Here is a re-posting of our Elisabeth Grace's birth story, written two years ago. I thought it'd be a great chronicle if we posted this again and then posted an update of what she's like as she turns three. Here's the first of the two posts!
We love you, sweet Elisabeth. May St. Elizabeth and our dearest Mother of Divine Grace watch over, protect, and guide you as closely through the rest of your life as they have these first three (plus nine months!) years.
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It seems, sweet little girl, that your entire existence has been a marriage of opposites - the threading of fear and joy, quiet with spunky, and on the extreme end, life and death. It seems as though the entire time, my pregnancy with you was trying to find a happy balance on which to teeter without crashing down onto one side.
Do you know why your patronesses are St. Elizabeth, cousin of Mary and Our Blessed Mother of Divine Grace? Because, sweet girl, you were a blessing. By all counts, we shouldn't have conceived you. Not according to the world which seems to think that any less than two years apart is a little crazy. Three is probably preferable. And if we got down to the nitty-gritty, we probably shouldn't have conceived you from a medical standpoint. But they hadn't told us that, yet, and so there here you are. Thanks be to God. Just as St. Elizabeth was blessed after countless barren years, so were we blessed when we "shouldn't" have been. And just as St. Elizabeth feared losing her baby (because of her older age), so I feared losing you. Which is where Our Blessed Mother of Divine Grace comes in. How freely she hands out graces and blessings. And oh, how we prayed for her to abundantly bless us with your LIFE, not a loss.
And so, sweet girl, you were named Elisabeth Grace.
Elisabeth means, "God's promise" and Grace, "God's blessing." What your life has meant to us since I first found out about you standing in a bathroom stall in Target is that God WILL, indeed, take care of us. Our Lord will not give us more than we can handle and our trust in Him means only one thing: He will bless us.
I knew about you before I officially "knew" about you, little girl. Each month after your sister's birth, I was terrified of having a baby. But there was something about this time. I was a little scared, but what a feeling of peace I had with the thought of bringing a new life into this world! So began the teetering of opposites. We were still paying off Molly's hospital bills, I was still healing from a difficult birth, but the peace and the joy knowing that God was knitting a new life inside of took over.
And you fought your way into existence, baby. At our first doctor's appointment, we were told about a hemorrhage in my uterus that increased the chances of miscarriage by 90%. Ninety percent. There was a ninety percent chance that I would never see your face or hold your sweet little hands or kiss your soft little cheeks. I was put on strict bedrest and went to stay with Nonnie and Potts so they could help me take care of your big sister who was only 10 months old. Another balance. Fear and joy. Life and death. Your quiet existence was already battling the greatest battle it has ever fought.
And oh, you had prayers and prayers behind you. While you were growing inside of me, we attended Mass at a convent. The Carmelite Sisters that live there are cloistered. Their entire vocation is to pray. Did you know that they were praying for you the whole time? And our parish family? Praying. Our friends? Praying. Our families? Praying. Our families' parishes? Praying. We were given a relic of St. Maravilla and a special prayer called an Angus Dei by the Sisters. I carried those around with me for nine months.
I stayed on bedrest until the end of the first trimester when the risk of miscarriage dropped dramatically. You had a very normal second trimester. Initially I had opted to wait until your birth to find out if you were a boy or a girl but the thought that you might not make it that far pushed me into finding out early. And I'm so glad we did. I got to know you so well and spent my free time imagining about your life and what it would be like. What you and your sister would be like together.
I was put on bedrest again in the third trimester because of preterm labor scares. My uterus just wasn't strong enough to hold you in. And let me assure you, sweet girl, you were once again the subject of many-a-prayer storming Heaven for a few weeks. I successfully carried you until 39 weeks.
We were faced with a big decision during that second bedrest. How we would deliver you. My doctor, Steven Pilkington, is a very kind, loving man. He was one of the few Catholic, pro-life ob/gyns in the area. And so we trusted him implicitly. Because your mama had never fully healed from the uterine inversion and severe tearing from Molly's birth, this birth would be tricky. The chances of a repeat inversion and even more severe tearing was incredibly high. After months of prayer and check-ups and discernment, our dear doctor left the decision up to us letting us know that if I were his wife, he would probably want her to have a c-section. And after many tears and prayers, a c-section was decided.
It's scary, picking the day you will welcome your child into the world, like closing your eyes and jabbing your finger into a calendar and saying, "That day. That's the day. I don't THINK we have anything going on." It wasn't like that, really, but I felt wordly, shallow and small. There's that balance again. There's that trust again. I felt like I had to pick between a dangerous birth and a...dangerous birth. So I chose the lesser of two dangerous births.
We prepared the best would could. I cuddled with your sister every single day at every moment her wiggly little body would let me. I spent all my non-child time with your daddy. We went on a giant family date the day before you were born. We went shopping, got ice cream and marveled in each other's presence. We had our dear priest over for dinner and sacraments (since I was on bedrest) and a blessing. We had his prayers. And his phone number in case of emergency. This was all extreme, of course. The chances of death during a c-section are just about zero-nihl, but after the near-death experience during your sister's birth, I was scared and so was your daddy.
I've heard women share that giving birth was a moment of pure and raw empowerment. The feeling of, "I can do this!" and knowing that a woman's body is designed for the sole purpose of bearing and giving birth to a new little life. I've never felt that. I've felt small and humbled, helpless and, to be honest, alone.
I know it's not true. Your daddy is right next to me the whole time, holding my hand, praying with and loving me. But there were a few moments before Dr. Pilkington began surgery where I was wheeled away from your daddy and sat in a room full of strangers. I was given the epidural and the blue cloth was put up. Dr Pilkington chose a cd full of soft praise and worship music. Not my cup of tea, but I liked the sentiment. I felt tugs and pulls and my legs quickly became dead-weights. For the record, not a fan of that feeling!
When they brought your daddy in, I could already see the tears in his eyes. He gave me such a smile. The kind of smile that helped me fall in love with him. The doctor said that we would meet you in about five minutes. I, in passing, mentioned to Joseph I couldn't believe how quick the surgery would be - only five minutes. And your daddy said, "Um, the doctor is elbow deep in you!" I never felt anything beyond tugs and pulls. It gave us a good chuckle.
I spent the few weeks leading up to your birth praying my water would break so I would get to experience some semblance of a "real life" birth experience. Because of how...unnatural (that's not the right word) the c-section experience felt, I never really connected with it. It never felt real. Until I heard your cry. When I saw your long little body stretch out and announce to the world that you were here to stay. Despite the complications. Despite the odds. Despite what the world said we should do. You were here and that's all that mattered.
Of course I couldn't hold you, but I pressed my face against your little bundled one. I'll never forget that moment, sweet girl. Seeing your daddy holding you, seeing what a beautiful life God has knitted, using me as His needles. That, my precious girl, is when that pendulum stopped swinging. God has chosen for us: Life. Joy. Trust. Any fears or doubts were chased away when I held you for the first time, about 45 minutes after you were born.
If I compare your birth to your sister's, I feel that the story isn't quite as "in your face" or as dramatic. I joke with your daddy that the doctor cut me open, pulled you out and sewed me back up. In and out in fifteen. But that's not true. Your birth was how your pregnancy was is how you are today: quiet and but full of, well, life.
And that, sweet girl, is how you live, too.
You have spunk and I joke about what a little trouble-maker you are. You have a penchant for discovering new things all the time. Just what does toilet paper do as I unroll it, Mommy? Mama, if I put this in my mouth, will it taste good? Sister, how fast do you think I can pull all these books off the bookshelf?
But that spunk is beautiful. We found out only two days after you were born that you had a heart murmur. It turns out it wasn't anything to worry about, but once again, the see-saw of joy and fear, life and death came back into our lives. You had problems eating enough when you were first born because you were too tired to stay awake that long. It was a scary first month, little girl, but you fought through it. And now you're a rolly-poly one-year old.
You've learned to dance and groove to music before you've ever even learned to walk. Oh and did I forget to mention that you've learned to jump on a bed even though you're not walking yet?
You're cuddly and sweet and only sleep well if I'm next to you. You love babies and stuffed animals and anything with a face. Poor little Zachary has to be lain out of your reach so you can't smother him with kisses all day long. And oh, how you love your big sister. One of my new favorite times of the day is when I put her down in her bed for a nap, close the door and let you crawl back in. I let you play with each other for about 10 minutes. You both laugh and cuddle and talk to each other like the best of friends. I have to say that watching you love on each other warms this mama's heart.
And you're smart, just like your big sister. You love to read - you'll sit for up to half an hour just flipping through a book all by yourself. You've begun talking up a storm. Just today as I played music to watch you shake your little bottom and move your legs up and down, you looked at me in wonder and said, "musak."
Yes, baby, musak. And I pray that you always find the music in life as you travel on your path to Heaven. I pray that you use your sweetness to enrich the lives of other and help lead them to Christ. That you continue live out your name as God's promised blessing to each and every person you encounter. I pray that you live out your life as extraordinarily as you entered into it.
We love you!
