Finding Abram

Nothing prepares you for losing a baby. It feels like it’s been a year since the doctor told us about Abram, and yet it feels like it was just a day. I saw a ‘baby bump’ picture we took in October when we thought it was a normal pregnancy, and that seems like a lifetime ago.

When we felt Abram moving less the weekend after Thanksgiving, we knew something was likely wrong. We had braced ourselves for that possibility. Adalyn told me as she was putting her pajamas on Saturday night, “Mama, I think Abram died” when I mentioned him. She didn’t seem terribly distraught, more like she just knew, and I think she might have. We went in Monday morning where Erin let us know through tears that there wasn’t a heartbeat. Amidst every other emotion in the world, there was relief that he had gone in the most peaceful way possible.  We went to the hospital and induced labor, which was surprisingly similar to the girls’. Every single nurse, midwife (shameless shout out for CMG Women’s Center midwives, beyond supportive, clinically thorough, and selflessly compassionate), and staff member who walked into our room was thoughtful and empathetic about our situation, kind to our loved ones, and incredibly caring for us and most importantly Abram.  Our families came to visit and be there while we waited, as well as after Abram was born. He was born at 10:28 that night. Sheaff and I were able to hold him, rock him, memorize him, as were our families. His tiny little body was so gently but fiercely loved in those hours.

He was little. He was 5.6 ounces and 8 inches long. His skin was extremely fragile and mostly red. His hands and feet were perfect. His profile looked just like the girls when they sleep; same nose and everything. He had only grown to about the size of 16 or so weeks, which both crushes my heart and eases it in knowing he was not going to physically be okay. We all did the best we could (how I wish it could have been more), and he was a champ with a strong heart that beat as long as it could.

The nurses and Erin were there nearly every minute in every sense, and got us through each step of what felt like an extremely emotionally and physically grueling process. Our families and village were like rocks, loving Abram and loving us and helping in every aspect we needed them to. And Sheaff. Sheaff has amazed me with his strength; no dad should ever have to go through this. When I felt like I was crumbling, he was both letting us cry and holding us together, reassuring me, even through his own equal heartache. I think he is the reason I could keep breathing through everything. Not every moment was heavy. Sometimes we had moments of peace, where we could look at Abram and talk about what we saw in him. Both of us had moments where our walls came down, when a wave would hit. And some moments were ones in which we just were together.

Saying goodbye to Abram was the hardest thing we’ve ever had to do. I know now what bone-deep grief means, wishing this wasn’t the version of our story. I feel like this wasn’t fair to Abram, that his sweet little soul deserved more than 22 weeks in my belly. Ordinary moments like Sheaff playing monster with the girls breaks my heart – Abram will never be able to chase his Dad, or run squealing with his sisters.  I wish we could hold him as a newborn sleeping ball on our chests; I wish we could teach him to ride a bike; I wish we could watch him become someone.  I don’t know that there is any soothing of that deep cavern of grief in the heart. I hope that its edges will eventually feel less sharp and jagged and painful; right now, the knowledge of what we lost feels very tender on a raw heart.

What brings comfort is that I do know we will know sadness, but we will know peace, we will know joy, we will know hope, and we will know Abram through all of these. We already have in such a short time (it’s hard not to when the world wraps its arms around you, or when you simply sit back and watch the little ones play. Addie and Bria make us laugh out loud every single day. What a gift).

There are places I think we will always find Abram.

He’ll be there in the profile of our sleeping babes, that little nose and shape we know, one of my most treasured things about him. He’ll be in the smell of evergreen: a Christmas time baby. The smell of a fir tree that has always signaled the magic of the Christmas time – joy and hope and faith – will now forever be a place we find Abram too. And I can’t help but feel that his spirit is an evergreen spirit, forever living on, through all the seasons.  Another friend gave us a snowflake, saying that each is so unique and special, and while some melt before they hit the earth, they are still a part of something beautiful. I know we’ll find him in the loveliest of snowfalls.  Lord knows, we’ll find him in the roses. Dad found a rose in the garden right before Abram was born. It never opened or fully bloomed, but it was there, and it was full of grace.  I believe we will find him in the laughter and yells between bike races and ball games, the chaos of gatherings, and the ordinary moments we may miss him so badly it hurts, but there he will be, in the sound of joy and family. I believe we will find him in the salty ocean wind, or in the smooth calm of a slick Albemarle Sound that reminds us of peace. We will find him in the view of the mountains, his home and ours. And we will find him in the stars. 

I know this list will grow, and I hope it does. I hope we continue to find Abram in unexpected places and times, where he lets us know he is with us.

And I know, I believe with all my heart that we will find him within us. Our daughters, each other, our families, our friends, our village that holds Abram dearly. This time of year, I think of the Dave Matthews Christmas song. I find comfort and truth in those gentle, acoustic chords as he narrates about a baby born into surreal, hard circumstances, but singing “And love, love, love was all around.”  In the days we’ve lived and the days ahead, and from the sweet little soul that is Abram, I know those soft chords about surrounding love are true.  

You are forever in our hearts, Abram, for yours was a strong one. We love you.