Jonathan's Story

"An Angel in the book of life wrote down Jonathan's name, and whispered as he closed the book, 'Too beautiful for this world'..."

~Jonathan Levi Cart~

Born into my arms.

Born into the arms of Jesus.

August 20, 2011

On Wednesday, August 10^th, the children, hubby, and I, all loaded into the van to head to Baby Waves for my 20 week ultrasound. This was the day we had anxiously awaited for. The day to find out what little monster #7 would be!

Pink or blue was the only question on my mind....

But unfortunately, we didn't find out the baby's gender that day.

As we happily chatted with the ultrasound tech, I climbed my pregnant belly up onto the table, watching excitedly on the giant screen for a glimpse of our little one.

As the image of our precious child, all snuggled up tight in my womb finally showed, we all couldn't help but smile. Now, uncurl you stubborn one, so we can get a peek at what's between your legs!

After but a few seconds of wiggling my belly to try and move the baby, I was suddenly overwhelmed with dread. That baby was awfully still.

Too still.

And....where was the heartbeat?

My children started asking why the baby wasn't moving.

The technician had me curl up in a ball to try a different position, then excused herself for a moment.

I looked over at Matthew.

Something is wrong.

No baby should be that still.

I didn't want to admit what we both were thinking.

A minute later she returned, and Joanne, the owner of Baby Waves, asked my husband to speak with her for a moment.

As the tech tried again to move the baby and search for a heartbeat, I heard Matthew open the door and call the children out in the waiting area.

Joanne came in with tearful eyes and a box of tissues.

“We asked the children to go out of the room because-”

I lost all composure.

She just hugged me. And my rock, my Matthew, came in to hold my hand.

For another 15 minutes the technician checked over and over again to make sure that we were right.

There was no heartbeat.

My little one had stopped growing at 17 and ½ weeks, but had not died until somewhere in the 19^th week, just days before.

My sweet baby had died?

I felt like I had been punched in the stomach.

As Joanne printed out pictures of my angel for me, I felt like I was walking in a dream.

How would we tell the children?

As we silently walked to the car, the children asked if there was something wrong.

And we told them.

Ashley broke into tears. Elias said he would not believe it until I went to the doctor the next day and had them confirm. And the little ones kept asking when the baby would come out so they could play with him or her.

Matthew and I started discussing logistics. How would we do this? How can this be? What in the world happened?

How can we just bury our baby?

I dreaded the the task of telling everyone.

So I didn't.

The next few days were a blur. I felt like I was living in another world. Trying to figure out the details of birthing and burying a baby so far along, talking with my doctor and midwife, and trying to get things accomplished around the house before my hospital stay in a few days.

It was a very long weekend.

But one I treasured with my family, with lots of snuggle and playtime.

And then there was the task of making a small box for the baby's body to be buried in.

My cousin helped me make a simple one out of cedar, and the children joyfully took turns painting the sides. Now covered in Ninja Turtles, Mario, and princesses, Ashley excitedly proclaimed it perfect...“It's like a gift to the baby and God, from us!”

My emotions were everywhere.

I was heartbroken, full of fear, and quite frankly, more then a little annoyed at God.

Really Lord? It's bad enough you have to take my precious baby, but you couldn't have taken it earlier in the pregnancy? At a point where I wouldn't have had to actually birth and bury this little one? A point where I hadn't already felt it kicking away?

And how in the world was I supposed to cling to my God for His strength and love through all of this, when He was the one who caused this all in the first place!?

“All the peoples of the earth are regarded as nothing. He does as he pleases with the powers of heaven and the peoples of the earth. No one can hold back his hand or say to him: 'What have you done?'” (Daniel 4:35)

“If he snatches away, who can stop him? Who can say to him, 'What are you doing?'” (Job 9:12)

Needless to say, my faith was stretched, and I honestly had no idea how to deal with any of it.

And trying to stay strong for my family was not easy. Ashley would cry at any moment. Baby Thomas knew something wasn't right and spent every waking moment fussily clinging to me. Even Matthew was torn apart, which for a man who rarely shows emotion, was the hardest thing for me to see..

The days drug by.

I felt like I would never smile again.

I didn't eat.

I couldn't sleep.

Tuesday evening rolled around, the night I was to head in to be induced. Thankfully, I was going to be at the hospital where my sister is a maternity nurse. I knew all the doctors and nurses, and they knew me. Princess treatment all around! It was so nice knowing I would constantly have familiar faces and people who I knew were giving their actual heartfelt sympathy.

(And the best part about being at that particular hospital? The nurses arranged for me to be in the room where the huge black and white pictures of all of my sweet children were decorating the walls! A year ago, when the nurses redecorated the floor, they all brought in pictures of their children to use in the rooms. Since my sister doesn't have any, she used mine. I can't tell you how wonderful it was to look around the room and see their smiling faces whenever I wanted.)

I had been having small contractions all day, so I was prayerfully hoping my body would actually work with this induction. Being that I'm a VBA2C, even though I had had a successful homebirth since those 2 cesareans, I knew that inducing a scarred uterus, especially one that was not even close to being ready at 21 weeks, was highly risky business.

And of course there was the 50% chance of hemmorrage, and retained placenta from this type of birth thrown into the mix.

I honestly feared I would go into this hospital, and either never walk out, or leave with my abilty to have babies forever ripped from me.

Finding out I was a fingertip dialated was certainly an encouragement. We started the cervadil, and Matt headed back to my mother's house to be close by with the children.

We agreed it would be best for them to have daddy there, since the littles were so distraught over me being gone.

But thankfully I wasn't alone. My sweet friend Melissa came to spend the night and keep me company! We stayed awake until 3:30 chatting with my nurse friends, and eachother.

The next morning, Matt arrived bright and early, and the house doctor came in to remove the cervadil.

12 hours, and not a single change to my cervix.

After being asked for the millionth time to consider cytotec, and me reminding them that no thank you, my children would actually like to have a living mother after all of this, we started pitocin, knowing that we might be in for a long road, as it can take up to 24 to 36 hours with this type of delivery....going very slowly as a precaution.

I didn't want to think about overstimulating my uterus.

Instead, it didn't do a thing.

We finally started upping it normally every ½ hour, since there was no fear of harm to the baby, and the cramps that were resulting from it were barely flutters.

By that afternoon, we were in full pitocin mode, and I had a slightly crampy cervix.

Only if I remained standing.

So standing I remained.

All day long.

Rocking back and forth.

Trying to bring something, anything on.

That afternoon, Joselle, my midwife arrived to hang out and wait for baby time.

By that time I had some ok cramps going on, that were getting a bit more uncomfortable.

Hopefully I wouldn't have to wait too long.

Matt went to bring the children to the hospital to visit, and we mentally started preparing for the birth being soon.

Little did we know....

After a few hours, Matt took the littles to my mom's again, then came back to be with me, and Joselle. We stayed up late again, talking and enjoying eachother's company, all the while I stood swaying by my bed to continue bringing the cramps. I had some really weird contractions, and falling/flopping sensations in my uterus. I freaked out and started begging Joselle to check me, as I was sure it was my uterus tearing to shreds from the pitocin. Everyone tried their best to calm me, but to say I was irrational from stress and lack of sleep was an understatement.

Sometime close to Thursday morning, Joselle contacted her friend Megan, who was coming to photograph the birth and our sweet angel.

There was no way I wouldn't have this baby by morning....

She arrived shortly after, and everyone dozed off why Megan and I stayed up chatting about her baby loss experience, and trying to figure out what I could expect.

On a side note, I never knew a hospital room could hold so many sleeping people!

Finally around 6 am, I decided to lay down and try and rest up for the impending birth. After all, everyone kept telling me it'd be similar to period cramps, then the baby would just come, since I'd only have to dialate to 5 centimeters. These “contractions” seemed to be sticking and gaining in strength, so I should be safe to sit down.

I started to doze off sitting in my bed almost immediately, listening to the sounds of Megan reading next to me.

Less then 5 minutes later, I awoke with a start.

Where were the cramps?

…...

Nothing.

I climbed out of bed, and started swaying back and forth, trying to bring a contraction.

Nothing.

Everything had dissapeared.

All morning, all afternoon...the same.

I tried everything to get going again. The nurses came and kept upping the pitocin, way past the normal max level.

Nope.

My body was not giving up it's precious cargo without a fight.

My 36 hour line was nearing by the minute. I feared what my doctor would say when he walked in the room at 10pm that night to check on me.

At around 4pm, Joselle and Megan came back to my room after taking a walk, right after Melissa had arrived again.

Everyone had decided I needed a break. Matt was with the children at our house, and Joselle and Megan honestly thought I might need the space. I had been so worried about inconveniencing everyone, keeping them from their families, full of fear and worry of why this was taking so long, and a hundred other emotions, they figured if maybe they left for awhile, I could work some things out mentally if I was holding back, and maybe relax enough to go into labor again.

Ha.

As everyone left, I felt betrayed and bitter.

Even God had abandoned me, or so it seemed.

The doctor would be arriving soon, I was alone in my pity, and I felt like I had been thrown into the lion's den to fend for myself.

Did I mention how everything was going wrong in the literal sense as well? My mother had fallen and hurt herself so they couldn't watch the children for us, meaning Matthew had to take care of them at home and not be with me. We lost our laptop at the hospital. I had been sitting in this room for almost 48 hours trying to birth my dead baby, and even that stopped working.

And a whole other heap of things not going smoothly.

Yeah, God had seemed to be piling on the blessings at this point.

I spent hours by myself, crying out to Him. I logged on Facebook to see dozens of verses and words of encouragement from sweet friends who knew what was happening.

I tried to mediate on them. To let them sink in.

Yet instead, the only verse that kept screaming out in my head was “My God, My GOD why hast thou forsaken ME?”

How can I do this?

Was I mentally holding back this labor?

I didn't think so. But if you want to get technical, no I did not want to birth my baby like this. I wanted to hold him or her this Christmas, snuggled in my bed with all my other children.

Not this way.

Not now.

"Though He slays me, yet I will trust in Him."(Job 13:15)

Trust in Him.

I was ready to scream at God wondering why in the world is everything cascading down and getting worse? Why did this have to be so hard? Whoever said God won't give more then you can handle was not being honest to themselves or God's Word. He won't give you more then HE can't handle, and by golly, you better strap your seatbelts because it's going to be harder then you can deal with on your own.

But that was the key.

HE would get me through this.

Somehow, I needed to let go and just ride along for the trip He had planned.

I needed to be honest and face the fact that I hadn't been letting go of the reigns yet.

Easier said then done.

Matt arrived that evening with the children for yet another visit.

And my lovely doctor walked in shortly after.

I braced myself.

“So, how is everything going?”

Umm, it's not.

“Fine. Except I'm terrified of you.”

Yes, I literally said that.

I told you, I was on an honesty kick.

He looked at me with the kindest eyes and shockingly asked why?

I bit back tears as I explained the fear of what he might make me do.

And that sweet sweet man; the doctor, who despite how medically minded he is, the one who supported me through many births as I bucked against the system and him; said he would do anything I wanted at this point. Despite the fact that I had been trying to birth this baby for the past 48 hours on interventions, he was still willing to work with my body, do it as naturally as I wanted, and wait.

So, we decided to try using seaweed sticks to manually dilate me, since after all that work, I was still only at 1 measly centimeter.

Turning off the pitocin, we placed the sticks in my cervix, and started the wait until morning to see what would happen.

And after 3 days of not eating, and a whole weekend of the same, they rustled up some sandwiches and snacks to let me feast before bed, knowing I'd need some energy.

And sleep.

Since I didn't need to worry about staying upright to help with contractions, I slept the night away, hubby by my side, without a single disturbance.

And I even got breakfast in the morning.

You have no idea how much better I felt on Friday.

The burden of being “on the clock” was lifted, I had a good night's sleep AND food in my stomach, both a first in almost a week....

I actually felt like I could DO this.

And do this I did.

After removing the seaweed sticks, I was dialated to 2 centimeters!

My body was actually figuring this out.

So we started again with the pitocin at 10 am.

And very quickly I started to cramp away.

And within a few hours, I was actually having real contractions.

I can't describe how weird it felt to be so happy, and yet so sad to be in labor.

Melissa came back to the hospital, sportin' a Starbucks mint frap coffee for me. Despite not being allowed to have anything to eat and drink again since the pitocin was on, my sweet nurses said they wouldn't know about me having it or not. ;o)

Sipping my coffee, watching old musicals on the tv, while dancing and swaying my way through the contractions with my dear friend, my heavy heart felt much lighter at that point.

By 3:30 that afternoon, the contractions were one and a half minutes apart, and gaining quite the intensity. As they kept picking up momentum, I started to worry if my birth support would actually arrive in time.

Making phone calls, I found out no one could make it until after 8 or 9 that night.

Even things were keeping Matt delayed, and as the minutes ticked by, and things started getting painful, I didn't even know if my husband would make it.

Okie dokie then God.

I might just have to birth this angel alone, just me and Melissa.

I'm just along for the ride, remember.

Matthew arrived.

Then Joselle.

Then Megan.

9 o'clock.

Contractions at a minute apart.

Everyone was here.

But no baby.

The contractions were beginning to become unbearable.

So much for my normal pain free labor I was used to.

This pitocin was killer, and I wanted some relief.

Percoset is awesome.

But only for about 45 minutes.

Then the pain was back full force, and I could barely relax and breathe with the contractions.

1:30 am.

Time for another dose of pain killers.

As everyone talked and joked to keep the atmosphere light, I dozed in a rocking chair, visiting in between with my sister who came by to see me.

2:30 am.

I am slammed awake by the pain.

Contractions one on top of another, and fully feeling like intense, transition pains. This was not the easy labor I was hoping for.

In fact, this was the hardest, most horrendous labor I have ever experienced.

And knowing that I wouldn't have a baby to take home as a reward was making it all the more horrible.

Finally, at around 4:15 in the morning, I lost it again.

I wanted this over.

I wanted my baby back.

And I couldn't handle another minute of this insane pressure.

For the first time that night, I climbed into bed, feeling defeated.

Everyone was doing their best to comfort me, and trying to figure out what to do with this awful pain I was feeling.

Should I push?

No, it hurt to push.

So don't push.

But it hurt not to push.

So I just sat there and cried.

Then all of a sudden, I felt the baby fall out into the bed, and instant relief.

We buzzed the nurses (my two favorite friends of my sister's, Sarah and Denea)...”It's baby time.”

At 4:29 am that Saturday morning, my sweet baby entered this world, silent.

Joselle was by my side, comforting me as we looked down at the little hands and feet poking out of the sac on the bed.

And in the whirlwind of activity suddenly happening around me, all I could see was the blood. So much blood. And it was soaking the bed, and still coming.

Hysteria swept me, and I couldn't even focus on my baby. I kept crying out, “Is this ok? All this blood? It's too much! I never bleed like this”

Everyone kept assuring me that it was ok, but I even grabbed Denea's arm and scolded her that she better not be lying to me.

I was not in the mood for false comfort.

The house doctor came in to assess things, and take care of the placenta.

And by assessing, I mean manually cleaning out my uterus with forceps, guaze pads, and her hands, all to try and stop the bleeding.

Meanwhile I was screaming, trying not to climb off the bed and kick at the doctor, and telling her simultaneously “I'm sorry” every time.

Yup. Totally rational.

Meanwhile, Joselle had gathered the baby and was trying to clean it off.

After the bleeding had slowed, and practically stopped a few long minutes later, (despite the fact that I paranoidly thought I could still feel it coming) my doctor came in to see me. And let me say again how wonderful of a man he was...woken up at 4:30 am, and rushing to the hospital from his house within 10 minutes. And all of this when he didn't have to.

He checked me with an ultrasound, and told me everything looked good, the placenta was whole and had come right out, the bleeding had stopped, and with only a few small clots left to pass, I would not need a D&C.

Really?

I couldn't believe everything had gone so smoothly at the end. After all these days of chaos, I totally was expecting God to throw me another round of trauma. For Him to bless me with one small miracle, I was awed.

After the nurses and doctors cleared the room, I was left with my husband and friends to admire my sweet child.

“Is it a girl? Is it?”

Joselle was still holding the baby by me, and peeked. With a sad look at a few unshed tears, she shook her head.

“It's a boy. Your little Jonathan Levi.”

Another sweet baby boy.

I gathered him in his blanket and admired all those tiny little features.

Perfect.

Even the itty bittiest finger and toenails I'd ever seen!

Joselle couldn't help but show me his cute little baby bum, and I got a good look at his tiny manhood.

Another boy.

Another godly man for His kingdom, and yet he never had a chance on Earth.

“The Lord gave, the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.” (Job 1:21)

Jonathan Levi.

Jonathan means “Given by God”.

Levi means “Combined, borrowed and lent, circled back”...

Fitting, no?

At a miniscule 5oz and 7 inches long, it was the most amazing site I had ever seen.

Soon after, everyone left so we could be alone with our son, just Matt and I. Then while I cleaned up, got dressed, and packed everything, he went to go get the children so they could meet their brother.

As I snuggled with my baby, waiting for everyone to get there, I felt numb. It was all a dream, right? There was no way that in an hour, I would walk out of that hospital, not pregnant, and with no baby to hold.

Why?

It was a relief to see my other little ones as they walked through the door.

They were in just as much awe of Jonathan as I was.

“He's the cutest baby ever!”

That he was.

I hated leaving him behind for the funeral home to pick up.

As the nurse carried him down to the mourge, I never felt so empty.

But home we went.

And the next few days were a whirlwind of burial arrangements, visiting friends bringing blessings of food, and lots of sweet moments with my children.

Tuesday morning was the day.

The day I would bury my child.

We met my mother and father at the funeral home, to see my angel one last time.

Wrapping him in the quilt I made, Matthew, the children, and I, gently laid him in our homemade box, along with a few special items, then tucked it into a the tiny casket my parents had gotten.

I let the funeral director close the lid.

I couldn't bring myself to do that.

But before it was sealed, I asked to have the tiny pillow inside.

One piece of “him” with me.

We arrived at the cemetary.

Our little group huddled all together by a small grave.

The minister's words, the same man who married Matthew and I, fell to deaf ears, as I felt like I was in another world.

All I could do was stare at the brillant blue sky, studded with the 12 baby-blue ballons we released.

So beautiful.

So fitting.

Tear filled hugs with a few precious friends and family, we watched as the young men lowered that tiny casket into the ground, and gingerly placed shovel fulls of dirt on my baby boy.

He was gone.

My womb was empty.

And so was my heart.

But I must be strong.

My family depended on me.

I was the capable one.

Always doing everything.

Yet now, I could do nothing.

It's been 2 weeks.

My body is not cooperating in a quick recovery, and I humbly have to ask for more help then I want to.

I hate it.

I am always the one who wants to help others.

Yet now the roles are reversed, and I am the one needs to accept it.

The body of Christ working together to help the mourning.

A blessing.

A curse.

Sweet from the bitter.

This week, I received a phone call from Memorials of Angels; a local ministry that provides headstones and all the setting expenses to families for the graves of their children.

We had been approved.

So we went to pick out a grave marker for our precious Jonathan.

The whole time I was looking through the design book, choosing the cute etchings, and letting the children decide on what to have it say, I kept thinking how ironic....

This is the point in my pregnancy that I should be looking through catalogs, picking out baby clothes, cloth diapers, and bedding for the nursery....and instead, I am picking out a tombstone.

It was terribly sad and sobering, yet at the same time, incredibly healing. I walked out of there feeling satisfied, light-hearted, and even happy.

I felt closure.

Joy really will come in the morning....

"Weeping may remain for a night, but rejoicing comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:9)

And it is.

Slowly.

But it is.

The days are long, and the hurt is deep.

“He heals the brokenhearted, and binds up their wounds.”
(Psalm 147:3)

I wish He would take this all away. I wish He would give me my baby back.

But His plans are not mine.

And despite how bitter, I wouldn't want them to be.

Although some days, I wish He'd fill in a bit on the what and why He has in store.

Until then, I am just along for the ride.

And content with knowing my little Jonathan Levi, is safe in His arms.

“My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.” (Psalm 73:26)

I used to think the number seven was a good number...God's number...until all of this.

This would have been our 7^th living baby.

After this, it became a curse.

Then a sweet friend reminded me...the number seven is God's chosen number.

So, He must have something great in store for the short life of this little guy.

Lord, let it be.