NEVER FOREVER

This summer marked 20 years since my mom had her life taken from her. 20 years since my own life was upended and forever changed. I thought this anniversary would be the most painful part of this year. Our family was expecting some big changes this year but they were all things to be excited for, I thought. 

I had no idea what awaited us. 

A week before I was set for induction to deliver our third child – a baby girl, Betty – we found out her heart was no longer beating. I had seen her heart beating just a week before. I had heard it beating three days earlier. 

I had a feeling, earlier that morning, when I couldn’t get her to move. 

I had a feeling, when I asked Will to pray while I headed to my appointment. Now, her heart sat still on the ultrasound screen. I knew when I saw it. I knew before the ultrasound tech left and brought the doctor in. I knew what it meant and I wanted to be wrong. 

I knew.

I knew. And there was nothing I could do. 

I knew I would never get to hold my baby girl alive. 

I knew I would never get to hear her sounds, see her open her eyes or watch her sleep in Will’s arms. The next two days were a blur of excruciating grief, tears, “I am so sorry” on repeat, nurses, doctors and a sterile hospital room as I was induced and delivered Betty. 

There is nothing quite like delivering a silent baby. I prayed for a miracle that she would come out and cry. She was silent. The only cries were my own and those of everyone in our hospital room. I stared at her on my chest and in my arms and kept thinking “wake up, wake up, wake up” alternated with prayers for God to please give me a miracle. He didn’t. 

She looked so peaceful. Eyes closed. 

I would never get to see her eyes. Never know their color. 

I stared at her and felt like I was staring at all our “nevers”. 

I would never hear her cry. 

I would never hold her outside this hospital room. 

I would never take her home. 

I would never see her play with her siblings. Snuggle with her dogs. Dance in the kitchen with her daddy. 

I would never get to feel her asleep on my chest. Instead, I had a persistent phantom weight. Like my body knew there should have been a newborn curled up asleep.

She would never start walking. Start talking. Start kindergarten. Graduate high school. Grow up, get married, or have kids of her own. 

My world had stopped spinning and I was staring down a forever of “nevers”. 

And yet, I knew in my head it was not really forever. All of these nevers were real and would be so in my lifetime. 

But these nevers are not forever. 

They are limited to this life. And when this life of mine is over, forever begins. 

When forever begins, I get to see my maker, my mom and sweet Betty again. So, I weep, mourn and stare down the pain of these nevers while knowing they are not really forever. 

I have hope that the nevers of now will become realities in forever.