Sweet Sophie Mae

Hannah says she smells like red ripe strawberries.
Ella says she's the cutest baby in the whole world.
Kaden serenades her daily, "Sophie Mae, Sophie Mae, Sophie Mae Mae Mae" (he wrote those lyrics himself).
And Gracyn is thrilled to have a new "sister friend!"

Jason and I?  We are filled.... In such a beautiful, full circle, sweet way, we are filled.  Our hearts melt each time we see her, touch her, smell her.  To have life - all wrapped up in the sweetest baby ever - we are simply filled.

I want to tell her story.  She has quite a story to tell.  I don't want to forget every detail because, simply put, God was in all of them.

Her story cannot begin without remembering the mercies God gave us during the darkest time of our lives.  We cannot forget.  Sophie won't allow it because His mercies came full circle and were renewed in her life.

I had been experiencing pressure in my rib cage for several weeks - making it tough to breathe deeply.  Not wanting to be a worrier with every little detail of this pregnancy I assumed it was our little Sophie Mae running out of room.  But then on a Sunday the pressure turned to pain.  I could feel what I thought was her little bum digging into my rib cage and the only relief I could find was to lay down on my left side.  So laying I did!  Sunday... Monday... By Tuesday I was using a bag of frozen peas to help ease the pain... By Wednesday (still laying down ALL day) the peas were of no use.

A sweet friend encouraged me to contact my doctor.  I'm incredibly thankful she did because it helped me to see that perhaps this was more serious than just a baby's bum jutting into my ribs.  So, by the middle of the night Wednesday when I woke up in tears I told Jason we needed to go to the hospital.

Because I could hardly talk when sitting upright, Jason called a dear friend to come and sit with the kids while we went.  She was there faster than I imagined it should've taken her.  I'm thankful for her urgency.

When arriving I quite honestly felt a little silly.  As soon as I laid down the pain was gone.  Just like at home.  But, sitting up it was unbearable.

They hooked me up to the fetal monitoring system.  She was hard to find.  But we could hear a faint heartbeat so I wasn't terribly concerned.  After putting a tiny IV into my arm, the doctor came in.  She said she wanted ultrasound to come because Sophie wasn't cooperating.  We had been through this once before - just a few days ago, in fact.  Ultrasound showed that all was well then.  I assumed we'd go through the same routine and end with the same results.

When the ultrasound tech came in she was quiet.  I asked questions, of course.  "Yes, I see the heartbeat... Yes, she's moving just fine...  Activity is good."  Jason wasn't able to look - it was all too fresh - the memories of losing Lilia and seeing the lack of activity on the ultrasound.  He turned his head and later told me he thought the technician was acting funny.  I was oblivious.  The final thing she looked at was the site of my extreme pain.  She wondered if my gall bladder was the culprit.  She was still quiet except for some unintelligible mutterings under her breath.

After she left for a brief moment three nurses seemed to enter our room immediately.  They were quiet except for the one asking tons of questions.  They told us they were moving my IV to use a bigger needle "just as a precaution."

"What does that mean, 'just as a precaution?'"

"Oh, nothing really, just standard."  But we knew better.  We had seen that look before.  We asked questions.  They didn't answer - at least not to our liking.  Then Jason finally said it.

"Look.  We've lost a daughter.  We need to know what's going on.  We know something is wrong."

And then they were honest.  The ultrasound showed a dark shadow at the pain site.  It was in the placenta but they didn't know what it was.  Dr. Clary would be in shortly to explain everything.

Tears flooded.  We asked more questions.  They couldn't answer.  Is she ok?  They didn't know.

The doctor entered the room and went straight to the point.  "Three things:  1) your amniotic fluid is elevated.  2) there is a shadow at the site of your pain.  Could be a blood clot.  Could be placental abruption - which I think it is.  We just don't know for sure.  3) The baby's head looks as though it may be swollen.  We need to deliver today."

I remember looking at Jason and we both were thinking the same thing, "Why are we still sitting here?  Let's go get her NOW."  She asked if I was ok with a c-section.  Simultaneously we both answered, "Yes."  It was 7am.  "How long before you can get her?"

"We'll have you prepped and ready by 7:30.  She'll be here by 8."

The doctor left and we both cried.  I remember Jason holding my right hand, tears rolling down both of our faces.  "We cannot do this again!"  I remember saying.  And then, like a flood, I felt an incredible sense of peace.  I remembered the verse my mom sent me a few hours ago when I called, woke her, and told her to pray.

Psalm 116:7-8 
    I said to myself, “RELAX AND REST.
    GOD HAS SHOWERED YOU WITH BLESSINGS. (emphasis mom's)
    Soul, you’ve been rescued from death;
    Eye, you’ve been rescued from tears;
    And you, Foot, were kept from stumbling.

"Soul, you've been rescued from death."  It hit me.  There were two things I just knew in my heart this whole pregnancy. First, I knew I'd deliver c-section and second, I knew she'd come early.  At that moment, I felt God reminding me that He had prepared me for this.  He also reminded me that I would "see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living" Psalm 27:13.  And I just knew.  I KNEW she was ok.

"Jason!" As tears continued to stream down our faces... "She's ok!  I just know it!  She's ok."  He squeezed my hand and said he was glad I was confident of that because he was not yet.  But, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt.  And all my fears about her, about me, about an emergency c-section truly washed away.

As they wheeled me down I remember a continued peace about her along with a little bit of trepidation about the unknown of surgery.  There were a million people in the operating room and my nurse anesthetist was my voice of reason.  He walked me through everything and was the only one who told me what was going on.  I asked for Jason and they finally brought him in.  They began the questions.  Can you feel this?  How about this.  Both answers were "yes".  Then I remember Jason or someone saying, she's almost here.  And the nausea hit.  I told Jason I thought I might throw up - something I am prone to with epidurals.  Immediately they told Jason to leave and they put me out.

As I slept, I could hear them.  I felt them deliver her.  I could hear them talking about a football game.  But, I didn't know about her.  Was she ok?  Who had her?

Coming to was an up and down process.  When I could finally utter a word, it was "Jason?"  The nurse, whom I did not know was in the recovery room, said, "He's waiting outside.  He'll be in here soon."

My next word, "Baby?"

"She's PERFECT."

Perfect!  Perfect!   I cried and cried and cried at the thought - what I already knew.  She was perfect.  No problems.  No swelling.  Just LIFE.  Our Sophie Mae was perfect.

We later found out that the dark shadow turned out to be a benign tumor in my placenta the size of a tennis ball.  Though this type of tumor is common - this size is what was not so common.  That nasty tumor was the culprit to the elevated amniotic fluid, the placental abruption, and would have resulted in a much different outcome for both her and I had we waited too much longer.

The best way to end Sophie's story is to share a line from a song that sums up our last 19 months.  It perfectly describes our journey:

I will sing of Your mercy
That leads me through valleys of sorrow
To rivers of joy.

-Jars of Clay

And we are filled.