On September 22, 2018, at 8:02 PM, there was not one, but two hearts that shattered in Labor and Delivery Room 8. My husband held my hand tight as I pushed and labored our son into this world without the sound of his cry.
My husband encouraged me and soothed my fears. His 6’7 frame stood strong when I know he wanted to crumble alongside me.
When our baby boy was placed on my chest and my cries lashed out, his breath was taken.
Of all the beautiful moments in our lives, this is the single moment that truly took his breath away.
When our baby started to turn cold, my husband found a blue knitted hat to place on his head – an attempt to hold in his warmth.
When the nurses were attending to me, my husband was cradling our son, never putting him down and taking in every inch of his boy.
When it was time for me to hand our son to the nurse and never see him again, it was my husband who told me it was time and to give him one last kiss.
When it was time for us to leave the hospital without our baby, it was my husband who held me tight as we made that long walk with our arms and hearts aching with emptiness.
When I placed all the blame on myself for not keeping our baby alive, it was my husband who looked me firmly in my eyes and told me it wasn’t my fault. That this was always God’s plan.
When I was crumbled on the bathroom floor, it was repeatedly my husband who would come in and pick me up.
When my days were dark, he would make them light.
Amongst all of my husband’s own sadness, he loved me.
Amongst all of my husband’s extreme hurt, he went immediately back to work to ensure he was providing for his family.
Amongst all of my husband’s anger at the world, he showed me the beauty.
There is not just one shattered heart. there are two.
One belongs to Scotty’s mommy, and the other to Scotty’s daddy.