It all starts here, really, “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” This isn’t mythological or allegorical to me; it’s raw truth. He gave and we partook…we are still partaking, for that matter.

Over the past months, I have thought much on giving in to pain, not avoiding it. I have drawn parallels between the “labor pains” of the last days and those of childbirth. I have dwelt on how birthing would rid me of fear and leave me confident. It did not, however, occur to me that God might want to settle Himself even deeper into my psyche than that, going beyond pain to loss, to the absence of something, not the incessant prick that says something is there, albeit unwanted.

When I awoke at two a.m., August 17, to the awareness of a trickle between my legs, I had no idea what would come next. Not a million hours of childbirth class can prepare you for this brand of unknown. Needless to say, sleep eluded me for the next 48 odd hours. The adventure had begun.

I won’t regale you with my laboring saga. If you’ve had a baby, you know what it’s like, and if you haven’t, a written account will not do the reality justice. I will say this: Adam told me later that he had to leave the room twice to cry. Watching someone in so much pain has got to be almost worse than experiencing it yourself.

After 30 some hours, I still wasn’t ready to push, so my midwife decided to give me some herbs to slow down my contractions, hoping to give me some longer moments to sleep and prepare for more of the same. In addition, she decided to do a vaginal exam to sleuth out what was holding me up. That’s when she found the meconium. That’s when she said, “We’re going to the hospital.”

Just like that, my idealized home birth experience, tub and all, was tossed aside for the medicalized birth of my prior nightmares. But I found that after so much pain, one does not balk at the possibility of relief, no matter what form it takes, especially when your child’s life is at stake.

My doula drove. Adam sat on the floor next to me while I tried to manage contractions. Bumps and quick stops don’t aid in management, but speed is everything in an emergency.

The next hour is rather blurry for me, thank goodness. I remember realizing that they probably wouldn’t just roll me into surgery. They were going to want to monitor me, check me in, poke me. I wanted to cry. I wanted to end the madness.

At some point, they told me to push. I couldn’t figure out how at first. The moment that should have been beautiful, full of wonder, was not. It was forced and unnatural. And I was so tired. Then it was over. Just like that it was over. And I didn’t have a baby. I caught a glimpse of her body before they whisked her away. I asked the doctor if Adam could go with her. He said no, not yet.

That was it. The doctor stitched me up. I made small talk for hours, with the nurse, the midwife, others. In between smiles, I would feel my brain zoning out, falling asleep in mid-sentence. To my right was Adam. I have never seen him cry so hard or so long. He was sobbing. My heart wanted to break, but I was too tired.

People came and went. It was not until our pediatrician friend came and talked with us that the reality of our situation began to seep around the fog. Our baby, our daughter, the one I had been longing for, for years, literally, may not make it through the night. What do you do with information like that? How do you cope?

You don’t cope; you just move forward. You take the next step and the next and the next. You don’t think too far ahead, not at first.

The first time I saw my daughter was hours after her delivery. She was lying in an incubator and on a cooling pad. Tubes and wires were entering and exiting her everywhere, it seemed. Although I was relieved to see her, I was a bit numb. Having lost that initial connection of babe on chest and waiting hours to actually witness her life and reality, I had trouble believing I had, had a baby at all. Even with the numbness, though, I wanted her. I had always wanted her.

That night, lying in a hotel bed, Adam and I stumbled through our nightmare together for the first time. At the hospital we had been separated by visitors and our reticence to process, to make our experience real. Now, in the dark, we knew that whether Meriah lived or died we wanted to be present emotionally and physically. This baby was the same one that had ridden in my belly from November to August, and we couldn’t abandon her now.

The next week was one of those old-timey roller coasters, wooden and jerky, a whiplash waiting to happen. My heart was hopeful until the doctor told us that most babies on the cooling pad were responsive not comatose. In my mind, all would improve with the temperature rise. Not so. Maybe.

I can’t remember the information that Adam received from the doctor or what day, but I do remember him coming to our room at the Ronald McDonald house where I had been napping and telling me, essentially, that it was all over. Meriah was dying. The next moments were the most painful in my life but in some ironic way the closest that I have ever felt to Adam. Tragedy can either be the most divisive element in a relationship or the most binding. 

It was in this context that we entered the first weekend. Friday night Adam, Christopher and Reed staid together and prayed. My mom and I just talked it out. I wasn’t angry with God. I believed there was a purpose in pain as long as one surrendered to Him. But I was confused. Did I pray for healing? God could do it, I knew. But who was I to expect miracles when so many other mothers around the world had lost babies, were losing babies? This loss would solidly place me in sympathy with the majority. I found myself feeling guilty for wanting healing for Meriah and guilty for not advocating for my own daughter.

On the way to the hospital the next morning, I had an epiphany: “I want her. I want to have my daughter, and that’s ok. God, I want her.” I smiled. The guilt was gone. Of course, I could want my own child. God may ask seemingly insurmountable things of us, but this is not one of them. We may have to give up things, but we don’t have to not want them.

Later, Reed, Adam and I stood by Meriah’s bed and took part in the biblical tradition of anointing. There was prayer and singing and reading of scripture and a drop of oil to the forehead. I just cried and said, “I want her,” in my heart.

We were still taking one step at a time. And each step seemed a bit more tremulous and scary. If they take the ventilator tube out, do we have them put it back in if she stops breathing? When should we have them pull it? Is it better to wait or push forward as soon as possible?

In the end, we opted for as soon as possible and not to replace the tube. It sounds so cut on dried on paper, but when you’re dealing with your little girl’s life, the repercussions of any decisions are profound.

Before we went back into the NICU for the pulling, Adam and I paused by the entrance, to breathe, to take stock, to cry. A nurse asked if we wanted a private room to do this in. I said it didn’t matter to me as long as we weren’t making other people uncomfortable. Adam asked me if I wanted my mom to be with us. Making one more decision seemed overwhelming. All I could answer with was a coughing, “I don’t know!”

For all the agony and anticipation, it was over quickly. The appropriate personnel gathered. We stood by and watched. Then they pulled the tube. That was it. Prior to the pulling, we had been told she might gasp or gag, struggling to breathe. But the transition was so smooth, from the machine to her own breathing, that it took me a minute to realize the tube was gone.

From this moment on our gait seemed a bit more confident, our steps a bit further apart. Each day brought new improvements that surprised us all with their speed. Hope has a way of pulling down your defenses and leaving you more open to joy. We were elated: eyes opening, the ability to cry, bowel movements, moving fingers and toes, latching on…

The day we brought her home was surreal. It didn’t take but a foot in the door of our apartment to wash away many of the memories of the past two weeks. To believe in the reality of what had happened took retelling and writing and looking at pictures. Our little girl, Meriah, looked completely and utterly newborn, no cords, tubes or wires. She slept, ate and went to the bathroom just like any other baby. She was ours, not tied to an incubator or hospital room.

I thought that my labor experience would help me to identify with Jesus’ suffering, the dull, nagging pain that leads to wonder. I had no idea that it would be the empty ache that appears to lead to nowhere, the giving away of our  “only begotten” kind. This is the type of pain He went through; I know it now. That sense of loss was intense and unexplainable for me. And yet, amazingly, God gave me the willingness to let Meriah go without anger or blame. I do not understand this.

All I know is that I am partaking, and she is partaking, and the world is partaking of that love that is never ending. The power of that love brings little girls back to life and leaves parents in awe.