Ten years ago, I was pregnant, 8 weeks away from my due date. I was excited to be adding another little one to our family. We knew our baby was a boy; though we'd discussed names a bit, we hadn't actually decided for certain what our baby's name would be. But we had time, we thought.
Then on Monday night, in the tub, I realized that something didn't seem quite right to me. I'd felt some tightenings, minor contractions, but baby wasn't moving, not really. I lay awake that night, waiting to feel baby move, but was never quite satisfied.
I spent the next day trying to convince myself that everything was okay. When I couldn't, I talked to my husband on Tuesday night and told him I was going to go to the doctor on Wednesday morning for a heartbeat check. He didn't believe anything was wrong, but was willing for me to go and be assured that baby was fine.
At the time, we had 4 small children, ages 7, 6, 4, and almost 3. My husband took the two older children with him to work and I took the two youngest with me to the doctor.
The nurse used the Doppler and she was convinced she'd heard the heartbeat. I wasn't. I told her I thought she was hearing my heartbeat. To pacify me, she offered to do a sonogram.
After the sonogram, she went to get the doctor and she took my littles with her to stay with another nurse in the office. I knew. I knew in my heart without a doubt what that meant.
Our son was delivered the next day by C-section, born still. He already weighed over 8 lbs. He was perfectly formed, a beautiful baby. I held him in my arms and grieved for the loss of his all too short life.
Even though I never rocked him to sleep or soothed his cries, the impact of this child on my life can not be measured. I still think of him, even 10 years later. I miss this child, love him with all my heart. I wait for the day when I can be reunited with him. It brings me comfort to know that he is with my daddy and my first born son, Russell.
So, here I am, 10 years later, remembering my son Micah.
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