Missing Ukraine

Last night we went to a missions dinner at our home church in Southern California. The speaker, Rudi Wiens from Far East Broadcasting Company, spoke a lot about the organization's ministry in Russia.

I got rather homesick -- twice. The first moment of nostalgia hit when Rudi sang in Russian. That made sense; I've grown accustomed to the language and the tenor of Slavic music.

The second moment, however, was rather random. Rudi showed a picture. I imagine he chose it because of the foreground image: an elderly woman, warmly dressed in traditional clothing.

The picture affected me, however, because of the background. It showed a crowd of people strolling down the street. Two of them were walking side-by-side, each carrying one handle of a plaid plastic bag. We call these bags Poland bags. They're sold in the markets, but the tags inside say they're made in Poland. The are a frequent sight on public transportation in Kyiv, snuggled between people's legs on the subway, taking up narrow aisle space on the buses.

We have at least five of them. We use them all the time: To move, to carry boxes of cookies to the seminary for big events, to haul Thermoses of hot tea to church on communion Sundays.

At the moment, they're stuffed full of my clothes, Dietrich's toys, our cozy blankets ... all sitting in Dietrich's old room, waiting for our return.

Baba and Papa's house

Trying to keep track of where the Oldenburgs are? We are too. Physically, we are in Morgan Hill, California. We arrived a week ago today. We spent the week visiting with family and setting up our home -- a trailer on my parents' property. It's cozy, and I love it.

Emotionally, we are all over the map. Mostly we're OK, until some little thing happens that reminds us of Andrei. For instance, today I noticed that the local pumpkin patch was heavily stocked with lovely orange gourds -- and two-child families and pregnant ladies. You can read some of Eric's thoughts on our loss here.

We are so thankful for all the e-mails, cards, books and toys for Dietrich that people have sent to encourage us, console us and help us get settled back in America. It's still hard to grasp how much has changed in such a short time, but knowing that we, and Andrei, are loved is very helpful.

Goodbye sweet baby love

Sometime between 12:30 and 1 a.m. last night (that's 10:30 and 11 p.m. in California), we delivered Andrei Elijah Oldenburg. Though he was tiny, he will always possess a huge portion of our hearts. Thank you for your prayers; God answered every one of them in His mercy and love.

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,
The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;
The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,
Even so, it is well with my soul.

Just getting started

This morning at about 11 a.m., the doctors did what they do to start an induction here. It's a much less chemical process than when Dietrich's delivery was induced. (Though, obviously, that was also a very different situation.) About nine hours later, some light contractions began. At this point, they're frequent but weak, and the doctor on duty predicts delivery in the morning (a.k.a. nighttime in the States).

Eric is with me in case the delivery happens in the middle of the night. When I told the nurses that he planned to sleep here, and asked if he could have a cot, they said, "We've never had such a situation before. But we'll think of something." I hope I'm not being a demanding foreigner -- in-room husbands are so common in the States that I didn't think it would be an issue. The nurses were very kind about it, and Eric just got his own hospital bed wheeled into our room.

Actually, every time we've made an unusual request, the doctors/nurses have calmly listened to our reasoning, and then said "OK" with no argument, no talk of violating hospital policy, etc. It's very reassuring.

I know you've all been praying a lot, and we can tell. We have so much more peace than I could possibly have expected, and the whole process is going smoothly (though admittedly slowly). Please keep praying, for us and for Dietrich as he misses mom and dad.

Still waiting

Day three of waiting for the delivery is coming to a close. I just talked with the on-duty doctor, and he said they would wait at least until Tuesday to see if labor starts "naturally." (I think this means without Pitocin or some other drug that is stronger than the shots they are giving me.)

As hard as the delivery will be, the waiting is not so easy, either. If you're praying for us, could you please pray that labor would start on its own tomorrow? Also, perhaps this sounds strange, but I'm praying that the delivery will somehow be a beautiful experience. Only God could make it so.

Other notes from Room 407:

Dietrich came to visit again yesterday, and spent the whole time putting on my hospital-issue slippers and then jumping out of them.

Two friends brought movies, popcorn and good conversation with them last night, but they managed to keep their feet away from my slippers. One of them did take the hospital-issue capes home for her kids.

Two servings of buckwheat soup have arrived in my room, but thankfully I've been able to avoid actually consuming the dreaded grain.

There are moms with new babies recovering on our floor, and I find their cries bittersweet. I think this whole experience will lead me to treasure a newborn's cry in ways I couldn't have a few weeks ago. And, though the cries don't make me cry, seeing things like tiny bassinets being wheeled down the hall do strike an uncomfortable emotional chord. Oh how I hope I will be able to rejoice with other mommas when they welcome their new babies into the world.

Dispatch from the birthing clinic

The first day of waiting to deliver Baby O2 went well. We checked into the birthing clinic (deliveries don't take place in hospitals in Ukraine) early yesterday morning, and all the staff members have been lovely and kind.

When we explained that my medical records from the clinic where we had been doing our prenatal care listed my blood type incorrectly, I was very happy that the woman filling out my new medical chart immediately said, "I don't even want to see them. We will re-do all those tests." The nurse who drew the blood drained my entire arm. It all seemed very thorough.

After an examination and five shots, we were informed that they didn't expect the birth before Monday. I had four more shots this morning, and now we wait.

When we asked the doctor on Thursday what we needed to bring, he said, "Just your passport."

I forgot my passport. I did bring clothes, toiletries, a blow dryer, toothbrush, etc. I should have listened to the doctor. They provide all those things for you in your own private bath, which even has a bidet. I feel quite stylish in my cute little sundress-ish hospital gown. Eric has to wear a cape and blue plastic booties over his shoes. He feels like an idiot, but it makes me smile.

The facilities are lovely. My room is simple, but painted a calming yellow with very cheerful curtains. I get three meals and a snack every day, plus there's a cafe from which I can order food up to my room. Lunch yesterday -- chicken and rice, plus a bell pepper and tomato salad -- was the tastiest so far. This morning's breakfast -- meatballs made of some indistinguishable meat (possibly a meat-fish combo?); mashed potatoes; egg, cheese and mayo spread; and cottage cheese made from sour milk with sugar on top -- was a little rich for a girl who is content with a bowl of granola in the morning.

Eric can stay with me, though last night I felt comfortable being on my own, and it's helpful for Dietrich to have dad at home a bit. Eric brought Dietrich for a short visit last night, and I expect them again this morning. We neglected to ask about visiting hours, but no one objected when my loud 2-year-old showed up at 8:30 p.m. The round-trip journey takes about three hours, but thankfully Dietrich likes public transportation.

I should note that this clinic is nicer than typical Ukrainian clinics. When I called my doctor here to let her know the baby had died, she said, "OK, wait. I will call you back. It's not going to be easy, but let me see if I can make it easier than it could be." The next time we spoke, she said that this clinic had agreed to treat me. I do feel fortunate.

Pray for us, please

First and foremost, I want to apologize for delivering the following via blog. Blogs can be deeply personal, but this is the kind of personal that would really be better shared face-to-face.

Nine days ago, we learned that our baby had a 1-in-3 chance of being affected by Trisomy 18. After a few more tests, that chance was changed to 1-in-2. Furthermore, we decided not to do an amnio, so we did not expect to know whether the baby was healthy or not until the birth, which we expected in late January. We quickly began preparing to head back to the States to wait out the next four months.

Yesterday we went in for a final ultrasound here in Ukraine. That changed everything. Here is the note we sent out to our teammates:

"Thank you so much for praying for our family in the past week. It has been our privilege to nurture our second little boy for the past 20 weeks, and we are thankful for the time God gave us with him. Unfortunately, we found out this morning that the baby's sweet little heart has stopped beating. Starting tomorrow morning, we will be spending the next few days at Isida, where they will induce labor. Obviously, this is not a typical delivery, but we would appreciate your prayers for a safe, quick and as-peaceful-as-possible process. Pray also for our families as they will be mourning with us -- but far away from us."

We would certainly appreciate it if you would join those already praying.