’s last day to be alive.
So I sit.
And we talk.
Her tears well up in waves and roll down. And her husband heaves without producing any sound at all, as I gently inquire about their choices.
Chaplain or priest.
Seeing or holding.
Burial or cremation.
Pictures taken or photos left behind.
It seems so wrong to have to verbalize such things, and no matter how many times I do, it never gets easier.
I reach across and grab her hand, willing to hold it until she lets go.
I whisper I’m sorry, and I wait, with nowhere else pressing to go.
The silence deafens.
She doesn’t allow our eyes to meet, and I don’t force her to. But I reach across with a box of tissue in hand–a meager offering to a weeping papa whose fatherhood journey is ending far before it ever started.
To grieve with another in the silence of their presence, THIS is holy work. [Tweet this]
And for this day, I’m leading this walk into grief. And it’s a hallowed journey–a space reserved for hearts to lean into the immediacy of tragedy, and initiate the embrace of the profoundness of their suffering. This suffering they would have never, ever chosen.
Grieving a death is not a journey for the weak.
And today, they need me as they’re plummeting toward this valley of grief which seems to have no floor–a free-fall to uncertainty and despair.
This free fall is the initial plight of one who grieves.
I start her IV and complete her admission record. And it’s 3 o’clock before I eat any lunch. I steal away some moments for my heavy heart. And I eat while I read.
And in a divine moment, God meets me in the midst of Lisa-Jo’s words…
“There is light and life in the darkness . . . God knits babies together in the secret dark. And we can plan all we like, but we have no actual control of the outcomes. We bear witness to the miracle . . . Small wonder that to get a glimpse into their secret world, we need to go into darkened rooms lit only by a flickering screen to read what we can of who they are becoming. But God already knows. He already delights. He has already been singing over them in the dark, secret hours of spinning life out of strands of DNA–an artist at work . . . upward and forward and deeper into the heart of God with each new life He entrusts us with.” ~Surprised by Motherhood
And after lunch, I know what I need to do.
I retrieve the ultrasound machine, and roll it to her room. And together we peek, one last time, into the secret dark to see this precious life that’s still inside. And indeed he’s there. His heart beating strong, oblivious to what is to come.
I take pictures, and there are more tears. She closes her eyes, and whispers thanks.
And it’s a holy understanding between us that needs no words. Because the next time I take pictures of their sweet baby, he will already be with God.
She delivers just before my shift ends, and I place him in the unheated warmer.
His translucent skin is so thin, with veins so intricately visible beneath.
Five fingers, five toes, and little eyebrows.
But there are no lungs, and no movement at all.
Earlier, what was only spoken words, becomes reality before our eyes.
Their baby boy is with God.
Death is the end of our physical time with our loved ones on earth. And the sharp pain carves deep, as we who are left, strive to keep living on.
Death is loss. And grieving is holy work–a work done amidst crashing waves.
Wave after wave.
With tides rolling in, and tides flowing out, in a never-ending cycle of adjustment.
Grieving is a lifelong process, and is a journey that takes time. So much time in fact, that often, it never fully ends.
Instead, we learn to live with the ongoing ache and loss, hoping its intensity fades over time.
And on these journeys of grief, we need each other. Together with hands holding hands–our silent presence giving strength to weary, grieving hearts.
What has helped you grieve a loved one, a dream, or a lost opportunity?
What happened when you gave someone the gift of your presence?
This is a holy work. When people are not willing or able to try, the ache and scrape of the soul is immense.
Deb Weaver
wow… this is so beautiful, so sad, so honoring, so terrible. All mixed into one ‘writing’. I pray for her, for them and the precious little one. I pray also they have pictures and they had time to say good bye.
What an amazing post! Nurses are part of so many intimate, sacred moments–birth, death, and all that lies between. I wish every nurse had your compassion and willingness to be present for your patients.
Yes, Deb. It is. And may our compassion make us willing to try–to avoid adding to the pain of the grieving. Much love to you…xo
Oh Sharon…yes. They spent four hours with him, and we took some beautiful pictures of tiny toes and eyebrows. So hard, but they embraced the beginning of grief. And that’s not what always happens initially. So humbling to be there with them and to serve them that day…
Thank you Kathy…it is not easy, but so worth it. Thank you for your kind words.
Jacque, this is breathtaking. No words. Praying for this couple.
Thank you Dana, so very much, for praying for them. I took care of two couples like this last month, and I continue to be humbled at the chance to be with women in their grief–whether it’s the death of their baby or the grief of their failure. God is so, SO good.
This is heart-achingly beautiful. And this is ministry. {HUGS}
Such a precious post. It reminds me so much of the ministry I have as a pastor’s wife. Just being there is often what grieving people need. I’ve sat for hours in silence with my arms around someone who had just lost a loved one, sometimes with the deceased right there with us. It’s heart wrenching and yet comforting and peaceful at the same time. And all only possible through grace. So thankful that you have a ministry like this! I remember well many of my nurses when I was hospitalized and initially told that we had lost our baby. Several of them spoke to me about the Lord, and sat on my bed with me as long as I needed them. My story had a positive ending, but I’ve never forgotten those moments with nurses. You are gifted and special!!
Oh Jacque…this is beautiful! I was that mother 11 years ago. I was a little further along, 25 weeks, but I went through it all, delivered my baby boy and he lived 6 shirt hours. I had a nurse whos presence and gentleness ministered peace to me. It was as if I could physically feel her prayers. I know you being there was God ordained for this family and I am am grateful to hear your side of this grief story. Your words have moved my heart tonight.
Love, Kristin
Beautiful heart-stirring words Jacque. Thank you for your ministry to our sister, and for sharing this. Jesus is present in the holy heartache through you. So hard. May the family keep hold of His hand to walk them on through here to Heaven with hope.
Bless you as you serve the Lord! What a special ministry you have be entrusted with.
Yes, friend. THIS is ministry. Sending hugs back to you and prayers as you fly. Give my love to all, yes?
Oh Leah, yes, to sit with them and hug them in the moment. What a privilege and a gift to be used in this way. Blessings to you as you continue to comfort others too. Sending so much love to you..
Ahhh Kristin, six. hours. Giving thanks with you for those hours, as short as they were. And thank you. Thank you for sharing that our efforts as nurses matter, and that we do minister to you as patients. It encourages me so. I’m so sorry for your loss, and so very thankful to call you friend. xo
Yes, so. hard. Yet I feel so compelled to be there with patients in those situations. I long for them to know His love, even if they don’t know Christ. And I pray, even as I sit. For them, and sometimes with them. And I leave with them on my heart, sometimes for a long time. In fact today is March 18, and I’ll never forget the woman I cared for several years ago on St. Patrick’s day, a term demise. {sigh} Yes, I am impacted by them, as I pray they are by the love I’m giving them too. What an honor and a gift. Love you.
Thank you Dawn, so much. Yes, it is, special indeed. Blessings to you..xo
Thank you for sharing this. I thank God daily for nurses like you. I lost a baby girl to an umbilical accident at 34 weeks. I’ve also suffered 5 miscarriages. I have had God send me grace through nurses just like you. He always shows Himself faithful even in the darkest of circumstances. Beautiful words today!
I wish I didn’t have such intimate knowledge of stories like this. I’ve lived it as a patient and am grateful for doctors and nurses who knew enough about grief to stand in that space with me…even if only for a few moments. Your words are real and true. Bless you for serving in this holy calling.
Jacque, I have NO doubt that you are exactly where God needs you….you are such a blessing there. You are also a blessing to us readers of this blog.
I will be praying for this couple…..and you, as well.
Thanks for sharing.