A couple of nurses gathered around our hospital bed, and while she was safely snuggled in my arms they took her oxygen tube out. I think everyone in the room held their breath, uncertain of what was to happen next. Tyler and I cuddled even closer in bed with Amelia, and the hospital room was silent.

It was shortly after 10pm on Monday night.

Tears soaked my eyes as it hit me that our time with baby Amelia was limited. Without a machine helping her to breathe, would she only live mere minutes, or in just a few hours would her spirit be gone from us? I didn’t care, for I know she felt the power of love in that dim room.

We cried, Tyler and I, as we held her fragile body that night. We cried for hours, knowing the inevitable but blind to how or when it would eventually happen. Tyler held me tightly, and I held him. It was different from any embrace we’d shared before, as we struggled to transfer silent feelings of love and support to one another. It was a pain the two of us would hold secretly in our hearts for the rest of our lives. We were, for those mere moments, removed from the outside world. A tiny piece of heaven was in our arms, and I was finally prepared to let that go. I prayed fervently to Heavenly Father to take Amelia in His arms. I felt saddened she would leave us yet was filled with indescribable joy knowing she would also be safe without us.

Amelia (and our Heavenly Father) had other plans in mind. Even with the organ transplant team ready to go in the hallway, baby girl bravely fought for every opportunity to live with us on earth. If she had passed away within 90-minutes of being extubated, her kidneys could have been donated, and if she had passed away within (2-)3 hours of extubation her liver/liver cells could have been donated. Neither happened that night. Amelia just slept peacefully in our arms, happy the oxygen tube was out of her throat.

An enormous part of me wishes she had passed that night. Forgive me, Amelia, for I was scared to completely let you into my heart. If she had passed quickly, her organs would have been donated. I think about how her perfect organs could have helped others’ sick and afflicted bodies; I mourn for their loss, having to wait for yet another potential donor to come along. But that wasn’t the plan Heavenly Father had in mind for her, and I must remember “not my will, but thine, be done.” (Luke 22:42)

Amelia had a moderately strong suck, and with help she was able to latch on to my breast. Though she didn’t get any milk (and couldn’t swallow it if she had), this was when I felt I “became” a mother to her earthly body, for I finally was able to help nourish and take care of her. I still struggle with the fact that my entire job as a mother to Amelia was simply to hold and love her. My mothering instinct still yearns to take care of an infant.

We finally sent home our photographer around 2:30am, and eventually the extra nurses and staff went home to succumb to sleep. I hesitated, but left Amelia in my sleeping husband’s arms and finally gave in to showering around 3:00am. I cried, alone and scared, as that warm water dripped down my skin, washing away the day’s labors. How I wish it would have washed away my fears and insecurities! Life would have been easier had she spent just those ten hours in our arms. I had planned for just a few short hours with her, and now I found myself with excess. Grateful and so blessed with excess time, but how had it come to this? This was not the way I had envisioned it going, and I knew as time rolled on it would be harder and harder to let her go.

I barely slept the rest of the night. Tuesday morning came and went, a blur of faces and smiles to greet us. Amelia was finally cordless and off all monitors, and it was simply the three of us in a windowless hospital room. The hours passed one by one, and throughout the confusing array of emotions that day, the strongest felt was peace. Room 16 of the labor and delivery ward was a sacred and peaceful place, a haven from the outside world.

We changed hats and diapers and kept a close watch on her breathing. Late Tuesday afternoon she began to show her first signs of respiratory distress, and we didn’t think she’d make it through the night. We took shifts of sleeping, holding her close between the two of us. If I had my arm around her, Tyler was holding her hand. If Tyler had her cradled, I massaged her toes. If she was going to fight for the opportunity to stay alive, I was determined to stay awake to see her through.

I excitedly walked into our ultrasound appointment, nervous but eager to finally find out the baby’s gender. Would it be the girl we’ve secretly hoped for, or an equally-loved, rambunctious little brother for Jack? The radiologist invited me back to measure and assess the baby’s growth while Tyler patiently waited with Jack in the waiting room for their turn to join us. We struck up polite conversation, and while I was bummed that I couldn’t see the monitor, I tried to keep calm. I talked about how we would love a boy or a girl in our family, and mostly prayed for a healthy baby. I talked about our impending move (next week!) to San Jose. I hinted that I felt much more nervous this time around than at my 20-week ultrasound with Jack, but reassured myself out loud that it was probably just my paranoia and pregnancy hormones. After all, I had been feeling the baby kick the past week or two so I knew a beautiful life was still inside of me, growing to its full potential.

Per routine, the radiologist asked if I had any family history of genetic disorders or problems. Nope, none that I know of. I then blurted out that my cousin and his wife recently gave birth to a baby with a severe birth defect (full trisomy 18) that died three hours later, but a case like that is incredibly rare. Just an unfortunate thing that happened to really good people. We continued our conversation, talking about Mexico and San Diego rent prices and how my doctor was out of town right now. Finally she let me pee (I had been holding a half-gallon of water for almost two hours at this point) but insisted on rechecking a few things when I came back. While I went to get Tyler and Jack from the waiting room, she consulted with a technician in the other room. And instead of routinely letting us have our long-awaited gender reveal, she sent us straight up to my OB to get our test results.

I told you I knew something was up. I could feel it in the ultrasound room, and I could feel it in the elevator. Tears were welling up in my eyes and I couldn’t think straight. If it wasn’t something critical, why would they have sent us up here immediately? As we met with the nurse (who, through no fault of her own, was able to tell us anything), I couldn’t hold my sobs in any longer and began bawling like a crazy lady. The nurse reassured me that my doctor would be back on Monday to read me the results. Then my knight-in-shining-armor (Tyler) insisted the nurse that we were sent up there for an obvious reason and though our doctor was out of town, she needed to find a doctor – any doctor – who could interpret the results for us NOW. We couldn’t wait until Monday.

She ushered us into an unused exam room, and there we waited. And waited. Those were some of the longest minutes of my life. Tyler and I both knew something wasn’t right, but neither of us could admit it to each other. We made small talk, conversing about the proper care of laminate flooring to his baby pictures that I sorted through that morning. Finally we were led to an OB’s office down the hall, who had to give us some of the worst news possible.

The baby has anencephaly, a serious birth defect in which a baby is born without parts of the brain and skull. If baby makes it full-term, he/she will either be still born or won’t live longer than a few hours (a day or two at best). There is a strong heartbeat and reflexes of the baby kicking and moving, but with the absence of a brain there is no brain function that an individual needs to live. The doctor reassured me it is most likely an unfortunate fluke, but I can’t help but feel as the mother like I somehow caused it to happen.

We have two options: we can choose to abort the baby or, at no risk to me, let it live its life, however long that might be. Being the Christians we are, abortion is entirely out of the question. It is our duty as parents to give precious spirits in heaven a body here on earth, and we strongly feel that this particular spirit was sent to our family for a reason. We might not even get to meet him/her in this life, but we know without a doubt God has a bigger plan and there will be one more child up in heaven waiting for us to join them.

I think the hardest part for me is trying to comprehend that I still get to help nourish and grow our little baby inside of me for the next few months. Each time I feel the baby kick and squirm it reminds me how precious and fleeting life really is here on this earth, and how I need to fight for the chance to live each and every day the best I can. And it makes me ever-so grateful for my husband and sweet toddler that wake up healthy and strong each day to tackle life with me.

Things didn’t go as planned. Our little family of three will stay a family of three here on earth a little longer than expected. We won’t need that third bedroom in our house quite yet. But I’m grateful for the plan of salvation, for the knowledge we have of eternal families, and that we know with a surety that life continues on after death. Our little baby has had the blessed opportunity to receive a body, and when it is time will continue on to the heavens where he/she is most needed by our loving Heavenly Father. I know now that this earth life won’t be the last time I get to be a mother, and I feel so blessed for that opportunity.

Life hasn’t gone how we’ve expected it to lately. We’ve had some major highs and some major lows. The veil on this earth is so incredibly thin between life and death.

But tomorrow is a new day and I would feel selfish and ungrateful to waste it. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, and we hope you’ll join us with gratitude in your hearts for the blessings God has given us each and every day of our lives.