For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb.

I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

How precious to me are your thoughts, O God! How vast is the sum of them!

Were I to count them, they would outnumber the grains of sand.

Psalm 139: 13-18

Our Leo


I prayed for this child, and the Lord has granted me what I asked of Him. So now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given over to the Lord.

1 Samuel 1:27-28

Monday, January 18, 2010

January 18th, 2010

I miss you today little one. I look at your sister, and all I see is you. Her peaceful slumber gives me glimpses of your beautiful face. Time stands still as I gaze upon these glimpses of you, and I thank the Lord for this awesome gift. I know that I will be with you again one day, but until then, I will always be able to see you in her. Thank you for this gift Lord. What a special and amazing blessing. It could easily be missed. I remember back to when I would rock Nevaeh to sleep her fist few weeks of life. Her peaceful, sleeping face always surprised me, as I always thought... you look like someone else at times. Now, I know why God blessed me with this realization years before I would understand. I have gazed upon Leo's face for years now. How incredible is that? His grace and love is so incredible, so unfathomable and yet, so real. I am so blessed. I miss my son and my heart aches, but I see him daily and I couldn't ask for a better way than through my beautiful daughters face. 
Thank you for your love Lord, and above all, for the blessings and unending strength. In Jesus Name, Amen.



Nevaeh 2 weeks old


Nevaeh 4 weeks old


Nevaeh almost 3 years old... taken 2 days ago.


Leo... July 21st, 2009
 
Leo... July 21st, 2009


Photobucket

Monday, January 11, 2010

The Long Walk....


The Long Walk…

“We need to deliver your baby NOW”…. The words hit me like a mortar shell against a concrete wall.

I am crying, holding back sobs. “No Lord, No!” keeps resonating in my ears. I tell the nurse I have to use the bathroom. She reluctantly allows me this one last piece of freedom before my body is cut open and my baby is torn from my womb months too early. I gaze into the mirror. I am shaking. Tears are already staining my hospital gown. I grasp the sink and breathe. “Lord, please stay with me” I utter in the midst of my fear. A peace washes over me and greets my anxious body. The shuddering begins and I have to hold the wall as I make my way back to the nurse who worriedly waits with a wheelchair; tears are in her eyes, tempted to spill over.


Running, the nurse is running as she pushes my wheel chair around the corner. We enter the elevator and the nurse hurriedly presses the button for the next floor up. Outside the sun is shining down, sending shimmering sparkles across the water in the 4-tiered fountain below. The door opens and we are running again. I look back at the elevator, to see its final seconds of the doors closing with a small thump and I watch as the lights above count down to the floors below. Then I see it… the glass walk into a reality I am not ready to accept.  Sharp sunlight floods the threshold in blinding light. I look around the empty lobby. The sunlight dances against this marble floor, sparkling and shimmering in a wave of methodical color.  And then we are inside this glass tunnel of beauty. I glance left and then right. There are people in the sky bridge across from us, slowly making their way back to the parking garage. The tunnel is hot, at least 10 degrees warmer than the lobby had been. The sunlight beats in strong, warming my shaking body. Its warmth wraps around me, enveloping me in a safe cocoon… as if God himself is carrying me down this sunlit path.

As quickly as it starts, it ends, and we are back in reality. Back in another lobby, running in a race to the next bank of elevators. Fingers jab the buttons on the console as we wait for the doors to open. Eternity seems to fill the walls of this cell, as I am lifted in the sky to my fate. Doors are opening and rushed nurses meet us, as double doors swing open with a bang.

I breathe in deep as I see the entrance of my hospital room. Lord, stay with me….






Saturday, January 9, 2010

Journal Entry...

January 8th, 2010


I sit in a wheelchair, blinded by the early morning sun. My tears fall silently in rhythm to the incessant beeping of machines and hiss of the ventilator. Sun rays slice through the open window casting warm blocks of yellow onto the floor. I glance around the room; it appears to all be moving in slow motion. My OB is there, the NICU specialist it there. Tears well in her eyes as she delivers the news we prayed we wouldn't hear.


9:02am, her words sound like a tympani drum, building as they flow from her lips. "This inter-cranial bled is the worst we've ever seen." Everything is silent again, just the humming of machines. Minutes pass, and I pick up my cell phone and dial my dad. I barely get out "We have to take him off life support today." The line is silent; utter deafening silence. I choke back sobs and manage a mangled "Love you" and hang up. What do I do now? My mother is on the first of three legs of her flight here. I'll wait until she arrives... there is no use in telling her before then.


The light is beautiful right now. Like the hands of God gently holding the room. I am handed my son for the first time and I can barely control my convulsing sobs as I clutch the tiniest baby I've ever seen. It takes three people to hand him over to me. The tube from his ventilator is taped to my arm and cords and leads are strung over my chair as I attempt to bond with my dying son.


Soon the room is rattled with the sound of people. My family was there. My daughter cautiously enters the room and gazes at me for reassurance. God grants me the serenity I need in the moment as I introduce her to her baby brother. She is in love already. She hesitantly clutches his tiny hand and tells me, "that's my baby brother, I love him." Tears well up and overflow as I put on my best smile and attempt to soak in the moment. Scott is there talking to her; taking it all in. I hear my camera shutter clicking in the room laden with hissing, beeping, and tears.


I am strong now, I know I have to be. People are coming in. My mother arrives a wreck. She doesn't' know what to say. None of us do. More pictures are being taken as people filter in and out.


Soon there is a harp player in the room, serenading us with soft melodies. I look back into the sun, blinded. "I go to prepare a place for you" comes to my mind. Tears flow as sweet plucking fills the room and drowns out the endless beeping and hissing.


"It is time" I say; the moment strikes me like a bolt of lightning. I watch as one by one, everyone says their goodbyes. I feel as if I have done this before... strange and surreal. Scott and I are left alone now as tubes are removed from Leo's tiny form. The nurse passes him to us as we clutch our son in our hands. We whisper sweet nothings to him; how much we love him and how much we will miss him. I tell him how sorry I am that it has to be this way. Hues of orange and pink fill the sky. Glorious beauty witnessed in our sons final heart beats. I gaze down at his tiny face and kiss his forehead.


What seems like hours pass and we slowly finish the rituals of saying goodbye. I watch as the nurses cast his hands and feet. By now the sun is down and low light fills the large room. I see my son in silhouette against the light, and can't seem to peel my eyes away. I kiss him again and hand him to the nurse, who lovingly cradles him in her arms. She knows the magnitude of what just happened. She has seen it before.


I slowly shuffle to the door, not wanting to leave. I walk with Scott's help down the hallway, clutching the handrail. I stop every few feet, as I am weak in pain and sadness. Scott takes me in his arms as we both cry ourselves to sleep on the daybed in our hospital room. We awaken to tear stained pillows and a depth of sadness I never thought possible. Sobs feel strained, as if I can't reach the depths of their bottom; like being unable to take a deep enough breath.


Numbness starts and I know family will be here soon. My dad walks in and all I hear is the shrill sweet voice of my daughter saying "Grandpa, you're here!". My dad breaks down as he scoops up my darling daughter. I know this moment is one I will remember the rest of my life. I know that the night before, our Leo ran into the arms of Jesus says, "I'm here Father, I'm here."


Peace washes over me as the room settles down. Everyone I love is there. We fall into routine pleasantries, even laughing at times. The room is like a prison cell in my own hell. I want to go home. I want to start picking up the pieces of my life. My OB okays my early leave, just 2 days after an emergency c-section and loosing a child. She knows I will loose my mind if I stay within those walls.


We ask to see Leo before we leave. I lead the group into a "Reflection Room" in the maternity wing. My son awaits us, wrapped in many blankets, with a hat low on his head. His cold body warms in my hands as I cling to him for the last time. Tears are streaming down everyone's cheeks. Outside the sun is starting to set. Blazing orange fills the room with warmth. My father breaks down, kneeling at my feet before our precious son. How rattling this is. How expected and yet unexpected all at once. More layers of reality run over me as I savor these final moments with my son. Goodbyes are said, kisses are stamped on his forehead, prayers are recited.


It is time to go now. I don't want to leave. I hate giving him back to this nurse. She smiles like an idiot; as if I was handing her flowers, instead of my dead son. I knew it was time to leave. I was on the verge of breaking down. With a deep breath, I handed him over to the nurse and walked out the door. I feel like my whole heart was left in that room with my baby. How will I gain it back?


I hurriedly pack my things... I hate being there. I want to go home.


It's 5 am, as I lay looking at the ceiling. A small ray of light gracefully casts its way along the outer edge of our bedroom drapes. Pain throbs through my abdomen. I slowly lift myself out of bed and reach for the pain medication from the doctor. I slowly shuffle into my daughters room. The house is silent in the early morning hours, as I am the only one awake. I kneel on the floor next to my daughters bed watching her sleep. I focus on the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she peacefully slumbers away. I let silent tears fall as I watch the sun slowly rising outside her windows. Soon my dad is up and finds me in her room. He sits down with me as we silently take in the moments and miracles.


It is a new day. We slowly shut her door, and make our way downstairs. My incision throbs in unnerving pain with each step. We head into the kitchen, where coffee is my only refuge. I gaze out the window as the light floods over the fence in the rising ritual. Already it is warm. I go outside and water my plants. The cool concrete feels damp beneath my bare feet. I watch a spider weave a perfect web covered in morning dew. A grasshopper perches near by and follows me fence post to fence post as I make my way down the line of potted plants with the hose. He brings tears to my eyes.  He reminds me of my Leo. I am blessed that morning. God knows my pain. I feel his presence. I close my eyes and feel the sun on my face. "You are there" I say.


I go back inside and sit with my dad. We silently sip coffee. This communion of ours touches me to the core. I don't want this moment to end...



 


Journal Entry...

August 16, 2009

I gaze into a foggy mirror frantically looking for signs of you. This shrouded temple that once beheld your beloved body is no more. How I despise this hourglass figure before me! I long for my swollen form to return. I turn from side to side with critical eyes desperate to find some trace of your existence. This crimson scar reminds me you are no more; cut from this body long before your form was complete. My engorged breast drip with sustenance meant for your nourishment; even my body mourns for you. This endless dripping creates a symphony of pitter-patter, as my tears and milk drop onto the counter endlessly pooling in pain. I pound my fist down and cry out, “This isn’t fair!” Soon this sanctuary that beheld you will be but a memory. The only trace of you will be this battle scar, reminding me that you are no more. I clothe my wounded body and wonder how many days I have left to gaze upon the evidence of your existence. How quickly things have changed. What once was is no more. Left empty handed and broken-hearted I will forever be. How I miss you…

Journal Entry...

August 13, 2009

I am loosing it today. I am so numb. I never really woke up this morning; my mind is in such a fog. What a crummy day! What really happened… nothing, nothing except I lost my son; my son who looked like my dad and me. Who had my dads’ chin and mouth and ears.  Why did this happen? I found a white crocheted blanket today. It made me mad. Why didn’t I think of this when I was in the hospital? I could have wrapped Leo in this blanket. UGH! I am so pissed at myself today. Anger fills me quickly these days… worse than normal. And what the fuck is with my so-called friend? What a joke our friendship is. The disappointment smacked me in the face this afternoon like a soccer cleat to the groin. Why do people pretend to give a shit? PS people, my son is dead!  So when you say, “I didn’t want to be in the way” or some other bullshit, just spare me. When did being supportive cross the line of “being in the way”. Let’s face it, what you are REALLY trying to say is you don’t want to have to deal with it, that YOU have your own issues on the subject, and that really you don’t have time to care. I am SO sick of the cop-out of “I just don’t know what to say”…funny, NEITHER DO I! What do I expect from someone who doesn’t have any faith? shame on me for expecting more from a friend of 6 years.  And oh, how I am NOT looking forward to this weekend away with Scott. He hasn’t said more than 10 words to me all week. Why are we in a funk? We need to talk more now than ever and yet he comes home, is quite, and I just get more angry and hurt. Tears are threatening to spill over tonight and really I have no clue why. I am so tired and so freaked out about photographing this wedding this weekend. I hope I can find my artistic center. God is my only hope at this point. I am so freaked out about this wedding. Why? I know what I am doing, for the most part that is. I don’t want to go to the beach; it will just make me think about how I’ll never bring my Leo to the beach. Man this sucks. Everything in my life will always be, “I wish Leo were here with us.” What a revelation that is! I will always be suffocating on my own sorrow. My heart will forever be scarred. I hold back tears because if I let go, the force of Niagara Falls will flow from my eyes and never end. How do you come back from this type of thing? I read blogs from other women who share in my misery and 3+ years later they are still angry and hurting and longing for their lost ones. Will this loss always define me? Should I feel guilty for not wanting it to define me? Or guilty because I want it too? Oh how to navigate this new part of my life.

 

The rain pounds my windowsill. Each drop reminds me of the soft plucking of harp strings. Harp strings, like the harpist who played during Leo’s final hours. Her soft melodies blotted out the never-ending bleeping of life support machines. What a blur those final hours were. Red eyed family members with tear stained cheeks filter in and out of the room; everyone clinging to the person next to them, hoping to be roused from this nightmare.  I am handed Leo for the first time and I fall apart. My sobs jerk me back to reality and I struggle to control myself as my tiny son barely fills my palms. I lay him skin to skin on my chest and I feel my heart swell to double its size. My tears threaten to drench his tiny head as I struggle to get a hold of myself. His hair, oh my gosh he already has hair, hair with curl, dark hair, like mine. He grips my finger, how can this be? How can I be holding my son already? He should still be inside me. I try to hold on to this moment for as long as I can, but it is no use. My mind is 100 different places other than where it should be. I need to focus but I can’t. I look down at my beautiful son and imagine him healthy. I don’t want to you to be here yet. I want more time dammit, I want more time.

 

Friday, January 8, 2010

Journal Entry...

August 12, 2009

My anxiety-ridden body shudders over and over like waves pounding a rocky shore. “What do you mean that means we’re having a baby today?” I ask the doctor. How could this be? I am only 27 weeks and 6 days pregnant. It isn’t time yet… he won’t live.

I lay flat on my back looking up into lights as bright as 3 suns. Tears cloud my eyes and blue hospital drape grazes my lips. My nose twitches as oxygen is forced through my upturned nostrils and tubes graze the back of my ears. My out stretched arms resemble those of Christ’s on the cross; strapped down unable to move leaving my body to its full vulnerability. My body shudders in the silent clanging of metal surgical instruments and I awaken from my sea of pain to my own gut wrenching cries as my son is plucked from my womb behind my shrouded eyes. Each sob is a nail driven through my hands as I lay suffering my own cross. I am left for the whole world to see, arms outstretched and my gut open and bleeding on the table. Is this how Our Father felt as he witnessed his son suffering on the cross?

My poor son, my little Leo, how my heart aches for you! To think you gave your life so I could live! In less than 20 minutes I could have been dead. I would have left a husband, daughter, and son. I would have left a mother and father, sisters, and grandparents. I would have given my life for you in a second my dear son. My heart aches to know you more, to hear your cries, to hear your laughs. I am left here to mourn your short life and to celebrate its gifts and praise the gift of life I have been blessed with. How things have changed in such a short time. How my heart is full and empty at the same time. When I close my eyes all I hear is the beat of my own heart, the utter silence of what I’ve lost. Your phantom movements haunt my womb; they seem to say, “I am still with you”. I clutch the velvet pouch of your tiny remains to my chest clinging to your memory. How empty are my arms! How I long to hold your beloved body in my hands. My love for you is like the depths of the ocean, never-ending and vast, dark and mysterious, loudly trembling and deafening. Oh my heart aches for you my sweet son.

Dear Lord,

It is enough; you know what my heart feels. Give me the strength and understanding I long for. Grant me the peace that only you can give…. In Jesus name, Amen.

Our Story in Timeline form....

Sunday July 19th 2009

I noticed decreased fetal movement all day long. I tried drinking juice and lying down for hours at a time. I was able to get Leo to move a little bit when I put headphones on my tummy and played music for him.

Monday July 20th, 2009


Monday morning I tried lying on my tummy in bed to get Leo to kick. He always would kick when I did that; he did not respond at all. At this point I called the high-risk OB office and left a message for the doctor on call (it was only 6:30am). I never got a call back. I then called my regular OB’s office at 8:30am and left a message for my doctor. I ended up calling back at 9:30am and was told to head down to the hospital to get monitored. We left within 20 mins and Scott met Nevaeh and I at the hospital. I was checked into triage in the maternity ward and they started monitoring the baby’s heartbeat. His heartbeat was steady around 140 beats per minute. As far as we could tell at that point Leo was fine. The nurse came back in after 20 mins and I could tell that something might be up. She said that they called my high-risk OB I was seeing and that they wanted me to head down for an ultra sound right away. I was then told I would be admitted for observation and IV fluids. We were told that they wanted more variation in the baby’s heartbeat and that he could be under distress. My blood pressure was measured at 160/96.

I quickly put on a hospital gown, got my hospital bracelet, and was put in a wheelchair. The nurse ran the entire way down 2 floors and across the sky bridge to the high-risk OB office. At this point I was freaking out knowing that something serious might be wrong. I called my sister and had her leave work to come get Nevaeh for us. She made it there right before we went in for the ultra sound.

As soon as the ultra sound tech looked at my placenta she showed us that it had started separating from my uterus. There was a large bleed between the uterine wall and the placenta. There was back flow in the umbilical cord which meant that Leo was not get as much oxygen and blood as he needed. Leo’s heart had already started to enlarge due to being over worked to compensate for the compromised cord blood and placenta. The Dr. came in, took one look and said to us, “this means you are having a baby today”. I immediately started crying and asked the survival rate for a baby 27 weeks and 6 days old. He said there was a 90% survival rate. Scott and I took a deep breath and started praying, hoping Leo had a chance.

The nurse then ran me back up 2 levels into the maternity ward where I was hurried into a hospital bed to be prepped for an emergency c-section. My regular OB came in and said how lucky I was that I came in that we caught it before I bled out or before the baby died in the womb. There were 20 nurses in the room prepping me. I had 3 IV’s put in my arms, clothes stripped off, forms signed, blood pressures taken…. Scott hurriedly sent a mass text message to everyone saying “they are taking the baby now by c-section” and then we were out the door to the operating room. The total prep time for my c-section was less than 12 mins.

I got in the operating room, shaking violently from anxiety, trying to hold back tears. There were 15 people waiting around; mostly from the NICU. I sat on the edge of the operating table while the anesthesiologist prepped my back for a spinal. I prayed that the Lord would spare my son, that he would some how make it through, and that I would make it back home to my husband and daughter. I asked through tears streaming down my face if the nurse would hold my hands as they stuck a 5-inch needle into my back wishing Scott could be by my side while I was prepped. Finally I was numb from the arms down and staring straight up into the brightest lights ever. My violent shaking grew worse and worse. The doctor announced that they had started and I began to pray. They finally brought Scott into the operating room and we both just cried and tried to think positive. We knew that Leo wouldn’t cry when he was born… he was just too small. The doctor pulled him out and he was immediately rushed next door to the NICU doctors. I immediately had Scott go see our son as the doctors diligently worked on him. I was left alone, tears streaming down my face, praying that God would get us through. It was the longest 20 mins of my life lying there open on the operating table waiting to be closed up wondering what my son even looked like, or if he was okay, or breathing. My violent shaking grew worse and I started throwing up all while I was being sewn closed.

I spent 2 hours in recovery, alone. I cried and was shaking, and asking for updates and anxiety medication. Finally Scott came in and said that Leo was doing okay, that he had a ventilator put in and that they had to put in an umbilical line to help regulate his sugar levels. As far as we knew he was doing okay for the time being. He was born at 1 lb. 13 oz. 12 inches long… he should have been 2.5 lbs and 16 inches long for his gestational age. The nurse had me start pumping even though it would be a long time before he was able to have my milk. At this point it had been over 2 hours and I still hadn’t seen my son.

They brought me to my room and started my pain meds. My grandma, sister Katie, & Nevaeh were there. Also our pastor had arrived. My sister Erin was on her way from Ellensburg and almost home already. We still didn’t know much about Leo, just that they were working on him.

Finally around 5:30pm I was wheeled down to see my son in the NICU. He was covered in tubes and IV’s. He was the tiniest thing I had ever seen. I touched his tiny hand and started to cry. He was such a miracle and all I wanted was for him to be okay. The doctor told us that his levels weren’t great and that our goal was to get him through the night. Leo had developed a level 3 brain bleed which is common for babies born at such low birth weight. We were told that the bleed could repair on its own, but no guarantees. We decided to call our pastor back and have him come baptize Leo. The little baptism took place in Leo’s incubator bed in the NICU. We couldn’t hold him, we just got to sit by and watch as the ceremony was preformed and water was lightly splashed on his tiny head. I felt some peace in my heart once the ceremony was over. I knew that God was with us through it all. We stayed in the NICU room, holding little Leo’s hand and telling him how much we loved him for hours. He seemed to be staying stable and doing the best he could considering the situation. Finally, we decided to go back to our room to get some sleep. The NICU nurse told us they would call if anything changed.

Tuesday, July 21st, 2009


In the morning I woke up at 5am and all I wanted to do was see Leo. I decided to pump again to make sure my milk would be coming in for our little guy. The nurses took out my catheter and cleaned me up so I could walk down to NICU. We got there and Leo was under the lights to help with jaundice. He looked pretty good and was responsive to us holding his hands. The doctor came it around 9am to tell us that his sugar levels were a little better but that his brain bleed had gotten progressively worse… actually the worse the neonatologist had ever seen. Scott and I both started crying. We asked what the next steps would be and she said “To take him off the ventilator and let him pass”. There was no coming back from a brain bleed as severe as this. Scott and I tried to hold it together as the news that our precious son was not going to make it sunk in. We called our family and had everyone who could come down to the NICU. The nurses kept his ventilator in and let us hold our son for the first time. He was so tiny and precious. He fit in the palms of our hands. I held my darling son close and thought about all the plans I had for him and how none of them would ever play out. I knew I would never hear him cry, or get to nurse him. I would never get to change a diaper or watch him roll over or crawl. The reality of what was happening was almost more than I could bear. It was an emotional couple of hours as visitors came in to see us with our Leo.

Around 6:30pm we decided that it was time to end Leo’s suffering and remove the ventilator. He had stopped opening his eyes a few hours before and was becoming less and less responsive. We knew it was time to let him go. Scott and I held our beautiful son as his heart slowly stopped beating. We told him how much we loved him and how much we already missed him. It was the hardest thing Scott or I had ever had to do. Leo’s heart stopped beating at 7:30pm. He died cradled in my arms. I will never forget how amazing my beautiful son was, or how he looked that day. I know that he is in heaven and is our little angel watching over us.

The hardest thing was dressing him after his death. They brought us an outfit that would fit him since he was less than 2 lbs. We got to dress him for the first and last time and wrap him in a blanket. Handing him to the nurse and then walking down to our room was the hardest thing ever. We had lost our son. How could this have happened? I was pregnant yesterday! How could this be happening? In an instant all we had planned and loved was lost.

Wednesday July 22nd, 2009


We decided we wanted to see Leo one last time before we left the hospital. We arranged to have him brought to a special viewing room so that our parents who weren’t there the day he died could also say goodbye. It was very emotional knowing you will handed your son who has passed away. Leo was just as beautiful as the day before. He was at peace. I am so glad we were able to say goodbye one last time. Tears flowed heavily in that room as the reality of what had happened sunk in for everyone. Scott and I finally had to let go of our precious son and give him back to the nurses. They promised to take care of him for us.

We went home an hour later without our son. We went back to a nursery filled with things for our baby boy and just cried. There would be no special homecoming, no baby shower, no baby announcements. Instead there would be a memorial and arrangements to be made. How will we get through this?

We are so thankful for the hours we got to spend with our little Leo. He was such a blessing in our lives. We love him more than ever and think about him always. Scott and I are so thankful for the amazing NICU team at Legacy Salmon Creek Hospital for everything they did. We could not have asked for a better team of people. The team was the most caring and personable group that we have ever dealt with. They went above and beyond to make sure we were as comfortable as we could be while taking the up-most care of our son.

We thank Amy Buma from Lasting Impressions Photography for her services. She is part of the Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep foundation and was there to photograph Leo’s baptism and final hours. Our family will treasure the photographs she captured forever.

Thank you to everyone for your prayers and support during this difficult time for us. We don’t know what we would do without you in our lives.

God’s Blessings to you all…

Scott and Kellene Maynard