even unto death

Three weeks have passed since I heard Dot's heartbeat for the last time. "Perfect heartbeat," my midwife said. 

Two weeks have passed since I stared at the last grainy image of sweet Dot... so tiny and so still. Not the somersaults that I remembered at her big sister's twelve-week ultrasound. The nurse didn't need to say anything. 

My body went into labor that night and by morning my baby, the one with the perfect heartbeat, was gone. 

Grieving the unborn is hard; I mourn so deeply but don't know the person whom I mourn. I have no memories to relive-- only the ones left undone, just expired dreams, really. No proper name to recall, no baby shower to plan, no newborn to swaddle and share. I don't even know what pronouns to use.

So when I couldn't cry any more (and didn't know what else to do), I cut off my hair, bought Mary Allison the hideous, overpriced baby doll she'd been wanting for months, dove into work head-first and have listened to one song on repeat for days and days. The lyrics go like this:

"Lover of my soul, even unto death, with my every breath I will love You. In my darkest hour, in humiliation,  I will wait for You. I am not forsaken. Though I lose my life, though my breath be taken, I will wait for you. I am not forsaken."

I am grateful for the comforting melody and words streaming on live-demand through my head. It has been my constant reminder in this, my darkest hour, that Jesus is my joy, my hope, and my glory. And though my baby's breath was taken before her first cries, I will continue to use mine to give thanks and praise to God. 

"I will wait for you. I am not forsaken."

five weeks