Dana’s Story

Right before my 20 week sonogram, we asked Elexander, our oldest son, if we were going to have a boy or a girl. He informed me it was a fish. Fish were his new favorite thing, and he was adamant that mommy had a fish in her stomach. So our new baby’s nickname was fish, and soon we would be able to give him or her a real name.

We went in for our typical 20 month sonogram. We were so excited to find out if we were carrying a boy or a girl. I was betting on a girl, although if I had another crazy little boy like Elexander I would be just as happy. We went into the office and the technician started looking at our baby. Initially everything looked wonderful. She informed us we were having a little boy, and I heard Rod tell Elex, “You’re going to have a little brother.”

My mind started to fill with images of them jumping off couches together, running around playing football, and screaming when daddy got home from work. Then the words I will never forget. “There is a mass on the back of the baby’s head, I need to have the doctor come and look.”

My heart dropped; I could barely breath. The doctor came in, looked around, and then told us the news. Our son had a rare neural tube defect called encephalocele. He said for some a surgery could fix it, but our son’s case was so severe he would not be able to survive. The doctor wanted us to go see a specialist in Ft. Worth. As he left the room, I sat up and started to cry. Soon crying became wailing and complete devastation. I looked up into my husband’s eyes and saw tears running down his face. I will never forget the look on his face as he walked over and held me.

We went to my OB’s office shortly after to be given our options. I told her that ending the pregnancy would never be an option for us. She looked at me with a weak smile, and said she simply wanted to prepare me for the options the specialist would give. I saw the tears in her eyes, and I knew there was little hope.

I immediately started to plead with the Lord for understanding and comfort. Waves of comfort would come in between the floodwaters of grief. I was carrying a child that was still alive, but his life would not extend outside my womb. How much longer would we have Tristan with us?

That evening, our pastor came over. He sat with us and talked, and he warned us to guard our marriage. I realized that our new normal was not going to be easy. I knew that Satan would try to rip us apart every chance he could, tempting us to doubt our Lord. I refused to allow Satan to win.

Five days later we went to the specialist only to hear the exact same thing. Tristan’s condition was so severe that surgery could not save him. I realized then I had would have to plan a funeral. All along, I had been expecting to bring home my second child, and instead I was going to have to plan his funeral.

For the following 12 weeks, I woke each morning praying for one more day. I would wait for that small kick or punch that would say, “I am still here.” Each morning for 12 weeks, I received that painfully beautiful reminder. Through it all, we leaned on God. I remember thinking, “Lord, if only I could touch your cloak you could heal him, just as the woman reached out in faith in Matthew 9:20.”

During the harder evenings, when grief would overwhelm me I would cry out, begging, “Heal Him! The one you love is sick. Heal him!” Through it all, by God’s grace, I found myself chasing after the Lord rather than walking away.

During Christmas Break, we went to the cemetery where we would soon bury our son. I was fine when we first arrived. I just thought about how it was out in the country. It was so peaceful there. As I looked around at some of the graves, I started to shake. I am not sure how much was from the cold, and how much was from the reality of it all. I knew there was a very good possibility that I would be burying my child there.

I cried before we left, knowing that I would have to go there to visit him. I was going to have to lay him in the cold, hard ground, instead of a warm, soft bed. I had the visualization of laying Tristan into the ground, and I started to cry. It sent shivers down my entire body. My son, even though it would be the shell of his body and not his spirit, would be laid to rest here.

On February 12, we were supposed to go in for a sonogram. We went often to be monitored. Over the last few weeks fluid began building quite a bit since he was unable to properly filter it through his body. The ice storm that hit kept us from being able to leave, so we had to reschedule for the following day.

When I woke up on February 13 I didn’t felt him move. I tried all the tricks that usually worked, but this time they didn’t. My heart began to sink and my stomach felt sick. I called the nurse in a panic, but it went straight to voicemail. I went in at 1:00 for my sonogram, but I already knew. As the sonographer moved the wand across my stomach and I saw the stillness of Tristan’s legs, I cried out, “He’s gone!”

I was admitted to the hospital and induced to deliver my son. I remembered the procedures all too well from when I had Elex. But this time, there was no heartbeat echoing through the room. We were quickly surrounded by family and friends. The following day, February 14, 2014, at 5:10pm, Roderick Tristan came into the world. Silently. We spent several hours loving on him.

I repeatedly ran my finger over his nose, which looked exactly like his father’s. Although tears ran down our faces, there was still joy in the room. We were allowed to keep him with us as long as we wished. When I was ready, the funeral assistants came in with a beautiful quilted Moses basket. Our dearest friends stayed with us late into the night, surrounding us in prayer. As I watched the nurse walk away with my beautiful boy, I leaned on my friend’s shoulder and wept.

On February 19, we buried Tristan in the cemetery out in the country. His grave was in the wrong spot when we arrived, but it was all in God’s plan. I barely remember what was said, other than it was about the hope that we had found in trusting the Lord, and leaning on Him when we knew we were not strong enough. At the end of the ceremony, the lullaby I sang each night to him as I rocked him and his older brother began to play. I knelt down by his casket and sang one last time to him. When I began to sing I was filled with anguish, but as the words left my lips, an overwhelming comfort filled my entire body, and I was at peace. I knew my son was healed and with Jesus.

As the ceremony preceded the proper grave location was dug, and after many had left, Roderick picked up Tristan’s tiny casket and carried him for the last time to his resting place. Throughout our journey, we were told many times how strong we were. We would both get extremely upset over this statement. How could you say we were strong, when we were barely holding on? But we realized that what people were seeing was not strength from us, but God’s amazing, beautiful grace.

Dana Thompson is the founder and photographer for The Angelfish Project.
She is the wife to Roderick and they have three children: Elexander, Tristan, and Adalynn. Dana loves playing with her children, watching Roderick coach football games, photography, and cooking.

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