Our Miracle

This is Cary. I know I haven't had time to write, even though Paul wanted me to. Now I have plenty of time.

Paul was worried that God didn't have time to give us a miracle, but he did. Camden was our miracle.

I have to point out that, although we take them for granted - they happen for Paul and I very easily - each conception and pregnancy is a miracle by itself. Not everyone gets to experience those joys, and I am so grateful to have carried Camden for as long as I did.

Our first miracle was that through all of this, Paul has been home. His crew is currently deployed, and has been since June. Paul was one of two guys (out of 150) sent home in mid-August. Dads don't normally get sent home for a birth.

When my water broke on September 2nd, it is a miracle that Camden was not born in our kitchen. Most women whose membranes rupture early have a baby within 10 days. Camden was able to wait 23 more days.

Being sent to Tacoma General Hospital was our next miracle. Ordinarily, we would have been sent to Madigan Army Medical Center, but since their NICU was full, we went to TGH. After Camden was born, there was an apartment available right across the street, so I wouldn't have to have someone drive me an hour each way to go see her.

The next miracle was although I knew the ultrasound tech couldn't find Camden's heartbeat in the minutes immediately before my C-section, I felt completely at peace when the doctor shouted "splash and go" and I fell asleep, even though Paul hadn't made it to the hospital yet.

It was a miracle that I awoke to my husband holding my hand - with such sweet news of a living baby girl.

We celebrated each miracle of her looking towards our voices, her O2 stats soaring when we touched her, her perfect tiny hands. We celebrated the miraculously low level of blood in her brain (preemies tend to bleed to the point of brain damage), and each small victory of a good blood gas. I was so proud to offer her breast milk, which she easily digested, despite her underdeveloped intestines.

The very last miracle of being able to hold her for the first time was one I will treasure in my heart forever. I have never been with someone when they died before, but I feel so blessed to have held my daughter close during her last moments. I know she felt what I felt - finally, we are together, where we belong.

It still breaks my heart that our family will not have the miracle of taking our baby home, or of midnight feedings (who ever thought I would think of them as little miracles??) Every time I look in the mirror, the scar on my body will remind me of the child I don't have. We will not introduce Gabe to his sister. I will not have the luxury of complaining about how hard it is to juggle the needs of two children, and I will wince every time I see another mom holding a toddler's hand while pushing a baby in a stroller.

Gabe will not grow up with a playmate. I will not have the energy to throw a party for his birthday next week, and Thanksgiving will be a difficult time to be thankful. It will kill me to buy Christmas presents for only one child, and to only fill three stockings on Christmas Eve. Putting away her things will be so hard. One day we will tell Gabe he had a sister. She will not go to school, play sports, or talk about boys on the phone. She will not break curfew, be grounded, or go to college. She will not get married, and I will not get to argue with her about the flowers at her wedding. I wanted so much to be her mom.

Today we are planning a funeral to remember our sweet baby girl. I yearn to hold her again - in my body, in my arms. I'm not quite ready to accept her death, but I am totally in awe of the miracle of her life.