I pace through the small apartment.
Waiting, waiting. I'd called the doctor's office several times already, and always the nurse tells me that the lab work is pending. My stomach churns, my mind wrestles through the mess of what-ifs, and still there grows inside of me this fluttering of hope.
The phone rings. The beating of my heart quickens and I try to settle the squirming of my insides. A nervous, "Hello?" My hands are shaking.
"Mrs. Mohr?" It's the doctor. "I'm sorry. . . your numbers are dropping."
My heart falls right to the floor, and bleeds out all of the anguish I was trying to deny. Hope flies far, and I am there, alone, with a doctor on the other line telling me what my spirit was feeling all along.
I cry quietly as I slip slowly into pain. He questions if I am okay. I wonder if that is even possible.
The child floats silently within me. Stagnant, unmoving. And now I know dreams die.
I settle into the weekend of waiting. Waiting for the sterilized room and the mask covered doctor to separate me from my child who continues to forever sleep in that place where life is suppose to awaken.
I'm desperately quiet in my loss; alone and wondering how I will wake in the morning to live the next day and the day after that.
I go to the mall and in unquestioned ceremony, cut the length of my hair. I see it feather to the floor all around me, and wonder if I will ever feel glorious again. To think that I ever related the growth of it to my salvation seemed careless, as if hair could ever save you. I like seeing it scattered on the floor. If I were brave, I would have it shaved completely. It barely reaches behind my ears and falls short of the nape of my neck. I am satisfied in my mourning.
Weeks pass, then months and I learn the truth of sadness and how hard it is to shake. I begin to wonder how people manage to smile sunshine when life is so scattered with these heavy clouds. I drip tears, nerves exposed, raw and tender as I whisper prayers. At times, I allow Him to settle me into peace as I imagine being held in careful arms. I know He weeps with me. I'm not alone.
And eventually I dream. I dream of sleeping angel babies. I dream of promises and the glorious return of hope. I dream of joy in the midst of suffering, and I dream of life both now and then, when it will be my turn to fall forever asleep.
"The Lord is close to those whose hearts have been broken. He saves those whose spirits have been crushed." Psalm 34:18