Capture Your Grief 2013

Last year's Capture Your Grief 2012 photograph project was very healing for me, so I am participating again this year.  This photograph-a-day project hosted by CarlyMarie encourages participants to share a picture relating to our journey through infant (pregnancy) loss every day in October.


Day 1: Sunrise.

With the sky overcast, there was not much of a sunrise to photograph. This is our neighborhood park around the time of sunrise. October 1 marked the 2nd anniversary of Elena's due date. I wonder if she would enjoy riding to the park in the wagon as much as her brothers...if she would insist on dragging a baby doll everywhere with us...if she would be cautious or daring, serious or fun-loving...which personality traits of mine, of her Daddy's, of each of her brothers' would she have? We spent the evening of her due date anniversary at this same park, watching her brothers play, wondering what her favorite thing at the park would be.

 

Day 2: Identity.

Elena means "Light" and is a form of my paternal grandmother's middle name, and Marie (one of the meanings is "wished-for child") is my middle name as well as my mother's middle name. My entire life I wanted my daughter to share our middle name.

Elena was born early in the morning on May 23, 2011. She was over 10 inches long and was just shy of 1 pound. She was perfect. She looked so much like her older brother! She had blond hair, pretty eyelashes, and the tiniest fingernails I've ever seen. She had long hands and fingers and big feet. We wondered aloud that morning if she would have been a basketball player with those big hands and feet!

Elena lived in this world a little over 2 hours. We feel so blessed to have had that precious time with her, bathing her, holding her, loving her before she was called Home.

Elena Marie, our princess, sweet little sister, precious big sister, beloved daughter, child of God.

 

 

Day 3: Myths.

I believe that most people just do not want to see a loved one hurting, and living without my daughter does hurt. However, the thought of Elena being forgotten is absolutely unbearable to me. The suggestion that I would be happier if I would only not think about her is hurtful to me. First of all, I’m not sure how I would go about forgetting my child even if I wanted to forget her. She is a part of me as much as my boys are, and I think of her as often as I think of my sons, and I am grateful for that. I am glad that I think of her, and I am thankful for her. I would not give up being her mother even if it did mean I would not know this pain. Secondly, it has been my experience that talking about my daughter is much more healing than remaining silent. Just as other parents enjoy talking about their children, I love talking about mine too, Elena included. Her name is music to my ears – I love hearing it being spoken aloud and love seeing it written. Anytime someone asks about her, says her name, lets me know they are remembering - it is a moment I treasure. To know her life is important to others too, that others consider her worth remembering and mentioning, is such a blessing to me. Perhaps it is difficult for those who have not experienced this loss to understand why I need to remember and talk about my daughter, and maybe it would be easier for some if I forgot my child so they would not be reminded that a lot of things in life really are outside of our control, but I already have to live without my daughter every day for the rest of my life. And for me, forgetting her would not be easier, and forgetting her is not an option. I will always remember and always love her. Thank you for remembering with me.

 

Day 4:  Legacy.

Elena’s life has definitely had and continues to have a tremendous impact. So many nice things have been done for our family because of her, and so many acts of kindness have been done for others as well because of her. I try to document some of the ways Elena has touched the world on our blog “Elena’s Echoes.” http://elenasechoes.blogspot.com/p/elenas-echoes.html If Elena has impacted your life or inspired you to do a kindness in her memory, please let me know! I love adding to her “Echoes” and reading them often, smiling as I see what a beautiful legacy has been created through her life. I believe that the world is a better place because she was here.

 

Day 5: Memory

I have so many memories, it was difficult to choose one. Many of the memories make me smile, but there are difficult ones as well. I chose one of my favorites for day 5.

When my husband arrived at the hospital (in record time), I told him that Elena would be here soon. The chaplain had been called but would likely not arrive in time for her birth. I remember Michael finding a cup and putting some water in it as we waited for my mom to get to the room to watch our son. When Elena was born a few minutes later, the first thing I remember happening was the nurse who delivered her checking her heartbeat and telling us that she was alive. Immediately after that, before the nurse even handed her to me, Michael baptized her. It was such a beautiful moment. I wish I had a photograph of it, but I am thankful for the Certificate of Baptism that the chaplain gave us when she arrived later and the nurse told her that she was already baptized.

Day 6: Ritual

We participate in MEND's annual Walk to Remember each year (which happens to fall near Elena's due date anniversary). The ceremony concludes with a beautiful balloon release - we write messages on pink balloons and let them go for her.

Day 7: You Now: Where are you in your grief right now? How are you feeling? How far have you come? Are you wrestling with anything? Is your heart heavier or lighter now?

Most days I feel very blessed. I have two beautiful sons with me here on earth, a beautiful daughter waiting for me in heaven, and an incredible husband who loves us all so much.

I will always be a bereaved mother, and I will always miss Elena and carry her with me in my heart. Strange as it may sound, there are gifts that come with this role, if I am willing to see them. Most days I try to be willing to see them, but sometimes it is still very hard.

I believe that through the grace of God I have come a very long way since the early days of unbearably heavy, crushing grief. However, I do not believe this is a journey that ends on earth. I believe that I will carry this grief even in my joy until I am reunited with my baby. In the meantime, I pray that I will continue to grow, to heal, to learn, and to see the beauty that Elena brought.

{photo of me walking from the Memorial Garden at church with my two sons}

 

 

Day 8: Color

Pink and green are the colors that remind me of Elena. Her birthstone was supposed to be pink but is actually green. My mom made us corsages to wear on my due date to the Walk to Remember using pink roses and the pink and green ribbon in this picture.

 

 

Day 9: Music

I always think of Elena when I hear "This Little Light of Mine" by Addison Road. Elena's name means "light," and I heard this song on the radio frequently while I was carrying her. She is my little light.

"One day there will be no more pain, and we will finally see Jesus' face, so until then I'm gonna try to brave the dark and let my little light shine."

 

 

Day 10: Beliefs

 

I believe that Elena is in heaven with our heavenly Father, the King of Kings, and that she is His precious child and therefore a princess in the Kingdom of Heaven. I believe that she is attended by angels and is in the presence of our Lord Jesus. I believe she knows no pain or suffering and that someday I will join her there.

 

 

Day 11: Emotional Triggers

 

I have a few emotional triggers, and they are not always the same. One of the biggest triggers for me is family pictures. I look at pictures of “all of us” together, but someone is always missing. It’s never really ALL of us. It’s hard for me to see her missing in every picture we take together (which is why we often include a symbol for her in our pictures, so that she is not left out).

{photo of my husband, my two sons, and me without a symbol for Elena}

 

 

Day 12: Article

 

I have read many articles and blogs that have been meaningful to me, but one series especially touched my heart. Sufficient Grace Ministries hosts an annual “Walking with You” series inviting participants to share their hearts on given topics relating to their losses. It is a wonderful opportunity to connect with others in the community and to give and receive support on this journey.

http://blog.sufficientgraceministries.org/2013/01/topics-for-new-walking-with-you-series/

 

 

Day 13: Book

 

A friend recommended “Heaven is for Real” to me shortly after Elena died. I read it while still fresh in grief, and while it was extremely difficult and I cried the entire time I read it, I could not put it down. It is written by a father whose three year old son visited heaven and returned to earth. I had the privilege of meeting and praying with Todd Burpo, the author, several months after Elena died. It was fascinating to hear him speak and to share more details of his son’s story.

 

Day 14: Family

As I wrote for Day 11 (Emotional Triggers), family pictures are difficult for me because I cannot help but notice that someone is missing. I love this picture so much more because, while Elena is not physically present, there is a physical reminder of her. She is acknowledged. We often include an acknowledgment of our daughter (our Elena bear, a special Willow Tree figurine, a photo of her feet) in our family pictures because she IS a part of our family and we like to acknowledge that.

{photo of my husband, my two sons, and me with our Elena bear}

Day 15: Wave of Light

On October 15, we lit a candle at 7 p.m. to participate in the International Wave of Light to remember and recognize all the babies who have departed earth too soon.

Day 16: Seasons

All of the holidays and seasons remind me of Elena. They all held the promise of her – I pictured spending them all with my daughter. We found out in the winter that we were expecting, she was due in the fall, I expected to spend the entire summer on hospital bed rest, and then she arrived in the late spring.

One of the biggest holidays that reminds me of Elena is Easter. Easter weekend was our last major holiday with her. It was the last time we saw extended family before she was born. This picture, taken that Easter, is the last family picture I have of us while pregnant with Elena. Easter is bittersweet. It holds so much of her for me, which I love but still find difficult. Easter celebrates life and resurrection. It is because of Easter that I have the promise of seeing her again.

{photo of my husband, my oldest, and me while pregnant at my Great-Grandmother's house}

Day 17: Time

October 17 marks 878 days since Elena was born and died. 2 years, 4 months, and 24 days. Some moments it feels like only yesterday since I held her, other times it feels like a lifetime ago. I miss her.

Day 18: Release

What do you want to let go of on this journey of grief? Is it fear? Guilt? Worry? Deep sadness? Regrets?

Most of the time I think I’ve done a pretty good job of letting go of the fears, the guilt, the worry, the deep sadness, the regrets. All of those stabbing feelings were so sharp in the early days, but for the most part, those feelings do not haunt me any longer. There are still times when I find myself grabbing them again, particularly the regrets and the guilt, but usually I am able to release them and to let them go.

Day 19: Support

My husband has been my biggest earthly support on this journey. He has walked beside me, hand-in-hand, every step of the way. He is my rock. He has done more for me than I could possibly recount. I have no idea where I would be without him – I don’t even want to try to imagine doing this without him.

Day 20: Hope

I do have hope. My children are a great source of hope for me. My Sunshine gave me hope and strength in the early days, and my Rainbow represents to me hope giving birth to life. Elena is hope for the eternal future. My faith is my biggest hope. I remember when everything felt as if it was falling apart, when nothing seemed “okay,” I realized that even if things here on earth were not okay, my baby girl is okay. She is at Home, she has received the goal of our faith, she is with Almighty God, and as long as she is okay, then I could find a bit of calm, a little peace. That is what got me through the darkest days of the storm, the knowledge that she is okay even when everything else is not. When I look at my children, I feel full of hope and joy.

{photo of my oldest sitting on a sun drawn with sidewalk chalk and my youngest sitting at the end of a chalk rainbow with raindrops drawn between them}

Day 21: Honor


Day 22: Words


Day 23: Jewelry


Day 24: Artwork


Day 25: #SayItOutLoud


Day 26: Community


Day 27: Signs


Day 28: Special Place


Day 29: Healing


Day 30: Growth


Day 31: Sunset

 

October 1st

It is October again.  I've felt myself becoming increasingly on edge over the last couple of weeks leading up to today.  October 1st. 

My birthday was a couple of weeks ago.  My Nana, for whom Elena was named, has been gone 5 years now, 5 years exactly on my birthday. 

Today is my brother's birthday.  It was supposed to be Elena's birthday also.  These days that used to be so joyous...now they hold such pain in them too.

It was a beautiful Saturday, two years ago today.  It would have been a lovely day to have had a baby.  Instead, we went to the Walk to Remember hosted by M.E.N.D., hung a personalized angel ornament on a tree, and released a pink balloon for her.  It was a nice ceremony, a sweet tribute to too many babies gone too soon, but not as sweet as holding a healthy newborn daughter would have been. 

More tears than can be counted.  But God knows them; each tear that falls He sees.  "You keep track of all my sorrows.  You have collected all my tears in your bottle.  You have recorded each one in your book."  (Psalm 56:8, New Living Translation) 

I don't believe these tears are wasted.  I don't believe my love for her is wasted.  And so I continue loving her and being her mother and mothering my sweet baby girl as best I can with heaven and earth separating us.  She is my baby - how could I possibly do anything else?  It is hard, trying to parent a dead child.  Nothing I do could ever be adequate.  But there is comfort in the trying, a sense of purpose, for me, for her life.  There is a sense of peace in trying to bring honor to her life.  After all, she was important, she IS important still.  She is a treasure to Christ, a princess in God's Kingdom, His very child.  We know that His love for her is eternal, and our love for her is eternal as well.

I could not possibly forget her, even if I wanted (which I don't), and, short of my faith, knowing others remember with me and want to honor her life brings the most relief I have found from this pain.  So I press on, and I count all of those who remember with me as blessings to our family.  I look for ways to remember and to bring honor to her life and to love her in some meaningful way, perhaps even in some way that will help someone else as well, that her brief life will continue to echo positively here on earth.

Thank you to all of you who remember with me, to you who are not afraid to speak her name, to you who read the ramblings of a mama trying her best to mother her baby who is no longer here, to you who keep her memory alive.  It means the world to me.

Our precious Elena, we love you and miss you.  Happy "corrected" birthday.  How we wish we could celebrate with you, sweet princess.  All our love until we can, Mommy, Daddy, Big Brother & Baby Brother

Reliving Friday the Thirteenth

Friday the 13th.  I don't view myself as particularly superstitious, though I've had my share of bad experiences on Fridays that happened to fall on the 13th.  I started my ten day hospital stay with Elena on a Friday the 13th. 

I was working part-time, and my schedule was to work half days on Fridays.  I noticed the bleeding that morning in the bathroom at work, wondering if it was getting worse or if it was just in my head.  It had been going on for three weeks, starting as some limited spotting and then gradually increasing.  I had already had multiple appointments checking on it.  I had just had a sonogram the previous week and was scheduled for another the following week.  We had planned to let the sex of the baby be a surprise, as we enjoyed the surprise we had with our first, but once the bleeding started with no answers about it, we wanted to know SOMETHING, so at that sonogram eleven days earlier, we had just found out that our baby was a girl.  I had been put on limited activity restrictions, no exercise, extended walking, anything strenuous, but I was still working as I was able to sit as much as I needed at work.  Everything looked perfect at the sonogram.  My cervix was long and closed.  The bleeding was unexplained.  So I didn't want to call the doctor when I expected no answers anyway.  I still wish I had called my OB earlier.

I met with some teachers that morning in a classroom.  I stood there and talked with them for a while.  After some time, I realized that I was feeling heavy and should probably sit down.  So I did.  I still wish I had sat down sooner. 

I left that afternoon, on schedule, and decided that I wanted some Long John Silver's for lunch.  I went to their drive-through on the way home from work and picked up a box of fish and fries.  It was oh so greasy and delightful.  I was obsessed with LJS during my pregnancy with Elena.  I forced myself to only have it once a week, but I wanted it every day.  Gross, I know, but try telling that to my pregnant hormones.

After enjoying most of it at home, it was time to pick up my 23 month old son from MDO.  I drove the half mile to his school, where I realized I did not have the umbrella stroller in my trunk.  I arrived to his classroom and found him napping.  Since I didn't have the stroller and didn't want to inconvenience anyone, I decided to just carry him to the car myself.  It's not like it was a far walk.  So his teacher lifted him out of the crib and handed him to me, and I carried him to the car and buckled him in his car seat.  I still wish I had asked his teacher to carry him to the car for me.

By the time we arrived back home, I could no longer deny that the bleeding was indeed worse.  My OB does not work on Friday afternoons, but I did not want to worry all weekend, so I called his office anyway, asking to speak with one his partners or a nurse.  One of the partner's nurses called me back to advise me to head up to labor & delivery.  She said if I went to the ER, they would just send me to L&D anyway, since I was only a few hours away from 20 weeks.  Apparently at 20 weeks the ER does not see pregnancy-related concerns and transfers to L&D.  I had no idea about that, and no idea why I remember that random bit of information.

I called my husband and asked him to come home from work to take me.  I would have just driven myself, but didn't know what I would do with our son.  He was still napping - I remember that too, wondering if I should just wait until hubby got home and little man woke up.  I felt a little silly asking my husband to come home early - I figured I was probably overreacting.  I was scared, but I still hoped, and part of me really believed, that they would tell me the same thing they'd been telling me for the last three weeks.  Yes, we know you are bleeding, but we don't know why, we don't see anything wrong on the sonogram, some women just have bleeds, everything looks fine.

The nurses in L&D were expecting me.  I was given a room fairly quickly, a big delivery room, lots of space.  It was very much like the room where I had delivered my first, only it was the mirror of it, with the bathroom to the right of the entrance instead of to the left.  And the bathroom was at the rear of the room instead of near the entrance.  Strange, the details I remember.  The nurse helped me into a gown in the bathroom. 

My OB arrived to examine me.  It seems like he arrived quickly, though I'm not sure.  He was wearing shorts.  And a polo-style shirt, if memory serves correctly.  I remember being surprised to see him in shorts, definitely not the scrubs I was accustomed to seeing him wear, or even the occasional slacks that he wore in his office.  He was friendly and smiled brightly in his usual fashion, even though I'm sure I had disturbed the start of his weekend and he had been called to come up to the hospital from his home and family a half hour away.  He asked a few questions as he began his exam, looking at my fresh pad and asking if that was the amount of bleeding I was having (minimal at that time), and again, I felt a little silly, surely I was the crazy, paranoid, pregnant lady crying "wolf."  The nurse was quick to answer that no, I was experiencing more than that, it was a new pad.  He did the internal exam and immediately his face fell, his demeanor changing instantly.  There was a lot of blood, he said.  The "a lot" seemed emphasized, the words hanging heavy in the air.  He was obviously concerned.  I would not learn until the next morning just how concerned he truly was. 

While he was examining me, the MFM arrived with her sonogram equipment.  She set up in the room while my OB finished, and then began her own exam.  My daughter, still unnamed at the time, danced on the screen.  She was perfect.  My incompetent cervix was definitively diagnosed.  There was no apparent cause for the bleeding, no tears or anything.  After the exam, the doctor and the MFM stepped out into the hall to talk.  At some point during all of it (I'm not sure exactly when), the MFM looked me in the eye, gave me a small, reassuring nod, and said, "You were right to come in."  Oddly enough, it was comforting to hear her say that.  Things were bad, but at least I was where I needed to be, and I wasn't the crazy, paranoid, pregnant lady.  How I wish I would have been!

My mom arrived.  I don't remember if she was there for the exams or to see both or either of the doctors.  I just know she came at some point.

After consulting in the hall, my OB returned to the room.  He told me I would be staying in the hospital until I delivered.  He would not give me any guesses on how long that might be.  They planned to keep me in L&D instead of transferring me to the antepartum unit.  When could I be transferred over there?  He couldn't tell me that night; we would discuss it after the weekend.  A cerclage, which had been deemed unnecessary a couple of months before, was now back on the table, but only if the significant bleeding could be gotten back in control.  With the bleeding, they were worried about irritating my cervix further and felt it was the wrong course of action.  I don't know how long we talked, or what options were discussed that evening.  I believe he gave me a little information each time I saw him over the course of the next week and a half.  I'm sure he knew I could not process it all that first evening.  At some point he left and said he would see me the next day.  I still wish I had fought for a cerclage in the first trimester. 

My nurse that afternoon kept apologizing again and again.  "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry."  I remember feeling very agitated with her.  Why did she keep saying that?  My baby was fine, I had just seen her dancing on the sonogram screen.  I knew things weren't great, I was lying in a hospital bed, but it was going to be okay.  I was just going to have to spend 20 weeks in the hospital.  That was not a fun prospect, but my baby was not being delivered that night.  I had spent some time in the hospital with my first child too, and he was a preemie, but everything was fine.  I wanted to yell at her to quit apologizing.  Honestly, she was scaring me.  What did she know that I didn't?  The doctor had already given me some pretty grim news, what more hadn't he told me?  (I learned the next morning that he had expected me to deliver that night, or at least believed it was a very real possibility; I doubt he told the nurse that, but I'm sure she knew enough to know.) 

It seems like they moved me to another delivery room, but that would not make sense, so I'm not sure if that happened or not.  I asked if I would have to have an IV.  I said I absolutely did NOT want one (my experience with one with my son was horrific - the absolute worst part of a natural labor and birth).  She didn't know if I would need one or not that night, I didn't need one that moment; but wouldn't I want one if it would help the baby?  Yes, I immediately knew if it would help baby girl I would not argue for a second.  Anything for my baby.  The nurse did say she would inform the next nurse about my IV concerns at shift change (I was grateful for that), and she continued to say how sorry she was.  I was relieved when the 7 p.m. shift change rolled around and I got a new nurse that was not so doom and gloom and full of apologies.

My mom took our son home with her so that my husband could spend the night with me.  It was our very first night ever without our son with us.  I cried.  We had missed the window for getting a hospital dinner.  My mom brought us dinner from the Italian restaurant on the corner that I had been wanting to try.  It was not good.  I was scared.  I was hopeful.  Everything would be okay, right?  Everyone always says it will be.  It was the worst Friday the 13th I'd ever had.  I'm sure my husband and I talked, but I can't recall the conversation.  I know we let people know we were in the hospital.  We asked for prayers.  We didn't name the baby that night.  She was still just our daughter, our baby girl.  Elena Marie was at the top of a short list, but we hadn't definitely decided on it yet.  There were still a few more on the list.  And honestly, it did cross my mind if we should use it or change it if she were to be born then.  I never said that out loud, but I did think it.  I'm sorry I thought about changing it.  I didn't know what to do.  I don't know if we watched TV, or talked a lot, or sat in relative silence, or just slept.  I do know that I woke the next morning, and I was still pregnant with my sweet daughter.

So, yeah, I'm not a huge fan of Friday the 13th.  Elena was born 10 days later on the 23rd.  It was a Monday.  The 23rd of this month will be a Monday too.  Even though Elena wasn't born in September, it is hard for me when the dates fall on the days (and September in general is not easy for me either).  I can't imagine what it will be like when I have to go through the dates on the days for the first time in May.  It will be 2016.  It will be Elena's fifth angelversary.

On Dying and Heaven

I sit at the dinner table across from my four year old son.  My husband sits on one side of me and my 9 month old son on the other.  My oldest child, my Sunshine, chats away.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Then he asks, "When are we going to die?"  He continues, "I'm ready to go to Heaven."

Again, nothing unexpected, at least not too much.  I don't know how I feel about these conversations that occur regularly.  I find it sad that my child talks about Heaven and dying as if it is normal, like there is nothing uncommon about death.  It seems so ordinary to him.  I want him to feel comfortable talking about it, as it is an inevitable part of life on earth, and I don't want him to be uncomfortable, but....  (sigh)  I guess it's just a reminder of how things didn't turn out the way they should have, the way I wish they would have.  I'm sad that he has a reason to be so familiar with such a mature topic.  I'm heartbroken that he has spent more than half his little life discussing heaven and death.  I'm devastated that his very first funeral was for his sister.  And it always makes me catch my breath when he speaks of going to Heaven or dying himself.  It is so difficult for me to even hear him say the words aloud, much less actually consider the chance of losing another of my children.  On the other hand, I am glad that he is not scared or uneasy about a topic that makes so many adults cringe, halt conversations, and run the other direction.  And I welcome the opportunity to share our beliefs with him.  I hope that he continues to feel comfortable asking questions and talking.  And I pray God gives me the right words to reassure him and to lead him.

My husband replies that hopefully we won't be going to heaven for a long time still.

"When the sun comes up?"

I hope much, much longer than that, I tell him.  I don't want to worry him, but it is important to me that I am honest with him, even when I don't have the answers.  "I don't know exactly when; God decides that," I remind him.  I add that I get to go first, though.

I always say that I get to go first, nothing unusual.  Suddenly, though, the conversation takes a new turn - it leaps out of ordinary; I am taken aback.  My sweet Sunshine, normally quick to answer, "okay," pauses to consider my words and seems to realize for the first time what it means if I go to Heaven first.  His beautiful face wrinkles and twists in concern.  His eyes squeeze narrow and become misty, "But I would be lonely without you."

My heart breaks again...so many times it has shattered for him, for Elena, for all of us.  I walk around the table to cradle him in my arms.  He decides we should all go to Heaven together, at the same time.  I don't verbalize it to him, but I yearn for him to outlive me, and not by mere moments but by many years.  He just has to, as I cannot bear any other thought.  To him, we suggest that he will likely change his mind when he has his own family that he will want to watch grow.  He considers that idea and seems satisfied for a fleeting moment.  Then he reconsiders and repeats, "But I will be lonely," tears forming in his eyes.  Oh, my sweet baby, my darling love, I will be there, waiting for you, and Elena will wait for you, and we will be so excited to see you when it is your turn but not until then.  And let's try not to worry about it just yet.  It is probably a long, long time away.  A moment or two later the conversation turns to toys and games and other such fun that most people would expect for a family dinner with preschoolers.  And life goes on...for those of us who haven't reached Heaven yet.

She was here

Much of the time is surreal.  Did I dream Elena's entire existence?  She seems so long ago.  It is hard to grasp the words to explain.  It is sometimes hard to grasp her.  She is so glossed over, so ignored by most.  I think many people hope I will forget her, thinking it would be easier for me to just close that chapter and never look back so that I do not have to feel the pain (so they do not have to see the pain).  Sometimes I wonder, "Have I gone mad?"  Perhaps my mind just made it all up.  I stare at the memory display in my family room...the diminutive prints of her hands and feet, the certificate of her baptism, the photograph of my beautiful, tiny, living daughter.  No, she really did exist.  She truly was here.  I am not hallucinating. 

I look at the handkerchief with her name and birthday embroidered on it.  She would be two years old now.  I imagine she would have the chubby, rosy cheeks of a busy toddler, ready for a quick snuggle before continuing the hard work of a baby's play.  I touch the hanky with its pink embroidery, such an inadequate substitute for stroking those rosy cheeks.  I treasure it nonetheless.

And then there are the moments of soul-stabbing clarity.  I was able to sneak a nap with my Rainbow this afternoon.  I awoke a few minutes before him and cherished a quiet moment staring at his perfect face before it came crashing down on me.  My baby died.  She's really gone.  The instant it hit me made me feel like someone was standing on my chest.  I thought I would suffocate right then and there.  The weight of her absence was crushing, the pain as intense as if I was back in the hospital room watching my child die.  It hurt - physical pain accompanying the heartbreak, an ache that pierces all the way to the soul.

Oh, Elena, I miss you so very much my sweet baby girl!  I love you. 

After Elena

A couple of months ago, my husband traveled to Italy for his employer.  Our two living children and I were able to join him and to stay an extra week for a family vacation.  My now 4 year old (who was still 3 at the time) has an amazing memory and loves to talk.  Since returning from Italy, it seems as if every story he tells and every memory he shares is concluded with either "that was before Italy" or "that was after Italy."  It's a bit funny to me that he references time in such a manner.  Everything is either before or after one big event, that trip to Italy (not his birthday or being a ring bearer in a cousin's wedding or the birth of his little brother, but our trip to Italy).  Time as he sees it is divided into two distinct eras: B.I. and A.I. (Before Italy and After Italy), and it is important to note the distinction, to reference when it happened in relation to Italy.

Then I realized that I measure time in a similar way (though I don't vocalize it the way that he does).  My "Italy" is Elena.  She is the "big event" by which time is measured in my mind.  Mentally trying to recall to myself, "When was such and so?" is most often answered by either "that was before Elena" or "that was after Elena."  To some extent, that is true for all of my children (that was before kids, that was after the baby was born, that was between the oldest and Elena, that was between Elena and the baby), but it seems that Elena is the most frequent reference point.  (I used to measure time by my age, that was when I was 13 or 5 or 22.)  I guess it makes some sense, seeing as how I feel like a completely different person now, After Elena, than I was then, Before Elena.  The death of my daughter is one of the most defining moments of my life (if not THE most).  And so it has become my significant reference in measuring time, the division point between the two major eras in my life.  I envision one of those timelines kids make for school projects, showing their life as a horizontal line with hand-drawn circles colored with crayons or markers along the line showing significant events.  Elena is my big dot on my line, and instead of thinking in terms of B.I. and A.I. as my son does, I use B.E. and A.E.  She really did change everything, even how I measure time.

I miss you, Baby Girl, and I love you so much!  <3 p="">
 

Heavy Heart

FORWARD:  This is a hard post.  It is not a positive or happy post.  It is me at a moment of weakness in a bad place.  I have already finished it, and I already feel weight lifted having gotten these feelings out.  I do not wish my blog to be a place of despair.  If you think that my feelings and ranting may bring you down, please skip this one, or at least save it for another time when you think they are less likely to discourage you.  I truly do not want to wallow in a place of misery or to encourage anyone to be miserable.  I do want to bring honesty to the table, however, and to share that even though I try to stay positive, I have my moments too, just like everyone.  It is in the spirit of honesty, not in the spirit of woe-is-me-misery-loves-company, that I share this post.  My prayers are with all of those in the baby loss community.  I pray that your hard moments become fewer and farther between and that you are able to experience peace, comfort, and even joy more and more each day.  I am truly blessed with many blessings, and I count those of you in the community among those blessings.  Love and hugs to you all!

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I try to keep a positive frame of mind most of the time.  I don't believe it is very productive, helpful, or healing to stay in a bitter place or to grumble about the injustices of life...of death.  I work hard to keep my focus on the blessings in my life, even in respect to Elena.  I want to smile when I think of her.  I want to remember her simply as a blessing.

It takes a lot of energy.  It's not something that comes naturally.  Focusing on the positives is hard work, worth it, I believe, but hard nonetheless.

I am tired.  I am sleep deprived.  I am feeling grumpy and grouchy.  I don't feel like I am doing a good job as a mother, neither for my living children nor for my baby in heaven.  It frustrates me and makes me angry.  I know this primarily comes from a place of exhaustion.  I try to remember that so as not to get too discouraged.  However, for the moment, I just want to vent.  I need a place to complain, to cry about how unfair it all is, to moan and groan and let it all out so that I can purge it for a while, so that I can have a good cry, feel better, and go about the hard work of focusing on the positives and keeping the blessings at the forefront.  Please indulge me for a bit and forgive me for my bad attitude.  I promise not to stay here too long.

It's not fair!  IT'S NOT FAIR!!!!  So much love went into that baby!  So much time and effort, and we wanted her so badly!  And she's gone, and I can't do anything about it, I can't change it, I can't fix it, I can't stop it, I can't bring her back.  We planned for her, we wanted her, we prayed for her even before she was conceived. 

I weaned my first child for her.  I am still angry about that.  We were very comfortable and happy with our breastfeeding relationship.  Wanting to do everything to protect my pregnancy with Elena, I stopped nursing my first.  Yes, he could use a cup, and yes, he weaned quickly and was okay, but that aspect of our relationship stopped while we still were enjoying it, and for what?!?  She died anyway.  It's not fair!

I was so sick while pregnant with her.  I had terrible nausea, especially at the beginning.  So many people said that was a good sign of a healthy pregnancy.  Well, you know what, SHE DIED ANYWAY!!  I got a stomach bug or the flu or something while my husband was out of town, and I had to send my firstborn to stay with my mom because I was so sick I couldn't even take care of him.  I was absolutely miserable, and being pregnant, I couldn't take any medications that would help ease the symptoms a little.  And that was okay, because as long as I could protect her by not taking meds, I could suffer through it.  And for what?  She still died.  It's not fair!

I was exhausted during the first trimester.  I think most moms can relate.  So incredibly tired, I encouraged my first to start watching TV (he hadn't really shown too much interest before) so that I could just lie on the couch for a bit, maybe even sneak a little nap.  I did that too much, missed so much time with him, and she died anyway.

I had multiple checks when the complications began, several ultrasounds and appointments where everything looked fine.  My cervix was long and closed.  She was perfect and healthy, and my body just gave up on her and changed so rapidly, and things when downhill so fast.

I went to the hospital.  The nurse kept apologizing over and over.  My doctor and MFM encouraged me to stay positive.  I just wanted that nurse to shut up already.  My baby was alive inside of me, why did she keep saying how sorry she was?  I was so happy when her shift was over.  I was so hopeful for my unborn daughter's future.  I prayed, and I hoped, and I prayed some more.  I probably prayed more over the course of the next several days than I had prayed in my entire life.  I spent ten long nights in the hospital, away from my husband, away from my toddler son.  To this day, it's still the only time I've been away from him so long.  The hospital almost began to feel like home, and I was determined to live there the entire summer.  I didn't even make it to summer before she was born.  And then she died.

She died, and I was a wreck of a mother to my precious little boy.  I cried, and I poured him a bowl of cereal wet with tears.  My son lost his little sister.  He kept touching my stomach and asking for her for months.  He still talks about her, asking why she is in heaven.  He is 4 years old, and he talks of heaven and of death matter-of-factly over breakfast as if it is normal to have a dead sister.  It's not fair! 

And he also lost the mother he had always had, the one who did not have an intimate relationship with death, the one who had never cradled a dying child in her arms, the one who had never let go of her baby only to watch her be carried away in a Moses basket, covered by a blanket, taken by two polite strangers in black suits from a funeral home.  She went to a funeral home in a Moses basket, not to our home in a car seat, and I became a different person, and I am forever a bereaved mother now.  IT'S NOT FAIR!

There is a gap of three and a half years between my living children.  We wanted our children close in age.  We planned for that, we did everything "right" to ensure that would happen.  We wanted somewhere between 1.5 and 2.5 years between each of them, and that is what it should have been, that is what it actually is if Elena is included, but no one sees her, no one "counts" her, and instead there is this enormous gap between them where she should be.  I can't help but see the gap and know she is missing.  No one else seems to notice the immensity of the gap.  They even comment about how perfect the spacing is.  It's NOT perfect - it is IMPOSSIBLY huge, there is an entire person in that space between them, but no one sees her.  It's not fair!

I know some people see my rainbow as her replacement.  That somehow he makes it better.  Even that we wouldn't have him if it were not for her death.  He is his own person, and I did not have him because she died.  He was in the plans from the beginning too!  He is not just a baby to fill empty arms or to mend a broken heart.  And one child can never replace another, even if that child would not exist had it not been for a sibling's death!  I don't understand how people can think like that!  It's not fair to anyone!

One week in Sunday School we were talking about our dreams and wishes for our children.  It was a smallish class and no one really volunteered to share out loud.  The leaders of the class (a couple I recognized by face but not by name, and I know they didn't know our story or at least didn't know that we were "that" couple whose baby died, and I know they meant no harm in their comments) tried to prod us along.  The wife said one of her prayers was that they would not outlive their children.  Then she went on (and on) about her work in a hospital and how most people take their children for granted and how we don't realize how lucky we are to have them here and healthy and how they are not guaranteed.  I wanted to yell at her to speak for herself, that we have already outlived one of ours, that was my prayer for my children too, and it remains my prayer for the ones we have left, but one of ours died, and I know from experience they are not guaranteed and I don't for a second take any of their breaths for granted.  Instead, I reminded myself that there was no malicious intent, and I fought back the tears and just stared down at my paper until Bible class hour was finished.  I wasn't supposed to outlive my child!  It's not the natural order of things.  I am supposed to go to heaven before my kids!  I just wanted to protect her and to give her a chance at life.  I would have given her my life and taken her death away from her if I could have.  It's not fair!

I hate when people ask if I am going to try again to get a girl.  I despised it when I was pregnant with my rainbow and people would ask, "Oh, you already have a boy, are you hoping for a girl this time?"  No, I am hoping for a LIVING baby, and I will treasure whatever baby God gives me!  And I already have a girl!  (I don't scream this, of course, and I know people don't mean to offend, but on the inside my heart is screaming and breaking all over again.)  I do DESPERATELY want a girl- her name is Elena and she was here but she's gone now.  It's not fair!

IT'S ALL SO HORRIBLY UNFAIR!!!!!

I stare at the computer screen through a veil of tears.  No, it's not fair.  No one said it would be.  And honestly, as a Christian, I am thankful that God is not fair...because I know I don't deserve his love or his forgiveness.  And I know that He still loves me and forgives me even when I rant and rage, even when I question his plans and complain about them.  I would much rather have His mercy and His grace than justice and "fairness," any day.  I miss my daughter, I am sick with heartbreak over her absence, but I will continue to rejoice in the promise that I will see her again.  To that reassurance I cling.  "The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord." Job 1:21

a July afternoon

The days keep ticking along.  I don't blog enough.  It's not that I'm not thinking of her.  I am always thinking of her, as constant as my heart beats...all of my children are in every breath.  I feel as if I have nothing remarkable to write, nothing worthy of saying...except that I love her.  I hope she knows.

Edge Of Longing

There is so much happiness, but always with an edge of longing. Every smile has the slightest salty taste of a tear; every laugh holds the hint of a cry. I'm no longer living in a place of despair. I do feel happy most of the time, but pure joy seems to no longer exist. Something, rather someone, is always missing.

We recently returned from a family trip to Italy. I had high expectations for our trip. A few years ago we traveled to Germany. Our first child was a year old. I have such fond memories of that trip. Life was pretty close to perfect: an incredible husband, a sweet little boy, the beginning of our own family, the fulfillment of a lifelong dream to visit Europe, beautiful backdrops, rich history, amazing tours, and the new dream of returning to Europe someday with our next child along as well.  Life was good. It was truly one of the happiest times of my entire life.

Italy was nice but not the same. It did not have that magical quality. Life didn't feel perfect. The closest it came was an evening spent at the most beautiful park, my first having a blast on the playground with the sparkling lake and pretty town below, the snow-peaked Alps on the horizon, my rainbow lying on my chest in the shade of the flowering trees, my husband watching our family with a slight smile on his strong face. I smiled and a tear slid down my face. It was such a gorgeous place and a wonderful moment, so close to perfection that I had to wonder if perhaps this place was a little of what heaven's playground might be like. Maybe it was a small taste of the beauty that is Elena's every day. I believe it could have been that magical night in Germany where life felt perfect and everything was as it should be...had only she been running across that playground with her big brother while throwing smiles at her baby brother. But of course she wasn't; she was missing and so very missed, and perfection and pure joy no longer exist for me. Great joy, yes, but always with an edge of longing.

Happy Birthday

Dearest Elena,

Has it been another year already?  Has it only been one more year?  There is so much I yearn to say to you, but I feel like I've already said it over and over...how much I love you, how sorry I am, how I miss you.... 

Your absence colors everything.  You changed everything, the very essence of who I am.  I am grateful for the gifts you gave me, but I would gladly trade them to hold you again, to have you in our home, to get to share each birthday, each moment, with you.

There were so many dreams I had for you... so much I wanted you to experience here, on earth, in our family.  I spent your birthday living one of those dreams - a wish I shared with your daddy & great-aunt when I was only 6 weeks pregnant with you.  It was so bittersweet.  I got here, but I did it without you.  I never dreamed it would be without you - it was a gift I wanted to give to you.  I so wish things were different.  I want you back so much! 

I love you forever.  Death stole you, but it cannot steal my love for you.  That is eternal.  I know one day I will embrace you again, and what a joyous occasion it will be for your mommy!  I cannot wait to hold you and kiss you and tell you how much I love you and to know that I will never have to let you go again.

Until that day, Sweet Princess, I will carry you always in my heart.

All of my love,
Mommy

May 23

I ache for my daughter. I feel the pain with every fiber of my being, physically and emotionally. Heartbroken, hurting, haunted, yet still hopeful. Clinging desperately to that Hope. Aching. I miss her so much.

Second Birthday Project

Elena's birthday is approaching again.  It is one month from today.  May 23.  Elena would have been two this year.  These milestone dates, such as her birthday, are especially difficult as they are such significant reminders of her absence...well, not so much her absence, really, as we are painfully aware of that every.single.day.  It's more of a reminder of how wonderful that day should be, the longing to celebrate her birthday with her, the desire to watch her grow up and to see her personality unfold.  It is another reminder of everything we are missing every day without her.

It is also a time for us to refocus on how we choose to remember her, on our commitment to making a legacy for her and ensuring that her life continue to positively impact others.  We know there will always be an Elena-shaped hole in our hearts, but we choose to focus celebrating the precious gift that our daughter is.

We are asking for your help again.  For Elena's second birthday, we will be hosting a teddy bear drive for Molly Bears.  Molly Bears is an organization that provides weighted teddy bears to bereaved families, to give families something to hold in their empty arms, a reminder of the weight of their baby.  We received our Elena Bear in September, and we hope to help Molly Bears send bears into the arms of other families since we know how meaningful it is to have our Elena Bear in our arms.  We are asking for donations of new teddy bears that we will be mailing to Molly Bears for Elena's birthday.  We will collect teddy bears now through the end of May.

If you are unable to donate a teddy bear (or even if you donate a bear and still want to do more), please consider doing a random act of kindness in memory of Elena for her birthday.  We love knowing that our sweet baby has made a difference in this world, and we post ways Elena is remembered on the page titled Elena's Echoes.  We were so grateful for all of the birthday tributes last year - it made her birthday a little gentler for us.  We still find comfort each time we visit the page and talk about and remember all of the ways Elena is remembered and all the ways her life has impacted others.  Please let us know if you perform an act of kindness in her memory so that we can add it to her Echoes page.

If you have any questions, please let us know.  Thank you in advance for your teddy bear donations, acts of kindness, and thoughts and prayers as we approach Elena's second birthday.

Precious Elena, we know your birthday party in heaven will be amazing.  We can't wait to celebrate with you, but until then, know that we love you always and miss you like crazy.  <3 p="">

Our Elena Bear

Walking With You 2013: Finding Hope and Healing

For our final week of this year's Walking With You series, we focus on "Finding Hope and Healing (With or Without a Rainbow)."
"For this post, we will share our experiences with longing for another baby to fill our empty arms. Some experienced a subsequent pregnancy after loss. Some may be fearful of embarking on that journey again. Some may not be able to have another child, whether due to infertility or other reasons. Some may have found that having another baby, however precious a gift, was not the key to healing the grief. Can you experience hope and healing…even if there is no rainbow after the storm? Lori Ennis will be guest posting on this blog and I will share some thoughts as well. We hope many of you will also join in, linking your own posts."

Healing and hope after losing Elena have come gradually, and it was often one step forward, two back.  I knew God is there with me, I knew that He can use tragedies to bring glory, I knew that He is good.  But that knowledge does not just magically take the hurt away overnight (or even over months or years).  We become better equipped, I believe, to manage the pain and over time are able to carry it more easily and with more grace, but it is still there.  I think complete healing occurs when we are reunited with our sweet babies and meet our Savior face to face.  At least that is the way I see it now, about 21 months away from Elena.  Maybe I will have a different thought on that as more time passes.

My doctor arrived at the hospital after Elena had already died.  He was compassionate, hugging us, telling us he was sorry, sharing that his wife and he had lost a child as well.  Before he left, he strongly encouraged us to wait at least six months before making any decisions about future children.  He reiterated that at my post-partum check up several weeks later.  I believe it was wise advice, for our family at least.  We needed the time the focus on grieving, to investigate options if we did decide to continue growing our family, and to decide if we could emotionally do it again, especially with the increased risk of another loss.  Additionally, Elena was so premature that six months was not too much past her due date, and I could not stomach the thought of being pregnant with another child when I was still supposed to be pregnant with Elena.  It was an unbearable thought to me, it felt like a betrayal of her.  So we waited.  We grieved.  We began the long path of healing.

I believe our older child was more important in my initial healing than the dream of a rainbow.  While having a toddler at home certainly posed a challenge to my grief work, I always felt so incredibly lucky and thankful for him.  He was both a good distraction and a good point of focus.  Life could not possibly be all bad when I had a beautiful, curious, in-love-with-life, sweet little boy with me.  Yes, I ached.  I felt pain that I had never before (and never since) experienced, but I still had a very important reason to live.  And he kept me busy.  And honestly, he was a very important motivation to even want to heal.  I knew he deserved a mother who could care for him and who could teach him how to react to trials of this life.  I felt an overwhelming obligation to be a model of how to deal with tragedy.  I was so afraid of scarring him, of shaping him in a manner that he could not be resilient in difficulties, that I knew I could not allow myself to stay broken forever.  So I tried to teach him to love and to heal, to hurt and to grow, to mourn with the hope of heaven.  Even when I did not want to do it myself.  I wanted him to love and remember Elena while continuing to love life and be full of joy and hope.

We did start talking about growing our family again.  We had always wanted more than two children, so Elena was never supposed to be our last.  There were days when the fear of loss was intense and I would think that maybe we should be happy with our one living child and call our family complete.  But I did long for another baby.  In fact, I had some pretty crazy thoughts about another baby.  I've never admitted these before, but I've shared so much in these Walking with You posts that I will go ahead and admit to them now.  A group from church was traveling to an orphanage in another country shortly after Elena's death, and I let myself fantasize about their return, calling me with the news that they had brought back a baby and would I consider adopting her.  I had phantom kicks and movements.  I secretly wondered if perhaps the doctors had missed it and Elena was actually a twin - maybe I would give birth again on Elena's due date, this time to her twin sister.  Even though I did not get bigger and it was obvious that I was no longer pregnant, I was actually disappointed when her due date rolled around and I did not go into labor.  I daydreamed of a baby being left on my doorstep, of someone knowing a pregnant teen looking for an adoptive family and would we help her out.  I even fantasized about God bringing Elena back to life, months after she died, and just giving her back to us.  Crazy, irrational thoughts.  Yes, if I was honest with myself, I absolutely wanted another baby, almost as badly as I wanted Elena back.

After much discussion, we decided to try again (oh, how I HATE that phrase "try again," as if it is something that with enough practice can be perfected).  We decided to try to have another baby.  We were blessed with a rainbow pregnancy quickly, and I was overcome by hope, joy, fear, and, to my surprise, grief.  I was hurled backward in my grief.  I struggled with it my entire pregnancy.  My emotions were everywhere.  Being pregnant seemed to make me miss Elena more intensely.  I felt like I was going backward in my grief.  I don't mean to sound ungrateful for my pregnancy - I was absolutely grateful and thanked God every morning I was still pregnant and every evening I went to bed still carrying my Rainbow.  But my pregnancy did not make my pain of losing Elena less.  It did force me to deal with my grief on another level, which I believe helped my healing even though it was difficult.

By the grace of God, our Rainbow arrived full term and healthy.  He cried loudly, and I cried too...tears of joy, tears of sorrow...such joy interwoven with regret and relief and grief and longing and hope and love.  So many emotions.  Nothing seems simple anymore - everything in my world seems layered with so many emotions.  And I'm discovering that at the core of them all seems to be love.  Just as I was surprised by the intensity of my grief at our pregnancy, I was again surprised by the intensity of grief after he was born.  I loved holding him but found it difficult at the same time.  I desperately wanted to hold ALL of my children, and Elena's missing somehow seemed even greater.  I looked at his chubby cheeks and thought of how unfair it was that I didn't get this joyous birth with Elena.  I watch him and am reminded of everything I did not get to experience with my daughter.  I look at him and see how perfect he is, and I know how incredibly blessed I am, and I sometimes still feel that twinge of guilt that I was able to carry him to term when I wasn't able to do that for his big sister.  And I remind myself (again) that I have no need to feel guilty, and I focus again on how blessed we are with our two amazing boys in our earthly home, and our precious girl waiting for us in our heavenly home.  I'm still trying to heal, to find a way to live in joy while honoring our daughter's life, to balance all of the emotions.  Thankfully, God is faithful, and He is good.  He remains with us even when the road is long and rocky; He walks the path with us.  "The Lord your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you" (Deuteronomy 31:6 - NIV).  And He welcomes us and our broken hearts.  "Heart-shattered lives ready for love don’t for a moment escape God’s notice" (Psalm 51:17 - The Message).

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Thank you for joining me during this Walking with You series.  I appreciate you reading my story, remembering my sweet Elena, and providing support and encouragement.  And I appreciate those of you who have shared your story and your precious babies with me.  Much love and many prayers to you all.

Thank you to Kelly and Sufficient Grace Ministries for all you do for those of us in the Baby Loss community and especially for hosting the Walking with You series.  I struggled with many of these posts, but I do believe they helped me to grieve, to learn about myself, to grow, and to heal more.  They have also grown connections with some beautiful mommas, and I am grateful for those new and deepening friendships.  You are such a blessing, Kelly.

Walking With You 2013: Mirror, Mirror ~ The Comparison Trap

The Walking With You topic for week 5 is "Mirror, Mirror ~ The Comparison Trap."
"Mothers often fall into the trap of comparing ourselves to one another. This is a trap many women fall into. We compare our families, mothering styles, fashion sense, careers or lack thereof, bodies, etc. Even mothers with babies in heaven compare the way we grieve our children. I know…sad…but we do it, if we’re honest enough to admit it. So, how can we find freedom from this? Sharing is a start…telling the truth…admitting the struggle. I think, then, we will see that we all love our children, regardless of how we choose to remember and honor their lives…whether publicly or quietly…with big parties or simple moments of remembrance. Be real on this week’s post, and let’s free ourselves from the trap of comparing!"

Kelly has encouraged us to "be real," so I am going to try to be open, transparent, to share how I felt and how I feel, even when it is difficult for me to admit it to myself.  We have the expectations of how people are "supposed" to act in the face of loss, especially a loss so great.  We look at what other bereaved families have done; we listen to what others, even those who have not lost a child, say about grieving.  Many times we have heard people say that they "couldn't survive" the loss of a child, that we must be incredibly strong because they couldn't have done it.  I have found myself feeling guilty for even surviving, for being able to continue breathing after Elena died.  As if I am the One with power over life and death.

I have often wondered if I grieved the "right way," if I made the "right" choices.  I remember feeling so guilty about eating the first few days after Elena died.  EATING.  Really???  I felt guilty for being aware of feeling hungry.  Aren't people who are in the depths of sorrow supposed to stop eating?  How could I think about food when Elena was gone?  But I did feel hunger, and I ate, and I felt guilty.  What would people think if they knew I wanted to eat and that someone wasn't having to force me to eat, to force me to take care of myself?  A friend came to check on me later that week and said she was happy to see I had showered, that she wasn't sure what to expect when she arrived and had been prepared to make me take a shower if I hadn't bathed in days.  I know she didn't mean any harm by it, but then I started feeling bad about bathing.  Why was I able to hold it together enough to take care of the basic things?  How could I even get out of bed and shower when my baby was dead?  Didn't I care enough about Elena to be so devastated as to not be able to function after she died?  Looking back on it, it would almost be comical if it were not so incredibly sad.  The pressure we sometimes put on ourselves is so intense and so unnecessary.

I compared our final decisions for Elena with other bereaved families.  Did they bury their child or choose cremation?  What did that mean about them, and more importantly, about me and my decision to cremate?  I still question my decision when I am around moms who chose burial.  Did I make the right choice or did they?  As if either choice is "right."  There are no "right" decisions when our babies die, only hard ones.  None of the choices are ones we want to make. 

And it didn't stop with burial vs. cremation.  Of the families who chose cremation, what did they do with the ashes?  Are they scattered or displayed proudly in an urn or tucked away somewhere, treasured but unseen?  How do other families remember significant dates around their children's lives - birth dates, death dates, due dates?  Did they have birthday parties?  Did I love Elena as much as those who baked cakes and invited extended family and friends?  Was it enough to just release balloons with her dad and brother?  Did I talk about her, share her story with others as much as the other moms in my support group?  Was it wrong to not immediately start a blog like so many of the moms in my support group, like all the moms I found online sharing their baby?  Maybe I was not doing enough to keep her memory alive.  I did not post about Elena on Facebook as much as lots of my baby loss friends did, but on the other hand, I posted about her more than some of the others did.  Always looking to others to see what they did.  As if any of it matters, as if how we grieve somehow is a measure of our love for our children.  I wrote last post about not putting any blame on other bereaved families, but still blaming myself.  Similarly, I didn't think that any bereaved parents loved their children any less by how they celebrated holidays or how publicly they remembered their babies, but somehow I thought that the way I grieved would (should?) be a reflection of my love for Elena.  I know with my intellect that it is simply not true.  Again, getting it to my heart has proven more difficult.

In writing this post, I realize that not only did I (and sometimes still do) compare my grief to the grief of other bereaved mothers but also to some imaginary "ideal" of what grief "should" be.  This also causes me to worry about other people judging the way I grieve and the way I remember and that somehow they will interpret my grief as a gauge by which to measure my love for my daughter.  I believe that those comparisons and those concerns of judgment are significant sources of guilt (which may explain why this post seemed so similar to me to the last one).  I think I need to pray more for release from comparing myself to others and from worrying about what others think.

Despite our differences, we (bereaved parents) all have the most important things in common:  we love our children beyond words, we love our children beyond death, we love our children forever, and we always miss them.  How we grieve them, how we remember them, how we celebrate them are not measuring sticks of our pain, our missing, our love.  They are only indications that we are different people from different backgrounds with different needs and abilities and different ways of expressing ourselves.  But the love is the same.

Walking With You 2013: Overcoming Guilt and Embracing Joy

Okay, I am really behind on the Walking With You series.  I'm sorry I have not kept up, but here goes.  Week 4 focused on "Overcoming Guilt and Embracing Joy."

"One area so many mothers struggle with is guilt, especially those who experience the loss of a baby/child. We want to address this struggle in this post. It will help mothers quietly battling guilt for living life and experiencing joy to know they are not alone. Other moms silently battle this as well. Whether it is the startling first time you really laugh after losing your child, or whether you have experienced the healing balm of joy for years, share your thoughts on this week’s post."

When it comes to Elena, I have definitely struggled with feelings of guilt and still do.  After all, I am her mother.  It was my responsibility, my job, to protect her, to keep her safe.  And I didn't do that for her.  My body failed her...failed her miserably.  She was perfect, and I couldn't even give her a chance at life.  Intellectually, I know that it is not my fault.  I know that I would have done anything within my power to save her, but it's still so hard not to blame myself.  I think of other baby loss mothers, and never for a millisecond do I think they deserve an ounce of blame, and I know that I do not either.  Making myself believe what I know is a different story altogether, though.

In the very early days after Elena died, the guilt was particularly intense.  I shouldn't have gone shopping and walking around the store for so long searching for a gift, I should have called my OB again sooner, I should have insisted that something was not right, I should have pushed for a cerclage from the very beginning, I should not have taken that shower in the hospital, I should have stayed lying flat, the list goes on and on.  I even struggled with guilt over the way I prayed (see my Clinging in the Pit post).  What if I hadn't carried my sleeping toddler to the car that day?  Was God punishing me for something I had done?  My wonderful husband stopped me in my tracks right there.  "You know God doesn't work that way," he told me lovingly yet firmly.  And even then I knew he was right.  I do not believe that God takes our babies because we screwed up.  I think it is just our human nature to grasp at anything to try to make sense of something that just doesn't make sense.  And the fact that babies die just doesn't make sense, at least not this side of heaven.  We also want to believe that we have much more control over our lives than we actually have.  I sometimes still fall into that line of thinking, that if I had just done something different I could have saved Elena.  And I have to remind myself that I don't blame other baby loss moms for their babies' deaths, and I don't need to blame myself either.  I loved Elena, still love her, with all of my heart, and I did the best I could with the information and abilities that I had at the time, and that is all I could have done.

After the guilt that Elena's death was somehow my fault came the guilt that I could continue to live after my baby had died.  And then the guilt that I could actually smile, laugh, find a little enjoyment here and there.  I really struggled with a vacation we had planned.  We had been planning for months to join three other families for a week at Disney World that happened to coincide with my toddler's second birthday.  I was really looking forward to going.  Then I started having complications and my doctor advised me not to go, so we changed our plans to stay home.  Then Elena was born and died just weeks before the vacation.  We wrestled with what to do about the trip.  I hated the thought that the only reason we could go was because Elena had died; however, we finally decided at the last minute to take the trip, largely because I wanted my son's birthday to be special and I was not up for planning and hosting a party for him at home.  I had immense feelings of guilt over that decision.  How could I even entertain the idea of going to "the happiest place on earth" when I was (and should have been) miserable and mourning.  I enjoyed it (I also had lots of sad moments, cried every time I saw a pregnant woman, and sobbed myself to sleep each night, but there were moments of real happiness there).  It's taken me a long time to admit to taking that trip because of my guilt over it.  But I realize that feeling happy does not mean that I don't love Elena any more than feeling sad does not mean that I don't love my living children.  Of course I love them all - I love them all always, through all of my emotions.

The early feelings of happiness, the first smiles and laughter, were often followed immediately by guilt and breakdowns.  I'm not sure when those tears and that incredible guilt over having joy subsided.  It was a very gradual and tender transition.  I think many things helped me to finally let go of that guilt (for the most part, anyway, it still pops up its ugly head from time to time).  I had to force myself to listen to my logical reasoning when my heart was not on board.  I had to trust that what I knew in my brain held value, that there was no logical reason to be blame myself for feelings of happiness, that my range of emotions were not an indication of my love for my daughter.  I also looked at others who had lost children, who loved those babies so very much, and who still smiled, laughed, seemed happy despite the awful hand they had been dealt.  They were not monsters.  I did not blame them or think any less of them for their joy.  So logically that meant that being happy did not make me a monster either, and maybe, just maybe, no one would think less of me either.  I saw that others could love their babies and think of them everyday and still be happy.  It was okay for me to do that too.  I made a conscious effort to choose to focus on the positive memories, to remember the moments of joy during my pregnancy, the tender moments we were allowed upon her birth.  Feeling happy about ever having had the opportunity to be Elena's mother, knowing what a beautiful blessing she is and experiencing joy over her was a good start to being okay with feeling happy.  And knowing that our separation is only temporary allows me to rejoice.  "Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep, or to grieve like the rest of men, who have no hope.  We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have fallen asleep in him."  (1 Thessalonians 4:13-14) 

Walking With You 2013: Steps Back into Life

Week 3's Walking With You topic is "Steps Back into Life."
"Share about your first steps back into life. What helped you survive in the world outside as you took those first tender steps? Are there still tender areas for you today, living in a world that doesn’t embrace or understand the loss of a baby/child? How do you cope with those struggles? What advice would you offer those new to this walk to encourage and bring hope? How has this changed for you from the beginning? If you are in early grief, what do you fear/struggle with as you try to navigate a new normal….life without your baby?"

I've struggled with this post, not sure what to write.  I don't know that I had any remarkable "first steps," not that I can recall at least.  Although I wanted to crawl into bed and stay there, I felt like I just could not do that.  I had to take care of too many details, and I had a toddler at home.  Life just kept plowing forward.  I was angry about that - angry that the sun dared shine the day of Elena's memorial service.  But what could I do to stop it?  I didn't know what to do, so I did my best to act brave and kept going.  I cried a lot at home.  I fell apart when my husband was home to take care of our son.  But for the most part, I focused all my energy on keeping it somewhat together for our toddler. 

My maternity leave allowed me to miss the end of the school year, so when I returned to work, it was at the beginning of the following school year at the same time as everyone else returning.  That made it easy for people to not really have to say anything to me about Elena.  Everyone was busy catching up with each other, talking about their exciting events of the summer.  It did not really feel appropriate to answer "What did you do this summer?" with "Oh, I spend the summer crying and grieving the loss of my daughter."  I just listened to everyone share about their summers and wished someone would acknowledge my baby.  A few of my close coworkers, people I consider friends, did.  My coworker who had lost her own infant son several years before me made a trip to my school to hug me and check on me.  She noticed my locket and asked to see Elena's picture.  For the most part, though, it was a quiet return to work...until I started seeing students again and learned that no one had bothered to tell them in May.  They asked why I was no longer pregnant, so I had to tell them, months after my loss.  I was pleasantly surprised with how most of them reacted, high school students showing so much compassion...not that they always said the most appropriate things, but they TRIED, they said SOMETHING, they were sincere in their efforts, they didn't ignore it.  I loved that about them.

There are absolutely still hurts from those early days (and more recent ones) that linger.  There were family members who never acknowledged our loss, who did not attend her memorial service or send a card or even call; others who came and stayed with us and turned the day into a swim party.  There were the awful comments about how we could always have another baby and the even worse ones about how maybe we should NOT have any more children with our history.  There were people who I thought would participate in Elena's first birthday tribute who ignored it and the close family member who actually forgot Elena's name.  People have cringed at the mention of her, walked away when we spoke her name, even said that it really wasn't that big of a deal.  And as more and more time passes, fewer and fewer people acknowledge her life, even those who were very supportive initially.

It is so difficult to not let a world that chooses not to understand or acknowledge baby loss cause distress to our hearts.  Our children are so precious, so valuable, so loved, that insensitive comments and actions cut deep.  But I don't want to be imprisoned by hurt and anger.  I try to focus on the people who do love Elena and support us, who remember her and show compassion to us.  And I try to remember that the majority of people just do not get it; they just don't understand.  Even if they are insensitive, I do not believe that they have malicious intent.  I try to forgive them for just not knowing what to say to me, what to do in this situation.  Some days that is easier than others.  I am active in a "real life" infant loss support group which has been so healing for me.  The online community is also full of beautiful mommas who understand.  I lean on those who have been there for support, and I am so thankful for them.  I try to keep my focus on the love and support I receive.  I try to write my feelings when I am struggling.  And I rejoice in the reassurance of our Lord that I will enjoy eternity with my sweet girl. 

My advice for anyone new on this journey is that even if those in your life do not support you or acknowledge your precious child, there are lots of people out here who will.  Find them and lean on them and allow them to walk with you.  And remember God's promises, that He will never leave us, that Jesus has gone before us to prepare a place for us, and that our babies are already in that magnificent place.  Jesus blessed the little children and loved them, and He loves our babies too.

"He said to them, “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these....And he took the children in his arms, put his hands on them and blessed them." Mark 10:14,16