The Day Before David

I have a backlog of posts that just don’t seem fitting to publish until I post this one—the one I wrote the day before David was born; the one the Lord used to prepare my heart for my son. But right before I walked downstairs to post the words that were a lifeline at the end of a physically and emotionally draining pregnancy, my water broke. And when you’ve had two fast labors and a daughter born into the arms of a nurse, you call your neighbor and go straight to the hospital. So, four months later, here they are. The words that tendered my heart to my son, kneading it like dough until it was ready to rise to a new life, a new love.

The sun was hiding behind clouded covers as I reached over to grab my phone. Heavy, foreign fingers rummaged through books and pony tail holders until they found the start button on my phone’s contraction timer. I turned my head to read the obnoxious green numbers. The time read 4:05 a.m. Raindrops pelted the roof as our gutters dumped water on the deck outside our window. I rubbed my belly, deciding if it was necessary for me to get out of bed and move through the pain. I had to get up for work in two hours. I didn’t want to get up now.

I looked over at Emmarie, as if my sleeping daughter could help answer the question. Her tiny body was squished next to my husband, yet somehow still sprawled diagonal across the remaining two thirds of our bed. She had climbed into bed less than thirty minutes ago and already conquered my sacred sleeping space. Maybe firstborns are always feisty like that. I smiled, deciding to stay in bed.

Pain radiated from the top of my belly downwards. I definitely had made the wrong choice. The searing tightness forced me to catch my breath and reminded me to breathe all at once. I would be okay, I told myself as I felt my body begin to shake and sweat beneath the covers. It was only prodromal labor.

“So, what you are saying is they are real, regular, painful, and progressive contractions that don’t end in a baby?” my doctor had asked the week before. I nodded. I had been having consistent, breath taking contractions for close to four weeks.

“Sounds like prodromal labor,” he responded. “I’m sorry about that, but the upside is it might be why your other labors were so fast.” He was right. I had experienced prodromal labor with both Emmarie and Clara. Days of it, in fact. Beyond the benefit of rapid deliveries, the only upside I could see now was that the end was coming. But, if this teasing, early labor was the easy stuff, I wasn’t sure I was ready for delivery.

The days and nights of consistently contracting with David were blurring the lines between reality and birthday wishing. The speed of my previous deliveries only elevated my anxiety. Would I make it to the hospital in time? Would David be ok? Would my body be too exhausted after the trauma of the last three years to give birth to a baby without an epidural again? Would I finally be able to get the magical pain-masking drug in time? Each contraction jarred me back into and out of these thoughts. How would I know with all these early labor pains whether I was actually in labor? This is my third child, I told myself. Certainly, I would know. Wouldn’t I?

The contraction eased. I hit the stop button on the contraction timer. 4:06 a.m.

But the pain didn’t end. It stayed in the hollow of my heart.

It wasn’t the pain of early labor I was feeling, I realized as I stared at the contraction timer on my phone. It was the wrenching, beautiful reminder that we lost our beloved Clara 16 months ago today. It was the fear of losing David, our unborn child, for no other reason than that we had lost our second child. It was the uncertainty of people seeing Emmarie and David without also seeing Clara. It was my insecurity about people thinking David would replace Clara; or equally bad, that he would live under her shadow. It was the truth that Emmarie and David would know each other, but only know Clara from pictures. It was the overwhelming worry that I would shut down after pressing on for so long right when my son would need me the most. It was the guilt that his nursery wasn’t done, that we hadn’t taken maternity photos. It was all of it.

My stomach started to tighten. 4:12 a.m.

When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze (Isaiah 43:2).

My heart stilled as my body began to sway with the pain, the verse spreading throughout my insides. When I pass through the waters, You, Lord will be with me. When I pass through the waters, they will not sweep over me. When I walk through the fire, I will not be set ablaze.

Not if. But when.

When. When. When.

Yes, Lord, when. When there is no walking around the loss of my daughter, you will be with me. When there is no dodging the confusion of life after loss, you will be with me. When there is no avoiding the mental battle pulling me apart, you will be with me. When I cannot persevere any longer, you will be with me. When the pain is too much to bear, you will be with me. You have already walked this path.

The contraction pulled my belly down even harder, like a brick plunged into water. Two more weeks of this? David is already measuring big, certainly it is fine if he comes now. I looked at the clock.

4:13 a.m.

I let my breath out, feeling the thundering of David’s feet against my stomach as my muscles relaxed. My strong and mighty boy. My good and gracious gift from the Lord. When you are born, the Lord will be with you because you are his. Yes, perhaps, I need two more weeks to know this truth.