The Heart of Christmas, Unborn

The white lights on the Christmas tree glow dimly in the otherwise dark living room. The red and gold bulbs reflect the light into diamond-shaped beams, piercing through the gold garlin wrapped loosely on the fir's branches. I sit quietly, listening as the heater turns on, gushing warm air through the vents in the cooled space. I snuggle into my blanket and sigh, just listening. Sometimes, the quiet can be equally as frightening as inviting.

A year ago, my husband and I bought new decorations. A fresh tree, bright green, replacing the dirty white one that moved into the house with us 4 years prior. We traded are red and green for burgundy and gold, with a splash of silver to decorate the opening above the bar that separated the living room from the kitchen. Mariah Carey blasted through the speakers as we shimmied and jived while decorating, cooking, and basking in the holiday cheer. He focused on putting together the tree while I stirred the macaroni and cheese, sprinkling fresh cheddar on the top before sitting it in the oven. Once we'd finished our individual tasks, he pulled me into the living room and handed me the red, sparkly tree topper.

"Someday," he said. "Maybe our daughter or son can top the tree?"

I smiled, leaning into his chest. "I'd love nothing more."

We opened our gifts the next morning. Isaiah gave me a pandora bracelet with two charms: one with the Michigan flag, the state I grew up in, and another, a red heart with our initials carved in.

"We can add charms for our kids!" I squealed excitedly. His eyes brightened with excitement and he pulled me in for a kiss on my forehead.

"Nothing would make me happier."

A few months later, I was pregnant.

We sobbed together over the positive lines on the pregnancy test. Once we'd calmed down, Isaiah made an appointment to be sure. We'd had false positives before.

The doctor confirmed. I was 4 weeks pregnant.

The next months were a blur of telling family members, avoiding others, filtering through advice to see what proved helpful and what was hearsay. Isaiah picked up more shifts at his law firm, building our savings to support our little girl or boy. We converted my office into a nursery, buying a bright white crib with a mobile that sung nursery rhymes. I continued to work at the doctor's office, my scrubs expanding with every month that passed. I'd gotten used to the "Are you pregnant or just really out of shape" looks I received from patients as I was taking their blood pressure before they mustered the bravery to ask the daunting question. I'd place a delicate hand on my bump and smile, tearfully sometimes, answering proudly.

"Yes I am pregnant."

The doctor told us our baby was a little boy.

Isaiah and I discussed names. He didn't necessarily want a junior and I didn't want a Chad, Josh, or Jake. Neither of us was close enough to our parents to consider naming him after them, and as only children, we didn't have siblings.

It was after 1 a.m. and we both needed to work in the morning. I didn't want to call our little guy "little guy" another day, so we were determined to name him. The TV blared with infomercials that were common at this hour.

"Up next is a Vitamix for a shocking low price of 15.99 plus tax!" the salesman yelled.

"This food processor will go to the next caller at this reduced price."

The man hushed the crowd as he strolled through the phones and answered one.

"What's your name, caller?" he asked.

"I am Noah, from Los Angeles, California." the man on the phone responded.

"Well, Noah? Congratulations!" The man on the phone let out a series of "oh my god" and "thank you so much" before the show cut to commercial.

"Laysie?" Isaiah started. "What about the name, Noah?"

I hummed, pondering for a second. Noah Williams. I liked it a lot. Our son, Noah Williams.

The doctor said that Noah was doing just fine.

I was about seven months and huge at that. The October air just began to chill with the onset of fall, as children made their way around the neighborhood to collect candy for Halloween. I'd just stop working a few weeks ago, taking my maternity leave while Isaiah picked up the rest of the income. To pass the time, I decorated the nursery, putting the clothes and toys and diapers we'd gotten from the baby shower in neat places and painting the walls a bright green with white teddy bears. We'd gotten a rocking chair for us to sit with Noah in and a bookshelf we'd beginning filling with children's books to read to him. I was excited to have the little guy, despite the horror stories my mother and mother in law shared about "labor room trauma." I knew Noah and i would be close, and I would love him, no matter what because he was my little miracle.

I imagined his first Christmas, us sitting and watching a Christmas movie on Christmas Eve. Noah would fall asleep before the movie began — he was just a newborn after all — and Isaiah and I would tuck him into his crib and turn the baby monitor on, returning to the living room to finish the movie. We'd be exhausted, but we'd be so happy.

The doctor said the pain would go away.

I was having false labor pains, so to speak. My stomach would clench in excruciating pain and Isaiah would have to hold me up because, without him, I'd fall over. They happened at random times — in the middle of the night while driving to the store while relaxing and watching TV. We went to the doctor multiple times, but he insisted the pain would subside and that Noah was okay. I trusted him, Isaiah was unsure.

"Maybe we should get another doctor?" he offered one day.

"It's better to have the baby with the same doctor that I've had since the start," I said. "I trust him. Noah will be fine."

The pain continued. It felt like Noah was trying to burst through my stomach in the middle of my living room. Sometimes, he'd kick, hard, then the pain would shoot through my stomach, up my spine. It happened more frequently, over and over again, sometimes only five minutes apart. Isaiah took some time off work to make sure I was alright throughout the day. I tried to take it easy, hoping it would subside as my doctor said. But Noah was fighting with a vengeance, and I couldn't escape the pain.

Then, it all stopped.

I went for two days without the pain before I noticed. Isaiah said it was a good thing. But something felt off — Noah wasn't kicking anymore. He wouldn't move at night, respond when he heard Isaiah or I's voice, or anything.

The doctor told me Noah had died.

i don't remember what he said happened to him. I blanked out. They went through the procedure of delivering Noah through a C-section, creating the death certificate, all the technical details.

We buried him on November 1st. He was due on November 30th. He never saw his first Christmas.

I didn't notice I was crying until Isaiah bent in front of me, gently wiping the tears off my cheeks. It was Christmas Eve again, except there was no Christmas music blasting through the speakers, no macaroni and cheese in the stove, and no red tree topper on the tree. That was reserved for Noah; I refused to put it on.

"How can I help you right now?" Isaiah whispered, taking my hand in his. He had damp cheeks as well and his eyes glistened through his glasses even in the darkened room.

I sighed, glancing at Noah's death certificate that was framed and sitting on the glass table next to the tree. Next to it, in the frame was a small picture of the most recent ultrasound before he died and a picture of Isaiah and I smiling, my stomach large and prominent in the picture. I let out another sob, grief wracking through my body.

"I just want you to hold me," I manage to get out and Isaiah nods, wrapping his arms around me, rocking us back and forth in an effort to soothe the pain of losing your unborn son.