A Happy New Year Indeed
On December 31, 2015, we found out we were expecting a sweet little child. We were in disbelief! We were certainly open to having a family and never thought it would happen as quickly as it did! We took three pregnancy tests just to be sure! I was nervous and felt unprepared and as expected, immediately began worrying about all things possible, from balancing a growing family among graduate school and a career to if there was enough closet space for your tiny little clothes. If I knew then what I know now, I would have felt differently. Your dad was simply elated and hoped for a little girl.
We brought in the New Year with family, keeping our sacred gift a secret and profoundly thankful for what 2016 would bring.
Your Reveal
We waited until after the first trimester before sharing your existence with family and close friends. Everyone loved you so much already. We began planning a combined gender reveal, baby shower and diaper party and set the date for June 18, 2016. Every Wednesday night, I would check this baby app on my phone to see your progress (how big you were getting, what was developing next). It was always the most exciting part of Wednesday nights.
In early April, we went home to Louisiana to introduce you to your "mawmaw” and “pawpaw”. Your pawpaw, like your dad, hoped for a little girl.
Your Sacred Journey Begins
At 17 weeks, we went for our next sonogram visit. This was the visit where we could have found out your gender! It was also the first visit where your anatomical assessment could be performed. You were so shy, like your dad. It took the sonogram technician some time to find out your gender. You were so cute. As the technician continued her assessment, she noticed your itty bitty feet were clubbed. Because you were facing my back, she could not fully assess your brain development. We met with our wonderful physician who stated clubbed feet, barring any other issues, can be easily fixed. We left worried, but not overly concerned, for we trusted all would be well. We held on to the envelope that sealed your gender, still excited to find out.
We returned at 20 weeks to complete your brain development assessment. Walking into the sonogram, I prayed and prayed those tiny clubbed feet would suddenly disappear, that all would be okay. Then I learned you had Choroid Plexus Cysts on both the left and right side of your brain. These cysts are relatively common and usually disappear. But combined with your clubbed feet, our doctor encouraged me to consider genetic testing; to talk it over with your dad. I decided to pursue the genetic blood testing at that moment. I remember sitting outside the lab, tears rolling down my face, whispering to God, “Lord, for all the wrong I have done in my life, please spare my child.” I texted your dad to let him know. He was devastated and asked “why you.”
The following day, our doctor called me personally to tell me she understood how overwhelming everything was and to truly worry when we had to worry. Test results would be back in about a week. It was so sweet of her to talk us through our fear.
April 26, 2016 at 8:00pm. The doctor called. Your dad and I were in the room, getting ready for bed. I picked up and knew instantly by the tone of her voice that something was wrong. While I do not recall exactly what she said, I remember her saying it so sweetly and compassionately. She said your test results indicate that your daughter has Trisomy 18. Trisomy 18 is a chromosomal abnormality in which your daughter will likely not survive beyond birth and if born alive, will likely not survive beyond one year. I’m so sorry.
My soul died that day. Your dad’s soul died that day. We were having a little girl. And she would not be with us long.
Heartbreaking Choice
We were gracefully presented the option of early termination and to do so, would require a relatively quick turnaround time. In the state of Texas, you have until about 22 weeks. Your dad and I were a complete mess. We began researching Trisomy 18, reading stories of other Trisomy 18 parents and their decisions. We were so scared to send you home early but equally scared to carry you, fearing you would only suffer. We shared this tragic news with your grandparents, aunt and uncles. For one reason or another, we wanted to see you and requested a sonogram the very next day. We saw you, moving, kicking, punching. Your heart was beating. You were so precious. We never felt such a deep love; a love so torn. We went to church and asked our priest for guidance, but even he could not decide for us as we secretly hoped he would. We fell asleep in tears and woke up in tears. I remember falling to my knees, devastated and saying “I can’t…I just can’t send you home.” Your dad and I decided we would carry you until the Lord wanted you.
G.E.M.
The week of April 26, 2016 was the worst week of our lives. We cried endlessly. We searched for answers endlessly. It was during our search we came across the story of St. Gianna Beretta Molla, the patron saint for mothers and unborn children, and a pediatrician and mother who gave her life for her daughter. In reading her story, we learned of a woman named Elizabeth who prayed to St. Gianna during her difficult pregnancy and was miraculously cured. St. Gianna passed away on April 28, just two days after we found out about your condition. Her daughter, whom she gave her life for, was born on April 21, one day after your dad’s birthday. St. Gianna was canonized a saint on May 16, my birthday. In his speech at St. Gianna’s canonization ceremony, Pope John Paul II shared that St. Gianna was a true follower of Christ who, “having loved His own…loved them to the end.” John 13:1
We decided to name you Gianna Elizabeth. Gianna Elizabeth Meaux. Your dad calls you his little gem. And we would love you to the end.
The Celebration of You
It is an unsettling feeling to know your child’s fate and even more so, to have no control over it. The only thing we could control is how we honored you for all the time we would have with you. We began reading the Book of Job. Admittedly, neither your dad or I knew exactly where the Book of Job was in the bible. Many months before we knew of you, your cousins Kaitlyn and Brooklyn spent the day with us. We picked flowers and decided to press them in the bible. When we reached for the bible to find the Book of Job, the flowers we pressed months before were right there in the beginning of the Book of Job as if you laid them there yourself, like a prelude to your life.
We were fortunate to have sonogram visits every two weeks. Your heart always beat at around 145-152 bpm strong. In the first few visits, though behind, you were still growing. Aside from your clubbed feet and clenched fists, your development seemed to be progressing. Your movements were never big, never loud. They were subtle, but sacred to us. After the first few visits, your growth started to wane, you had fluid in your kidneys, and your brain more evidently behind in development, a harsh reminder of your reality.
We committed to do as much as we could for you while we had you and promised to continue to do so even after. We adopted the theme “no white flags” from former New Orleans Saints player Steve Gleason who was diagnosed with ALS. Gleason blocked the first punt in the Saints’ first game back in the superdome following Hurricane Katrina. This block marked the rebirth of New Orleans. As Saints fans, not only do we admire Gleason’s landmark play, but also his determination to live his remaining years to the fullest.
We had an amazing wedding dress designer and fellow mother design a baptism gown for you, a gown with angel wings. Because we did not know when you would be here or how long we would have with you, she offered to stay in touch with us and when we knew of your coming, she would make the dress that day and deliver the dress to the hospital for us. We would never have the chance to pick out wedding dresses for you, so we wanted to make the closest thing we could.
We canceled the original date of your gender reveal, baby shower, diaper party combined celebration. Instead, I celebrated your dad on Father’s Day. I bought your dad a father’s day card from myself and from you. Your dad, upon reading his card from you, dug his face into mine and cried. He loved it.
We bought a book of nursery rhymes and read them nightly to you. We took maternity pictures of you. We kindly thanked anyone who said “congratulations” to us. We listened to people’s advice of getting as much sleep while we could. We patiently engaged in conversation about the gift of life and children and how fast they grow. And in the background, we silently planned your funeral.
To prepare for your birth, our doctor was kind enough to coordinate a meeting with an amazing clinical team from the labor & delivery nurse to an educator to a neonatologist. It was an incredibly raw discussion. We were reassured that the team would do whatever your dad and I wanted, but what did we want? There was only so much the sonogram could unveil about your development. If you were unable to feed, would we place you on a feeding tube or would we just not feed you? If you could not breathe, would we want to resuscitate you? And what if we get to bring you home, we need to arrange for hospice care, right? What did that even mean? And if we bring you home and if you beat the odds and survive longer than expected, what of your precious little feet? Do we arrange to have them fixed? Your dad and I bought a couple packs of preemie diapers that were probably too big, some preemie onsies that were also too big, and other random essentials that fit in a small box. We knew there was a chance we would never use anything. While shopping for these things, I found myself getting carried away, grabbing almost everything off the shelf, as if all were normal. Your dad kindly kept me on track, but God, it hurt.
On the weekend of July 1, we took you our favorite city, San Diego, our official babymoon. You just turned 30 weeks. We wrote your name in the sand on Coronado Island. While sitting on the sand (and literally on the sand as we were completely unprepared for the beach with no towels or snacks or anything), there was this mom next to us with twin baby girls. Your dad and I hurt as we stared at how she played with them, tossed them lovingly into the air, let them touch the water - things we would never be able to do with you. We took you on our favorite hiking trail, Torrey Pines. The end of the trail takes you to a beautiful beach. As you walk the shore, you have the mountain on one side and a beach on the other. It’s beautiful and peaceful just like you. We etched your name on that beach as well. A person passing by nearly stepped on your name and I almost attacked her for doing so. Ha! Your dad laughed. I wanted to protect you before I held you.
Thy Will Be Done
On Monday, August 1, we finally listened to a song two close friends sent called “Thy Will” by Hillary Scott. The beauty in this is that these two friends, who do not even know of each other, on the same day sent us the same song for encouragement. My favorite line from the song is when she says she has to “remember You are God, and I am not.”
On Tuesday, August 2, I stopped feeling you. Or perhaps it was earlier than Tuesday; for my lack of remembrance, I will always be indebted to you. My heart sank throughout the day for I think I knew deep down you went home, but I wasn’t ready. I kept telling your dad, “I think something is wrong. I haven’t felt her.” Later that night, I received a random notification on my phone to listen to a song. I have never received notifications to listen to songs but this one was perfect. It turned out to be the same song our friends sent us previously, only a different version. We listened to it again Tuesday night. At the conclusion of the song, we felt you kick twice. Two strong, prominent kicks. I cried thinking maybe you were still with us. But inside knew you sent us the song one more time as if to say goodbye.
On Wednesday, August 3, we had what would have been the first of your weekly visits leading up to your birth. You just turned 35 weeks. The appointment was at 2:30pm. As we walked into the room, I told the sonogram technician that I have not felt you and I may know what I will see. I laid down. Your dad sat next to me as he always did. As the sonogram started, I grabbed your dad’s hand. I saw your sweet little body and your quiet heart.
As the visit continued, your dad and I squeezed each other’s hands as we sat there in silence, watching you, peacefully in heaven. Tears streamed down. When complete, we walked out of the sonogram room heart broken and waiting to see our physician. The wait in that room was dreadful, surrounded by happy mothers and fathers to be, smiling at their sonogram photos of their healthy babies. We tried so hard not to cry too hard for fear of drawing attention to ourselves. At the same time, I remember feeling judged for some reason. I remember seeing a mom-to-be look at me and I remember glaring back at her with almost anger and jealously and wanted to shout and tell her how lucky she is to have a healthy baby.
Your Second & Final Reveal
On the morning of Thursday, August 4, we went to the clinic to begin your induction. We learned it was not needed, for you were already on your way! We were instructed to go home, rest and return to the hospital to be admitted that night 9:00pm.
Your dad had your hospital bag packed. I remember watching him strap on your bag and walk down the hall to the car. The walk to the car and the drive to the hospital was quiet; it felt unreal. When we arrived, we got settled in for what we thought would be a long wait of your arrival. But oh, you were looking out for your mom and dad. On Friday, August 5 at around 5:30am, my water broke. And at 5:40am, you were here at 2lbs and 15oz and 15 ¼ inches long. The fondest memory I have during those few minutes was looking over at your dad, sitting at the edge of the couch near the bed, elbows on his legs, hands in prayer formation and tears in his eyes. He looked at me and gave a slight, confident, yet broken nod that signaled to me that this was happening and to trust.
The nurse called you “sweet baby girl”. That was so reassuring to me. You were placed in my arms. Your dad held us in his. You were perfect. Your dad baptized you, sealing your eternal life in heaven. I think you look just like your dad. We held you and just stared at you. Never once did I feel that I was holding my lifeless child, rather, holding the most beautiful and sacred gift anyone could have.
We were so lucky to have someone from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep, a team of volunteer photographers who capture photos of little angels like you, capture photos of you. Your Uncle Long, also a photographer, captured moments of us together. Your family came to see you. Everyone held you and loved you. Your dress was delivered and it was stunning, fit for only someone as immaculate as you. We did not get to put you in your dress. Your skin was so delicate and your earthly existence was slowly fading; we feared disturbing you too much. The nursing team made beautiful prints of your cute little feet and a mold of your perfect little hand. After your family held you, your dad and I had our final alone time with you. We took turns holding you, kissing you. Your dad kept telling me to look at your eyes and imagine how beautiful they would be.
Your dad danced his father/daughter dance with you to the song “Thy Will.” It was the last thing we were able to do with you before we had to say goodbye. Those final moments with you were by far the hardest thing we had to do. There will simply never be the right words to describe the torment we felt as we handed you away.
Colossians 3:2-4
Think of what is above, not of what is on earth. For you have died and your life is hidden with Christ in God. When Christ your life appears, then you too will appear with Him in glory.
We were able to go home that same Friday. We left the hospital with a sweet memory box of things including the tape measurer used to measure your length, hospital bands and two beautiful cards your nurses wrote. The walk out of the hospital was long and so lonely. We had just given birth to you that morning and now at around 6:00pm were leaving with empty hands and empty hearts.
On Tuesday, August 9, we held your funeral service, intended for just your immediate family. We saw your tiny casket with you inside, laying so quietly as you did in our arms. That morning, we bought you two books to read to you: “Oh the Wonderful Things You Will Be” and “On the Night You Were Born.” We read them to you and hope you liked them.
Your dad carried you to your final resting place next to other angel babies. Your dad says you’re probably their leader, God’s little warrior. And a warrior you are, for in such short time, you taught your dad and I how to fight to stay committed to His will. You continue to share a love so deep and so powerful. We and those who know you are not the same people we once were. You challenge us to be more Godly. While our hearts ache for you and while we will never stop grieving you, we will never surrender our fight to protect your existence, your sanctity. We love a love so deep for you and wait painfully and patiently for you.
Until then, stay close to us, baby girl.