A Perfect Heart
"Why don't you get up. Use the restroom, move around a bit, and we'll try again in a minute."
The ultrasound technician said she couldn't get the angle she wanted to see our baby's heart. I turned my head on the pillow to look at Pat, sitting by my side and smiling. The technician wiped off the gel, helped me up, and I rolled my tank top back down over my growing bump.
Perhaps because moments later I was in front of a mirror, I can still see myself: expectant mama, washing her hands, and bubbling with emotions, as she's just seen the black and white images- profile, nose, tummy, toes- of her first baby fill a TV screen.
"Are you going to wiggle around for us?" I softly asked our little one, placing my hands to cradle my belly and walking back out to the exam table. I could feel baby roll as I laid back down, telling me 'yes.'
A few times throughout the scan I'd ask the question: "is that normal?"
The ultrasound tech replied, without the warmth I would have found comforting, "I can't tell you what's normal and what's not. I'll send these images to your doctor, and she'll go over everything with you."
Call it general anxiety. Or premonition, perhaps. I felt nervous; I didn't really understand the images we were seeing, even when the tech would tell us "there's baby's face," or "that's the umbilical cord." Though I knew nothing then, I knew that this important appointment would tell us so much, and I hoped that soon we'd be hearing, 'everything's perfect.'
Before we left the room, we heard the words that induced the afternoon's first round of tears- these ones so, so happy: "it's a girl."
I remember being told by friends to really take in that ultrasound, as it could be my only chance to see our baby before she was born, and those last few months could seem really long.
As it turned out, I had at least eight other ultrasounds between the anatomy scan and the birth of our Eva.
During one, we saw a different maternal-fetal medicine specialist than we normally did, and he kept studying Eva's heart.
"Is everything ok?" I asked him, as bright red and blue clouds flashed over the screen, illustrating Eva's blood and oxygen flow, as she wiggled and hiccuped away.
"Oh, yes," he said, quick to reassure the worried momma under his care. "Your baby's doing beautifully. The class I teach at the Med Center is studying cardio-thoracic images, and your baby has a perfect heart. And she is in the perfect position for some great images."
I smiled. It was not the first or last time, by any stretch of the imagination, that I felt so proud of our Eva.
He took several pictures of Eva's heart, as we savored the extra time watching our girl.
"She has a perfect heart," he kept repeating. "Such a perfect heart."
Several weeks later, I'd discover that all of Eva was as perfect as I could have ever hoped. She was healthy from the very beginning, scoring high on her Apgars and impressing all she met with her determined tenacity throughout her post-op NICU stay. I've written of her beauty before: full, rosy lips; long, dark hair; a defined, rounded chin; vibrant skin tone; and bright, blue eyes-- babies change so much in those first, precious days, don't they? As her features refined from scrunchy newborn to pretty little girl, her breath-taking beauty remained.
And while her physical beauty astounded us, the perfect personality that quickly emerged did, too. She had fire, that girl. I can't imagine the fights Eva experienced in her first days and last days on this earth, but she endured them fiercely and beautifully. And in the days in between, she was sweet beyond belief. Consoling her was easy; she was an elite-league cuddler. She watched her surroundings with alert awe, and she loved being read and talked to. Eva Kay was the center of our spinning world, which blessedly slowed in those precious, sacred days.
I remember Christmas morning. I remember holding Eva, watching a silly movie on TV, and resting heart to heart. The incredible stress from months of prenatal worry, critical neurosurgery, intensive recovery, and life in the hospital were behind us. We could finally just be with our baby. With Pat right near us and Eva in my arms, I remember not wanting to move from that warm, peaceful, fully-contented scene.
A few days later, I'd think back to the perinatologist's careful, adoring scrutiny of Eva's heart. I'd hear an Intesivist reprimand the resident who commented that her blood-oxygen levels were good: She is not a heart patient. This is an infection. These are not good levels for a heart-healthy kid. I'd tell my family of the other half of Eva's name's meaning: life-giving. I'd looked up the meaning of 'Eva' after Pat had suggested the name; we'd had that first anatomy scan, and so many unknowns existed. I loved the meaning I discovered: life. But the second part, 'life-giving,' didn't resonate until we began the unimaginable conversation about how Eva might give life to others. Particularly, with her perfect, perfect heart.
I held my daughter Eva when her perfect heart stopped beating.
And then the world jarred off its axis. For those who've never lost a child, no words can ever explain this experience or the journey since. For those who have, no words are necessary. The journey of child loss is a heart-changing one indeed.
Like the experience of loss itself, the reference to one's heart as the soul's emotional chamber is timeless. The 'heart' as the feeling, soulful center has been described as such since the time of ancient civilizations.
Perhaps physiologically my heart, like Eva's, is perfect. Maybe we share that like we do face shape and fingers. But my soul-heart, that feeling center, is lightyears from perfect. Trauma and grief and longing and love have changed my heart's rhythm forever. What used to mostly beat steady now trips, freezes, and shudders against an undercurrent of trepidation that the devastatingly unexpected could reach us again.
I'd just returned home three weeks ago from the Physician's Clinic. After walking the babysitter out and loving all over my Hope, I saw the awaiting message notification.
"Elizabeth," my doctor said in her voicemail. "I'm looking at your scans right now, and I need you to give me a call back as soon as you can... Ok. Thanks."
As Pat, Hope, and I visited with her again the next morning, she told me that she thought I was handling the news very well.
"This is not the worst thing that has ever happened to me," I said honestly. I was truly saddened. But after the heart has changed, sadness becomes very relative. "It's not the worst thing that could happen to me."
"I know what the worst thing is," she said. "And we're not going to get there."
She was looking at me, and I was looking at Hope. Jesus, please keep her safe. Please keep her healthy. Please keep her here, is among my constant, constant prayers.
The next day, I underwent surgery to remove the tiny embryo- our littlest peanut- and the ruptured Fallopian tube that had trapped him/her.
When the heart changes, emotional responses do, too. I feel embittered a lot. Questioning. Angry. Why take our Eva? Why Group B Strep, a rare infection from a common bacteria? Now, why can a surprise pregnancy not just be uncomplicated? happy?
My flawed, injured heart wants to be only grateful, only loving, only kind, and less fearful. Goodness knows my list of reasons to be grateful and glad is endless. But the trauma of child loss reverberates in a way that prevents those lofty wants and affects all other triumphs and trials. A darkness in my heart tries to put humanity's sufferings on some sort of scale (a confession in writing): why haven't they had the suffering, the troubles we have? or as I see so many tragedies in this broken, hurting world, why do they have to know that excruciating pain?
A funny thing happened during the second trip to the Physician's Clinic, though, on that first day when I returned my doctor's call and headed back in for stat. blood work. As my dear Hope- my rainbow, my joy- chattered happily in the back seat, I called Pat.
"They think I'm pregnant," I said. I smiled. I dreamt.
My heart didn't despair. My heart hoped. "The baby might be in the wrong place," I told him. "But it also might not."
Some times it's hard to believe that when it comes to growing our family, anything could be easy. While my pregnancy with Hope was blessedly physically good, crippling anxiety and post-traumatic stress rocked my world with her. I'd wondered if my pregnancy with Baby #3 might be just a bit easier with our Hope's reassurance, but that third pregnancy has come and gone.
But that doesn't stop this imperfect heart from hoping. The gift of my Eva and my Hope, my wonderful husband, and our loving family and friends warms my heart and ignites our hope in ways I can't describe.
I've said it before, but it's so worth repeating: you remember Eva so well, and it means the world to us. Addressing me as a mother of two. Sending a picture of you or your child in an Eva shirt, or a butterfly, or an Eva sky. Sharing a memory. Acknowledging our pain. Telling me you've been feeling her presence. Writing her name among the names in our family. Giving us pictures your child has colored for her. Commemorating the important dates. Planning on her walk. Visiting her grave. Saying her name. These are only a handful of ways our loved ones have kept our first daughter present in recent months, and they fill my heart each time.
My heart, my heart, my heart. I've heard people say "be still my heart," and I don't quite understand that. Don't still, heart. Keep seeing, loving, hoping, and dreaming. Keep beating, heart...
I think back to being in the hospital when Eva was first born and being two floors apart from her over night. The NICU would call me every three hours, though I'd be awake and eagerly awaiting the call.
"Hello, Elizabeth," the nurse would say. "Eva is ready for you!"
And Pat and I would excitedly head down to the NICU, where I'd nurse, and we'd snuggle and care for our precious, special new baby girl. Each time Eva was placed in my arms, I felt an otherworldly love.
I can't possibly fathom the love and majesty that awaits us in Heaven; no one can. But I imagine my Savior calling me: holding me with a strength I don't deserve, as I cling to his grace. He'll heal my imperfect heart.
And then I imagine He'll say, "Eva is ready for you."
And He'll place her in my arms. And He'll show me the truth about His kingdom and our Eva and His love.
'Everything's perfect.'
"Why don't you get up. Use the restroom, move around a bit, and we'll try again in a minute."
The ultrasound technician said she couldn't get the angle she wanted to see our baby's heart. I turned my head on the pillow to look at Pat, sitting by my side and smiling. The technician wiped off the gel, helped me up, and I rolled my tank top back down over my growing bump.
Perhaps because moments later I was in front of a mirror, I can still see myself: expectant mama, washing her hands, and bubbling with emotions, as she's just seen the black and white images- profile, nose, tummy, toes- of her first baby fill a TV screen.
"Are you going to wiggle around for us?" I softly asked our little one, placing my hands to cradle my belly and walking back out to the exam table. I could feel baby roll as I laid back down, telling me 'yes.'
A few times throughout the scan I'd ask the question: "is that normal?"
The ultrasound tech replied, without the warmth I would have found comforting, "I can't tell you what's normal and what's not. I'll send these images to your doctor, and she'll go over everything with you."
Call it general anxiety. Or premonition, perhaps. I felt nervous; I didn't really understand the images we were seeing, even when the tech would tell us "there's baby's face," or "that's the umbilical cord." Though I knew nothing then, I knew that this important appointment would tell us so much, and I hoped that soon we'd be hearing, 'everything's perfect.'
Before we left the room, we heard the words that induced the afternoon's first round of tears- these ones so, so happy: "it's a girl."
I remember being told by friends to really take in that ultrasound, as it could be my only chance to see our baby before she was born, and those last few months could seem really long.
As it turned out, I had at least eight other ultrasounds between the anatomy scan and the birth of our Eva.
During one, we saw a different maternal-fetal medicine specialist than we normally did, and he kept studying Eva's heart.
"Is everything ok?" I asked him, as bright red and blue clouds flashed over the screen, illustrating Eva's blood and oxygen flow, as she wiggled and hiccuped away.
"Oh, yes," he said, quick to reassure the worried momma under his care. "Your baby's doing beautifully. The class I teach at the Med Center is studying cardio-thoracic images, and your baby has a perfect heart. And she is in the perfect position for some great images."
I smiled. It was not the first or last time, by any stretch of the imagination, that I felt so proud of our Eva.
He took several pictures of Eva's heart, as we savored the extra time watching our girl.
"She has a perfect heart," he kept repeating. "Such a perfect heart."
Several weeks later, I'd discover that all of Eva was as perfect as I could have ever hoped. She was healthy from the very beginning, scoring high on her Apgars and impressing all she met with her determined tenacity throughout her post-op NICU stay. I've written of her beauty before: full, rosy lips; long, dark hair; a defined, rounded chin; vibrant skin tone; and bright, blue eyes-- babies change so much in those first, precious days, don't they? As her features refined from scrunchy newborn to pretty little girl, her breath-taking beauty remained.
And while her physical beauty astounded us, the perfect personality that quickly emerged did, too. She had fire, that girl. I can't imagine the fights Eva experienced in her first days and last days on this earth, but she endured them fiercely and beautifully. And in the days in between, she was sweet beyond belief. Consoling her was easy; she was an elite-league cuddler. She watched her surroundings with alert awe, and she loved being read and talked to. Eva Kay was the center of our spinning world, which blessedly slowed in those precious, sacred days.
I remember Christmas morning. I remember holding Eva, watching a silly movie on TV, and resting heart to heart. The incredible stress from months of prenatal worry, critical neurosurgery, intensive recovery, and life in the hospital were behind us. We could finally just be with our baby. With Pat right near us and Eva in my arms, I remember not wanting to move from that warm, peaceful, fully-contented scene.
A few days later, I'd think back to the perinatologist's careful, adoring scrutiny of Eva's heart. I'd hear an Intesivist reprimand the resident who commented that her blood-oxygen levels were good: She is not a heart patient. This is an infection. These are not good levels for a heart-healthy kid. I'd tell my family of the other half of Eva's name's meaning: life-giving. I'd looked up the meaning of 'Eva' after Pat had suggested the name; we'd had that first anatomy scan, and so many unknowns existed. I loved the meaning I discovered: life. But the second part, 'life-giving,' didn't resonate until we began the unimaginable conversation about how Eva might give life to others. Particularly, with her perfect, perfect heart.
I held my daughter Eva when her perfect heart stopped beating.
And then the world jarred off its axis. For those who've never lost a child, no words can ever explain this experience or the journey since. For those who have, no words are necessary. The journey of child loss is a heart-changing one indeed.
Like the experience of loss itself, the reference to one's heart as the soul's emotional chamber is timeless. The 'heart' as the feeling, soulful center has been described as such since the time of ancient civilizations.
Perhaps physiologically my heart, like Eva's, is perfect. Maybe we share that like we do face shape and fingers. But my soul-heart, that feeling center, is lightyears from perfect. Trauma and grief and longing and love have changed my heart's rhythm forever. What used to mostly beat steady now trips, freezes, and shudders against an undercurrent of trepidation that the devastatingly unexpected could reach us again.
I'd just returned home three weeks ago from the Physician's Clinic. After walking the babysitter out and loving all over my Hope, I saw the awaiting message notification.
"Elizabeth," my doctor said in her voicemail. "I'm looking at your scans right now, and I need you to give me a call back as soon as you can... Ok. Thanks."
As Pat, Hope, and I visited with her again the next morning, she told me that she thought I was handling the news very well.
"This is not the worst thing that has ever happened to me," I said honestly. I was truly saddened. But after the heart has changed, sadness becomes very relative. "It's not the worst thing that could happen to me."
"I know what the worst thing is," she said. "And we're not going to get there."
She was looking at me, and I was looking at Hope. Jesus, please keep her safe. Please keep her healthy. Please keep her here, is among my constant, constant prayers.
The next day, I underwent surgery to remove the tiny embryo- our littlest peanut- and the ruptured Fallopian tube that had trapped him/her.
When the heart changes, emotional responses do, too. I feel embittered a lot. Questioning. Angry. Why take our Eva? Why Group B Strep, a rare infection from a common bacteria? Now, why can a surprise pregnancy not just be uncomplicated? happy?
My flawed, injured heart wants to be only grateful, only loving, only kind, and less fearful. Goodness knows my list of reasons to be grateful and glad is endless. But the trauma of child loss reverberates in a way that prevents those lofty wants and affects all other triumphs and trials. A darkness in my heart tries to put humanity's sufferings on some sort of scale (a confession in writing): why haven't they had the suffering, the troubles we have? or as I see so many tragedies in this broken, hurting world, why do they have to know that excruciating pain?
A funny thing happened during the second trip to the Physician's Clinic, though, on that first day when I returned my doctor's call and headed back in for stat. blood work. As my dear Hope- my rainbow, my joy- chattered happily in the back seat, I called Pat.
"They think I'm pregnant," I said. I smiled. I dreamt.
My heart didn't despair. My heart hoped. "The baby might be in the wrong place," I told him. "But it also might not."
Some times it's hard to believe that when it comes to growing our family, anything could be easy. While my pregnancy with Hope was blessedly physically good, crippling anxiety and post-traumatic stress rocked my world with her. I'd wondered if my pregnancy with Baby #3 might be just a bit easier with our Hope's reassurance, but that third pregnancy has come and gone.
But that doesn't stop this imperfect heart from hoping. The gift of my Eva and my Hope, my wonderful husband, and our loving family and friends warms my heart and ignites our hope in ways I can't describe.
I've said it before, but it's so worth repeating: you remember Eva so well, and it means the world to us. Addressing me as a mother of two. Sending a picture of you or your child in an Eva shirt, or a butterfly, or an Eva sky. Sharing a memory. Acknowledging our pain. Telling me you've been feeling her presence. Writing her name among the names in our family. Giving us pictures your child has colored for her. Commemorating the important dates. Planning on her walk. Visiting her grave. Saying her name. These are only a handful of ways our loved ones have kept our first daughter present in recent months, and they fill my heart each time.
My heart, my heart, my heart. I've heard people say "be still my heart," and I don't quite understand that. Don't still, heart. Keep seeing, loving, hoping, and dreaming. Keep beating, heart...
I think back to being in the hospital when Eva was first born and being two floors apart from her over night. The NICU would call me every three hours, though I'd be awake and eagerly awaiting the call.
"Hello, Elizabeth," the nurse would say. "Eva is ready for you!"
And Pat and I would excitedly head down to the NICU, where I'd nurse, and we'd snuggle and care for our precious, special new baby girl. Each time Eva was placed in my arms, I felt an otherworldly love.
I can't possibly fathom the love and majesty that awaits us in Heaven; no one can. But I imagine my Savior calling me: holding me with a strength I don't deserve, as I cling to his grace. He'll heal my imperfect heart.
And then I imagine He'll say, "Eva is ready for you."
And He'll place her in my arms. And He'll show me the truth about His kingdom and our Eva and His love.
'Everything's perfect.'