Always Look For the Rainbow

In honor of sharing in the month of October to remember the babies that are lost through miscarriage, SIDS and stillbirth and infant loss awareness, I want to share our story of our firstborn son, Jaxon, with you all.

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When they placed Jaxon on my chest, I knew my newborn son was not okay. His warm, wet, limp body turned blue in the six short seconds they rubbed him down. The charge nurse then cut the cord quickly to whisk him to the warming table. After 23 minutes, they were able to resuscitate him to have a heartbeat, but he went onto a ventilator and to the NICU soon after that.

Relying on our faith to anchor us to hope, my husband and I prayed for a miracle immediately after they began chest compressions. Like a storm appearing before declaring its presence, Jaxon’s situation came upon us without warning. Until his entrance into the world, the vitals for both him and me were within normal limits. There was nothing prior to this moment in my pregnancy that would have alarmed anyone or foreshadowed this.

The delivering doctor came up to me with tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, but he’s in God’s hands.”

“Yes. God is in control, and He has a plan,” I assured her.

She squeezed my hand and quickly turned to go, obviously affected by the situation.

As a ship found in an angry squall, it became time to batten down the hatches, and ready the vessel to rock in the waves.

After four days of a special hypothermia cooling treatment was performed on Jaxon in an effort to preserve his brain function, an MRI was ordered. My husband, Chris, looked to me in a moment of uncertainty, conflicted about the risk that his ventilator could possibly disconnect during the ride through the hospital to the MRI room.

“What do you think we should do?” he said.

I encouraged him, recognizing the step of faith that had to be taken in this moment. “He’s going to be fine, either way. But if we want more answers, we have to do this.” To not have had the MRI done would have left us with more unanswered questions.

I paced the hospital lobby while we awaited Jaxon’s MRI test, and realized how awake, alive and alert I felt in this time of crisis.

“Chris,” I looked into my husband’s eyes, “despite the crisis of this situation, and the pain of it all, it’s the pain that makes me feel most alive right now. My senses are so in tune to the gravity of this situation. Do you know what I mean?”

He nodded, and I continued to rally my strength, amidst the emotional pain and physical pain of having delivered days before.

“This is like, being on the brink. Maybe there is hope that Jaxon will come through. We’ll get answers to the condition he’s in and maybe we’ll get to bring him home.” As I spurted my hope forth, we anticipated the results that would indicate the possibility of our son waking.

The next day we met with the neurologist in Jaxon’s nursery for the MRI results. The sound of Jaxon’s heartbeat tracing filled the background, beeping and signaling his prompted breathing cadences, like waves rocking the boat.

After the neurologist did a physical exam on our son, he began. “Mr. and Mrs. Dale, I looked through the MRI results and upon my evaluation, they indicate he’s gone. He has no brain activity. I’m so very sorry.” He further explained that there was seizure activity moments after his birth, and that essentially his brain functioning had been completely compromised with only basic brain stem responses remaining.

Upon further consultation with a maternal-fetal specialist, a blood condition I have may have made him susceptible to brain damage and complications when the vacuum was applied to his head at birth.

This was a halt in our march to victory. Everyone we could share this trial with had been praying and hoping for a miracle, expecting Jaxon would make it. The anchor we had been holding to, hope, suddenly seemed buoyant and displaced.

The following day was Palm Sunday, when I began to pray and ask God to either give us our son back or take him home to heaven. However, unlike the events of Easter, the miracle we wanted wasn’t meant to manifest in Jaxon’s life on earth.

From Monday to Tuesday, we said the longest goodbye after taking him off life support, and watched his breaths shorten, turn to gasps, and gave him over to the last place we wanted him to go. Gone from us.

The anchor we had tied to may have disappeared beyond the horizon, but it is still attached by our faith. We are sure we will see our angel baby again, though not in this lifetime. The storm had taken him away from us, but we’ve come to terms with Jaxon’s passing, because we know our faith and love for him is stronger than death. We know the promises we have in Christ, and they are true.

When skies clear and rain still falls but the sun shines toward the clearing over a raining cloud, sometimes a rainbow appears. In the wake of our baby boy’s passing, we looked up and found a rainbow. We now have the extra blessing of a rainbow, due February next year. No other baby could take our perfect angel, Jaxon’s, place, but now he’ll be able to watch over his younger sibling from above.

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“We Just Can’t Wait”

For us to hear your voice of surprise
to see the color of your eyes
to know just how tall you grow
to behold the personality you show
to run with you on the new Earth
to find out your favorite things’ worth
to see who you look like more
to get to know who you are
We just can’t wait.

 

Since Jaxon’s passing, we have set up a donor-assisted fund in his name. To help support other families in similar situations in the NICU, we have coordinated with the NICU foundation associated with the hospital Jaxon stayed.

To contribute to the “SuperJax Fund” click here.

Your donation will go on to assist families of babies in the NICU that are receiving life-giving treatment and also end-of-life care. Unbeknownst to me before, they save more babies than are lost. Much more. They’re miracle workers.