There are always reminders, some subtle, some glaring. I use "reminders" loosely - I don't need reminders. I remember always, even without them. So no one or nothing really "reminds" me. I guess they are more connections than reminders, ways in which she "fits into" situations, conversations, events.
Elena will be a big sister again. And again, pregnancy after loss is emotionally difficult (and that's an understatement).
I had our "anatomy scan" on Friday. Baby looks good. We have decided to wait until birth to find out baby's sex (though I am positive baby is a boy). We'll see if we can keep from finding out with all my extra sonograms over the next several months (I guess that's the silver lining of a high risk pregnancy - lots of opportunities to check on baby and get those prenatal black & white photos).
At any rate, the ultrasound included lots of measurements. Baby measured 21 weeks, 2 days and is 15 ounces...the EXACT gestational age and weight at which Elena was born (and a little bigger than expected based on due date). All the feels.
Such a bittersweet moment. So many emotions. This baby, cradled safely inside of me for the moment, the same size as (his) big sister was when I held her for the first and last time. I know exactly how 15 ounces feels cradled in my arms, what 21+2 weeks looks like. It was almost like getting a glimpse of this new precious child - I know what that looks like, so perfect yet so impossibly small. Those little fingers and toes, complete with nails, sweet head already topped with (blond) hair, eyelashes already grown. Perfect, tiny baby. I can picture this baby in incredible detail because of Elena. This tiny baby, still safe, when Elena wasn't. She wasn't nestled in my womb at 21+2. My body forced her out - it wasn't the safe haven it was supposed to be for her. I should have seen her on a sonogram screen at that gestation, not face-to-face in a hospital room. I miss her. And yet it was almost as if she was there on Friday, sending a little wave from heaven, saying, "Hi Mommy! Here I am!" A precious gift. These "reminders," these connections, these "waves from heaven," glimpses of my sweet baby girl, they are always precious gifts, bittersweet and cherished.
Tuesday, November 11, 2014
Monday, October 27, 2014
October
Months have passed. I feel quiet...tired. Unfocused. Lost. Lonely but never alone. Tired. Days melting into weeks into months into years. I am still here. Where is here? I still wonder, Is this really my life?
Life is busy, hurried. Too much so. Chaotic. I want to be still for a while, but life refuses to slow down for me.
Three beautiful miracles fill my heart, along with the emptiness of the miracle missing. The tiny miracle that wasn't to be. I still count her a miracle, even though it wasn't the miracle for which I had begged, but by the world's standards she is not. The world doesn't count her at all. I want her to still count. I look at my children and out at the world, and I see her. I see her everywhere. The world doesn't see her. They never saw her. But she was here. The tucked away birth certificate proves her existence, despite the big, ugly, red stamp across the certificate, DECEASED. She was here.
Two small precious faces fill my days. And I feel like I am failing them, just like I failed her. How different would it be if she was here? If there wasn't the shadow of a child missing in every moment? Would I mother these two here better if my attention was not split between heaven and earth? If I wasn't so lost? So broken? They deserve so much better. I hate that I am not the mother I thought I would be, the mother I dreamed of becoming. I failed them all.
I feel I am grasping for something that cannot be reached. Illusive. I want to touch her again, to feel her soft skin, to kiss her blond hair, to smell her sweet head, to hear her small cry, to taste those fleeting moments of her life one more time. I want to know the color of her eyes, eyes that opened only when she reached heaven, eyes that never saw the suffering of this world.
To do it all again. Would I go through it all again? Yes. If I could have those two hours back, yes, I would take them again even at the price of the nightmare that followed. I wish I could have done so many things differently. No one tells you when you are pregnant what you should do if your baby happens to die. If I could do it again, even with the same outcome, I would do it better. I would love her better in those two hours. I wouldn't waste one of those 137 minutes. I would cherish every moment, every heart beat.
Yet here I am. Is this really my life? Stumbling along this path on which I never wanted to be, upon which I'm not sure how I came to be or why. Stumbling. Fumbling. Failing.
Life is busy, hurried. Too much so. Chaotic. I want to be still for a while, but life refuses to slow down for me.
Three beautiful miracles fill my heart, along with the emptiness of the miracle missing. The tiny miracle that wasn't to be. I still count her a miracle, even though it wasn't the miracle for which I had begged, but by the world's standards she is not. The world doesn't count her at all. I want her to still count. I look at my children and out at the world, and I see her. I see her everywhere. The world doesn't see her. They never saw her. But she was here. The tucked away birth certificate proves her existence, despite the big, ugly, red stamp across the certificate, DECEASED. She was here.
Two small precious faces fill my days. And I feel like I am failing them, just like I failed her. How different would it be if she was here? If there wasn't the shadow of a child missing in every moment? Would I mother these two here better if my attention was not split between heaven and earth? If I wasn't so lost? So broken? They deserve so much better. I hate that I am not the mother I thought I would be, the mother I dreamed of becoming. I failed them all.
I feel I am grasping for something that cannot be reached. Illusive. I want to touch her again, to feel her soft skin, to kiss her blond hair, to smell her sweet head, to hear her small cry, to taste those fleeting moments of her life one more time. I want to know the color of her eyes, eyes that opened only when she reached heaven, eyes that never saw the suffering of this world.
To do it all again. Would I go through it all again? Yes. If I could have those two hours back, yes, I would take them again even at the price of the nightmare that followed. I wish I could have done so many things differently. No one tells you when you are pregnant what you should do if your baby happens to die. If I could do it again, even with the same outcome, I would do it better. I would love her better in those two hours. I wouldn't waste one of those 137 minutes. I would cherish every moment, every heart beat.
Yet here I am. Is this really my life? Stumbling along this path on which I never wanted to be, upon which I'm not sure how I came to be or why. Stumbling. Fumbling. Failing.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Hard Questions
My Sunshine was just shy of two years old when Elena was born. He arrived at the hospital with my husband shortly before Elena's birth. My mom got there seconds later and took him from the room during her birth. At some point, while Elena was still living, my mom and my first baby came back into the delivery room. My son met his little sister. They stayed in the room for some time (honestly, the time is so blurry - I don't know how long they were in the room - my mom held her, that I remember), but they left again before she died. Only the nurse, my husband, and I were in the room when her little heart stopped beating.
My Sunshine is 5 years old now. We have always talked openly about Elena in our home. He was aware enough at nearly 2 that there was going to be a baby, that he met the baby, that the baby wasn't there anymore. In the beginning, he often touched my belly, "baby sister?" He didn't have his "L" sounds yet - he called her "uh-YAY-na." Sweet music. I can still hear his baby voice saying her name. He says it correctly now. He has asked lots of questions over the years, and the questions have changed as he matures and comprehends more. We have always tried to be honest with our answers. We have never tried to hide death from him, nor our sorrow. Of course, we grieve with hope and we share our hope with him, and we continued to look for joy in our lives, even in the earliest days, but we did not hide our tears from him.
I have become accustomed to questions about heaven, about dying, about why Elena was too little, about other babies who die, about vehicles that might take us to visit heaven for a day, about when he will die, about if his new baby brother was going to die, about sending a hot air balloon to heaven for Elena to play with and then she could send it back to him (sweet boy at barely 3 years old trying to find a way to play with his little sister). Sometimes the questions are hard. I think that's okay. I still try to be honest. It is profoundly important to me. Sometimes I have to tell him that I don't know. I guess that's okay too; it is honest, after all.
Last Friday, while driving (seems like a lot of these discussions happen in the car), we prayed for a sweet baby girl who was having open heart surgery. After our prayer, my oldest started talking about Elena. I was not terribly surprised (he asked a few weeks ago why we didn't give Elena a g-tube or oxygen like this baby has - the doctors should have done that for Elena, he said) and expected him to ask why Elena didn't have surgery to save her. Though difficult, I was prepared to answer that. He surprised me.
"Mom, did I see Elena die?"
"No. You saw her when she was born and she was still alive. You got to meet her. Then you saw her again after she died, but you were not in the room when she died."
"What did you do with her body?"
......
She was born basically in the middle of the night. She died as it started to get light outside. My OB told me I could go home that day instead of spending another night there. The hospital staff said we'd have to make final arrangements before we could leave. Had I chosen burial or cremation? I don't know, this was not something I'd considered during pregnancy. Did I have a cemetery or crematorium in mind? Um, no, I didn't realize I was supposed to research those while expecting a baby. They gave me a list of places. So I held her body, wrapped in a blanket, as I called funeral homes to discuss our options. The first one said I needed to come in for an appointment to discuss, that would be better than talking on the phone (I had already explained the situation). I burst into tears, beyond frustrated. She reluctantly gave me some information. I had no idea how expensive it would be. I called another one. The person on the phone at this one (I can't remember for sure but I think it was another woman) was so much more compassionate. I got all the information I needed. I was told they could come get Elena today, and I could come in tomorrow to discuss again, that I didn't have to decide today about cremation or burial or even if I wanted to use them, that if I wanted to change facilities they would release her to another service without any charge. Okay, that was better. Still not good, but better. I didn't have to decide right this second.
The nurse checked on us occasionally, asking if we were ready for them to take Elena. They didn't pressure us to give her up, but they did continue to offer. I'm not sure why it occurred to me to ask, but I did ask if we could keep her until the funeral home came. I was tired of them asking to take her. She looked a bit concerned by that request, said she would check, and came by a little later saying that was okay, but she would need to copy my husband's driver license in order to release the body to him. Apparently, she misunderstood and thought we wanted to deliver her to the funeral home ourselves. No, I just didn't want to send her to the morgue. I didn't want her there. I just wanted to hold her until the funeral home came. That was not a problem.
Two men in black suits walked into the delivery room. They were very polite and spoke softly. One carried a Moses basket. They introduced themselves and said they were sorry for our loss. They gave us a business card. They took Elena, wrapped in her blanket, and laid her in the Moses basket. They covered her completely with another blanket (I think it was white). They treated her body with great respect. My empty arms ached, but I felt the slightest bit of peace that they were so gentle with her.
The next morning at the funeral home, the funeral director offered us to see her again. We declined. I wanted my last visual memory of her to be the day she was alive. I don't know if I would do it the same again or not, but I know that neither choice was "right." There is nothing "right" about your baby dying. I struggled with the decision of how to lay her to rest. The man at the funeral home spent lots of time going over our options, driving us around the cemetery to show us the baby land and the other sections as well, answering whatever questions we thought to ask, writing her obituary. I wrestled with what to do. We went to lunch. We rewrote her obituary in the middle of the Mexican food restaurant. We returned to the funeral home. We made our decisions. He told us to sleep on it and to call in the morning to confirm. They would wait to hear from us before they moved forward. We didn't come up with compelling enough reasons to change anything, so the next day we told them to proceed with her cremation.
We had a memorial service Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Many of our family, friends, and coworkers came to support us. I am thankful for them being there. About a week later (for some reason I don't even know exactly when), we had a private service in the memory garden behind our church. Our pastor and his wife, my parents, my brother, my best friend and her family were there. We scattered half of her ashes in the garden. I intended to scatter the other half at my paternal grandparents' graveside several hours away. I haven't done so yet, and the more time that passes, the more compelled I feel to keep them with me.
......
"Um, we gave it to the funeral home." (I don't know how to answer this. What do I say to him? I can't tell him we burned her body. Why did we have her cremated anyway? Why didn't we bury her? Oh my gosh, I so wish we had buried her! I have always wondered if that was the right decision. I have always been on the verge of regretting her cremation. I have never regretted it more than I did on Friday morning. I wish I could explain burial to him instead - I have explained burial to him before, as recently as a few months ago when my grandmother passed. If we'd buried her, I could have taken him to her grave and talked to him about it. I could relate it to other family members who have passed. Who do we know that is cremated? Why didn't I bury my sweet baby instead of having her body burned?)
"Why didn't you keep it?"
(Keep it? Um, because it would decompose.) "People don't keep bodies when people die."
"So what do they do with it?"
"Well, they either bury the body or...or they have it cremated. Elena's body was cremated."
"What is cremated?"
(I can't tell him we had her body burned. What do I say? I can't lie to him about this, but how do I explain cremation to a 5 year old?) "Um, cremate means they turn the body into ashes."
"What are ashes?"
"It's kind of like dust." (ashes to ashes, dust to dust)
"Do you put the ashes on your head?"
"No..." (What on earth? Oh, he remembers getting ashes on his forehead on Ash Wednesday. Okay, not quite so creepy.) "No, we don't put people ashes on our foreheads. The ashes on Ash Wednesday are palm branch ashes. They are from plants, not people."
Thankfully, we drove up to his school about this time. The conversation ended. I think this may have been the worst I have ever done with his questions. I suspect I will have an opportunity to address these questions again. He typically ponders answers for a while and then asks again, often seeking clarification and additional information. I hope I do a better job next time.
I had read this article a year ago, and a friend from my infant loss support group reminded me of it on Friday. I plan to use parts of this when my son and I have this conversation again. I am linking it in case it can benefit anyone else struggling with this. Explaining Cremation to Young Children
When I shared our conversation (and my stress, anxiety, and upset about it) with my husband, he gently reminded me that Elena is in heaven. She is not in her body. She doesn't need her body any more. Why don't we keep bodies? Because we don't need them anymore. (Why didn't I think to tell my son this?) We are finished with them. We are in heaven. I know all this, of course, but I sure did appreciate my husband saying it anyway. The questions are hard sometimes, and sometimes impossible, but we will get through them together, even when the answers are hard too, and even when there are no answers this side of heaven.
My Sunshine is 5 years old now. We have always talked openly about Elena in our home. He was aware enough at nearly 2 that there was going to be a baby, that he met the baby, that the baby wasn't there anymore. In the beginning, he often touched my belly, "baby sister?" He didn't have his "L" sounds yet - he called her "uh-YAY-na." Sweet music. I can still hear his baby voice saying her name. He says it correctly now. He has asked lots of questions over the years, and the questions have changed as he matures and comprehends more. We have always tried to be honest with our answers. We have never tried to hide death from him, nor our sorrow. Of course, we grieve with hope and we share our hope with him, and we continued to look for joy in our lives, even in the earliest days, but we did not hide our tears from him.
I have become accustomed to questions about heaven, about dying, about why Elena was too little, about other babies who die, about vehicles that might take us to visit heaven for a day, about when he will die, about if his new baby brother was going to die, about sending a hot air balloon to heaven for Elena to play with and then she could send it back to him (sweet boy at barely 3 years old trying to find a way to play with his little sister). Sometimes the questions are hard. I think that's okay. I still try to be honest. It is profoundly important to me. Sometimes I have to tell him that I don't know. I guess that's okay too; it is honest, after all.
Last Friday, while driving (seems like a lot of these discussions happen in the car), we prayed for a sweet baby girl who was having open heart surgery. After our prayer, my oldest started talking about Elena. I was not terribly surprised (he asked a few weeks ago why we didn't give Elena a g-tube or oxygen like this baby has - the doctors should have done that for Elena, he said) and expected him to ask why Elena didn't have surgery to save her. Though difficult, I was prepared to answer that. He surprised me.
"Mom, did I see Elena die?"
"No. You saw her when she was born and she was still alive. You got to meet her. Then you saw her again after she died, but you were not in the room when she died."
"What did you do with her body?"
......
She was born basically in the middle of the night. She died as it started to get light outside. My OB told me I could go home that day instead of spending another night there. The hospital staff said we'd have to make final arrangements before we could leave. Had I chosen burial or cremation? I don't know, this was not something I'd considered during pregnancy. Did I have a cemetery or crematorium in mind? Um, no, I didn't realize I was supposed to research those while expecting a baby. They gave me a list of places. So I held her body, wrapped in a blanket, as I called funeral homes to discuss our options. The first one said I needed to come in for an appointment to discuss, that would be better than talking on the phone (I had already explained the situation). I burst into tears, beyond frustrated. She reluctantly gave me some information. I had no idea how expensive it would be. I called another one. The person on the phone at this one (I can't remember for sure but I think it was another woman) was so much more compassionate. I got all the information I needed. I was told they could come get Elena today, and I could come in tomorrow to discuss again, that I didn't have to decide today about cremation or burial or even if I wanted to use them, that if I wanted to change facilities they would release her to another service without any charge. Okay, that was better. Still not good, but better. I didn't have to decide right this second.
The nurse checked on us occasionally, asking if we were ready for them to take Elena. They didn't pressure us to give her up, but they did continue to offer. I'm not sure why it occurred to me to ask, but I did ask if we could keep her until the funeral home came. I was tired of them asking to take her. She looked a bit concerned by that request, said she would check, and came by a little later saying that was okay, but she would need to copy my husband's driver license in order to release the body to him. Apparently, she misunderstood and thought we wanted to deliver her to the funeral home ourselves. No, I just didn't want to send her to the morgue. I didn't want her there. I just wanted to hold her until the funeral home came. That was not a problem.
Two men in black suits walked into the delivery room. They were very polite and spoke softly. One carried a Moses basket. They introduced themselves and said they were sorry for our loss. They gave us a business card. They took Elena, wrapped in her blanket, and laid her in the Moses basket. They covered her completely with another blanket (I think it was white). They treated her body with great respect. My empty arms ached, but I felt the slightest bit of peace that they were so gentle with her.
The next morning at the funeral home, the funeral director offered us to see her again. We declined. I wanted my last visual memory of her to be the day she was alive. I don't know if I would do it the same again or not, but I know that neither choice was "right." There is nothing "right" about your baby dying. I struggled with the decision of how to lay her to rest. The man at the funeral home spent lots of time going over our options, driving us around the cemetery to show us the baby land and the other sections as well, answering whatever questions we thought to ask, writing her obituary. I wrestled with what to do. We went to lunch. We rewrote her obituary in the middle of the Mexican food restaurant. We returned to the funeral home. We made our decisions. He told us to sleep on it and to call in the morning to confirm. They would wait to hear from us before they moved forward. We didn't come up with compelling enough reasons to change anything, so the next day we told them to proceed with her cremation.
We had a memorial service Saturday of Memorial Day weekend. Many of our family, friends, and coworkers came to support us. I am thankful for them being there. About a week later (for some reason I don't even know exactly when), we had a private service in the memory garden behind our church. Our pastor and his wife, my parents, my brother, my best friend and her family were there. We scattered half of her ashes in the garden. I intended to scatter the other half at my paternal grandparents' graveside several hours away. I haven't done so yet, and the more time that passes, the more compelled I feel to keep them with me.
......
"Um, we gave it to the funeral home." (I don't know how to answer this. What do I say to him? I can't tell him we burned her body. Why did we have her cremated anyway? Why didn't we bury her? Oh my gosh, I so wish we had buried her! I have always wondered if that was the right decision. I have always been on the verge of regretting her cremation. I have never regretted it more than I did on Friday morning. I wish I could explain burial to him instead - I have explained burial to him before, as recently as a few months ago when my grandmother passed. If we'd buried her, I could have taken him to her grave and talked to him about it. I could relate it to other family members who have passed. Who do we know that is cremated? Why didn't I bury my sweet baby instead of having her body burned?)
"Why didn't you keep it?"
(Keep it? Um, because it would decompose.) "People don't keep bodies when people die."
"So what do they do with it?"
"Well, they either bury the body or...or they have it cremated. Elena's body was cremated."
"What is cremated?"
(I can't tell him we had her body burned. What do I say? I can't lie to him about this, but how do I explain cremation to a 5 year old?) "Um, cremate means they turn the body into ashes."
"What are ashes?"
"It's kind of like dust." (ashes to ashes, dust to dust)
"Do you put the ashes on your head?"
"No..." (What on earth? Oh, he remembers getting ashes on his forehead on Ash Wednesday. Okay, not quite so creepy.) "No, we don't put people ashes on our foreheads. The ashes on Ash Wednesday are palm branch ashes. They are from plants, not people."
Thankfully, we drove up to his school about this time. The conversation ended. I think this may have been the worst I have ever done with his questions. I suspect I will have an opportunity to address these questions again. He typically ponders answers for a while and then asks again, often seeking clarification and additional information. I hope I do a better job next time.
I had read this article a year ago, and a friend from my infant loss support group reminded me of it on Friday. I plan to use parts of this when my son and I have this conversation again. I am linking it in case it can benefit anyone else struggling with this. Explaining Cremation to Young Children
When I shared our conversation (and my stress, anxiety, and upset about it) with my husband, he gently reminded me that Elena is in heaven. She is not in her body. She doesn't need her body any more. Why don't we keep bodies? Because we don't need them anymore. (Why didn't I think to tell my son this?) We are finished with them. We are in heaven. I know all this, of course, but I sure did appreciate my husband saying it anyway. The questions are hard sometimes, and sometimes impossible, but we will get through them together, even when the answers are hard too, and even when there are no answers this side of heaven.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Happy Third Birthday
Sweet, Precious Elena,
How can it have been three years since I held you? Some days it feels like an eternity has passed since I cradled your tiny body in my arms; other times it seems only a moment ago that I had to let you go. I miss you so much. Your prints hang in our family room, your little feet that left such a huge imprint, your tiny hands that still hold our hearts. I look at your picture and reminisce how beautiful you were. I wish I knew if your eyes were as dark as your big brother's - you looked so much like him! I wish I could have watched you grow. I wish you were here, at three. Would you enjoy climbing trees and swimming with your big brother? Would you laugh with the glee on the carousel and get excited about all the animals at the zoo like your little brother? Would our house be cluttered with dolls and ballet slippers and little frilly dresses? Oh, how I wish I knew! How I wish you were here!
My arms ache to cradle you again. I long to pull you into my lap for story time and to bury my face in your soft hair (I can only guess that it would have remained blond like it was at birth) for top-of-the-head kisses, to sing you a lullaby. I feel so robbed. Not only did I lose my precious baby, but I also lost an entire lifetime with you. Why? It's not supposed to be this way. I miss you so much, every day. I ache for you so much, not only on these special occasions like your birthday, but in the everyday, ordinary moments as well. Your absence is always present. You are always missing, always missed.
I thank God for your earthly life, brief as it was, and I am eternally grateful that I am your Mom. I would do anything to have been able to save you, but I wouldn't trade being your mom for anything. Elena, you are such a blessing to me, to your family. We all love you so very much.
I hope you have an amazing birthday celebration in heaven. I am sorry I can't be there to celebrate with you. Someday I will get to celebrate with you, and for that I thank God as well. Someday I will know the color of your eyes, and someday I will get to hold you in my arms and sing "Happy Birthday" to you. But for now, I desperately hope that you know how much we love you, how much we wanted you, still want you, and how we look forward to our reunion. We wish you the happiest birthday, our beautiful princess.
All of our love always,
Mommy, Daddy, and Brothers
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Her Story
I start telling Elena's story in the middle. Her story has a beginning too, with ups and downs, joy and pain, laughter and tears leading to where I typically begin. But I don't usually begin at the beginning, primarily because it's full of boring details, about extra sonograms and little pink outfits and corrupt drug manufacturers and "it's a girl" chocolate cake, that I treasure but will spare others the minutia. So onto the middle or thereabouts...
Three years and a day ago I was put on hospital bedrest. My OB said I would remain there until I delivered my daughter. I mentally prepared myself to spend the entire summer in the hospital. I scrambled to figure out child care for my almost 2 year old. I was excited to have ESPN so that I could watch more Mavs games (funny the things you remember). I was disappointed to be separated from my husband and son but grateful that they were able to visit every evening. I was a lot of things...scared...relieved to be in the hospital where I'd get careful monitoring...disappointed that here was (another) pregnancy that I wouldn't get to enjoy carefree...worried about what might happen...excited to see Elena jumping around on sonogram...happy to feel her constantly moving...anxious about making it "long enough"... ... ... but mostly hopeful, especially in the first few days. I was so hopeful that we'd be able to hang on long enough that she'd be okay. I even laughed that after this whole ordeal was finished, in early autumn when the days would be almost ready to become cooler, she'd still be hanging out inside me past my due date, and that we'd have to induce to "evict" her. I believed that she would be the miracle story that was so incredible that people might even be brought to faith by seeing God at work in our lives. I wanted that so desperately.
But that's not how her story would end. I wouldn't spend the entire summer in the hospital. In fact, I wouldn't even make it to summer. Just ten nights later I met my daughter face to face, and what a beautiful face! It's amazing to me how perfect a baby just shy of one pound is. She was perfectly formed. She didn't have the fat of a typical newborn, she was slender enough that we could see her heart beat, and she had bruising on her delicate body from the trauma of a too early trip into the world, but she was so perfect. She had the tiniest fingernails and the softest blond hair and the tiniest cry that I still sometimes wonder if I really heard it at all. She looked so much like her big brother - I guessed my husband would have the monopoly on the kids' appearances (her little brother would later break that trend). So perfect, and yet.... somehow perfect just wasn't enough. We received 137 minutes with her, and while we know every last one was a blessing, it still wasn't enough. We held her for several more hours. And then we went home, without our baby.
We would face making her final arrangements, planning services to remember her life, trying to explain death to our precocious, curious, and confused toddler. We had to say good-bye.
But that's not how her story would end either. We were determined to honor this precious life that God gave to us, to cherish every memory with which we were blessed, and to create a legacy for our child that just might make the world a little bit brighter because our "light" (the meaning of Elena) had shined, even if only for a brief time. Elena's Echoes was born of our grief and also of our hope.
Today we ask that you would help continue Elena's story. Each year for her birthday, since we are unable to give her a party, we choose a "project" on which to focus. This year we are donating to Mommies Enduring Neonatal Death (MEND) in Elena's memory. MEND is an amazing nonprofit organization that has helped us navigate this path. Some of my favorite things about supporting MEND are that it is run completely by volunteers - there are no paid positions meaning that ALL donations go to help families and that there are no charges for any of their services to bereaved families - help is offered freely to all those who ask. I realize that budgets are tight, but if you are able, please consider supporting this organization as a birthday gift to Elena. Donations can be mailed to M.E.N.D. P.O. Box 631566, Irving, TX 75063, online at http://mend.org/support/about-donations.jsp, or by phone (972) 506-9000. MEND requests the following information when donations are made: baby's name, date of birth/death, parents' names, and name of benefactor. If you have any questions, please contact me.
If you want to help us celebrate Elena's birthday but are unable to make a donation at this time, we would still appreciate you remembering her this month with an act of kindness in her honor - it can be anything, small or large. Just a few examples of things people have done in her honor in the past include donating blood in her memory, allowing someone to go ahead of them in line at the grocery store, paying for the lunch of the person behind them in the drive-thru, donating preemie hats and clothing to local hospital NICUs. Please let me know if you participate so that I can add your kindness to the "Elena's Echoes" page here on the blog and document the continuation of her beautiful story.
And the Good News we have in our faith is that this is still not how her story will end. We are confident that our daughter lives with our Lord in heaven and that we will someday be reunited with her and get to spend eternity with her. So her story, our story, doesn't have to end at all.
Three years and a day ago I was put on hospital bedrest. My OB said I would remain there until I delivered my daughter. I mentally prepared myself to spend the entire summer in the hospital. I scrambled to figure out child care for my almost 2 year old. I was excited to have ESPN so that I could watch more Mavs games (funny the things you remember). I was disappointed to be separated from my husband and son but grateful that they were able to visit every evening. I was a lot of things...scared...relieved to be in the hospital where I'd get careful monitoring...disappointed that here was (another) pregnancy that I wouldn't get to enjoy carefree...worried about what might happen...excited to see Elena jumping around on sonogram...happy to feel her constantly moving...anxious about making it "long enough"... ... ... but mostly hopeful, especially in the first few days. I was so hopeful that we'd be able to hang on long enough that she'd be okay. I even laughed that after this whole ordeal was finished, in early autumn when the days would be almost ready to become cooler, she'd still be hanging out inside me past my due date, and that we'd have to induce to "evict" her. I believed that she would be the miracle story that was so incredible that people might even be brought to faith by seeing God at work in our lives. I wanted that so desperately.
But that's not how her story would end. I wouldn't spend the entire summer in the hospital. In fact, I wouldn't even make it to summer. Just ten nights later I met my daughter face to face, and what a beautiful face! It's amazing to me how perfect a baby just shy of one pound is. She was perfectly formed. She didn't have the fat of a typical newborn, she was slender enough that we could see her heart beat, and she had bruising on her delicate body from the trauma of a too early trip into the world, but she was so perfect. She had the tiniest fingernails and the softest blond hair and the tiniest cry that I still sometimes wonder if I really heard it at all. She looked so much like her big brother - I guessed my husband would have the monopoly on the kids' appearances (her little brother would later break that trend). So perfect, and yet.... somehow perfect just wasn't enough. We received 137 minutes with her, and while we know every last one was a blessing, it still wasn't enough. We held her for several more hours. And then we went home, without our baby.
We would face making her final arrangements, planning services to remember her life, trying to explain death to our precocious, curious, and confused toddler. We had to say good-bye.
But that's not how her story would end either. We were determined to honor this precious life that God gave to us, to cherish every memory with which we were blessed, and to create a legacy for our child that just might make the world a little bit brighter because our "light" (the meaning of Elena) had shined, even if only for a brief time. Elena's Echoes was born of our grief and also of our hope.
Today we ask that you would help continue Elena's story. Each year for her birthday, since we are unable to give her a party, we choose a "project" on which to focus. This year we are donating to Mommies Enduring Neonatal Death (MEND) in Elena's memory. MEND is an amazing nonprofit organization that has helped us navigate this path. Some of my favorite things about supporting MEND are that it is run completely by volunteers - there are no paid positions meaning that ALL donations go to help families and that there are no charges for any of their services to bereaved families - help is offered freely to all those who ask. I realize that budgets are tight, but if you are able, please consider supporting this organization as a birthday gift to Elena. Donations can be mailed to M.E.N.D. P.O. Box 631566, Irving, TX 75063, online at http://mend.org/support/about-donations.jsp, or by phone (972) 506-9000. MEND requests the following information when donations are made: baby's name, date of birth/death, parents' names, and name of benefactor. If you have any questions, please contact me.
If you want to help us celebrate Elena's birthday but are unable to make a donation at this time, we would still appreciate you remembering her this month with an act of kindness in her honor - it can be anything, small or large. Just a few examples of things people have done in her honor in the past include donating blood in her memory, allowing someone to go ahead of them in line at the grocery store, paying for the lunch of the person behind them in the drive-thru, donating preemie hats and clothing to local hospital NICUs. Please let me know if you participate so that I can add your kindness to the "Elena's Echoes" page here on the blog and document the continuation of her beautiful story.
And the Good News we have in our faith is that this is still not how her story will end. We are confident that our daughter lives with our Lord in heaven and that we will someday be reunited with her and get to spend eternity with her. So her story, our story, doesn't have to end at all.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
Ugly Guilt and Failure
The ugly guilt... My body failed her. All she needed was to be carried, warm and safe, in my womb. I didn't need to do anything extraordinary, just what any other expecting mother does all day, every day, nothing special or heroic. I just needed to stay pregnant. But I couldn't do that one, normal, everyday, common thing. I failed, and that failure cost my daughter her life.
Nearly three years out, I don't normally sit here with the ache of guilt streaming down my face. I know that if I could have I would have moved heaven and earth for my child. If I could have just stayed pregnant by willing it to be I absolutely would have. Most days I am at peace with the fact that even though it was my body that failed, I did not do anything wrong. I did the best I could, and that was all I could do. It just is what it is.
But when my little boy asks for another sister and brother, asks about babies and when they arrive, why they grow inside mommies and why they are born later, when he wonders why his baby brother was on time but he was early and his sister was even earlier, why she couldn't grow on earth...well, the conversations can get difficult. And the words "Mommy's body didn't work like it was supposed to work, so Elena was too early, her lungs weren't ready yet" sure bring that guilt to the forefront. And shame. Having to tell my son that he had to stay in the hospital because he was early slapped those feelings of shame, of inadequacy, of guilt right across my face. It was my body's fault he got off to a rocky start. It was my body that failed him, that failed his sister and caused her death. I somehow feel like I owe him an apology, that I robbed him of time in the womb and a full-term birth, that I robbed him of his baby sister. It is one thing to wrestle with these feelings in my head, where logic and reason live beside the emotions, where the blame comes only from myself. It is quite another to stand, naked with vulnerability and simply stated facts, and admit to my child, "Elena died because Mommy's body didn't work right." And to fear that he may blame me too. And to know that it is a simple, unchanging fact. I failed her. I am so sorry, my sweet Elena. And I am sorry, my Sunshine Boy. And I am sorry, my Rainbow Baby. Please know that I would have given anything to make it different. I love you all, precious children of mine.
Nearly three years out, I don't normally sit here with the ache of guilt streaming down my face. I know that if I could have I would have moved heaven and earth for my child. If I could have just stayed pregnant by willing it to be I absolutely would have. Most days I am at peace with the fact that even though it was my body that failed, I did not do anything wrong. I did the best I could, and that was all I could do. It just is what it is.
But when my little boy asks for another sister and brother, asks about babies and when they arrive, why they grow inside mommies and why they are born later, when he wonders why his baby brother was on time but he was early and his sister was even earlier, why she couldn't grow on earth...well, the conversations can get difficult. And the words "Mommy's body didn't work like it was supposed to work, so Elena was too early, her lungs weren't ready yet" sure bring that guilt to the forefront. And shame. Having to tell my son that he had to stay in the hospital because he was early slapped those feelings of shame, of inadequacy, of guilt right across my face. It was my body's fault he got off to a rocky start. It was my body that failed him, that failed his sister and caused her death. I somehow feel like I owe him an apology, that I robbed him of time in the womb and a full-term birth, that I robbed him of his baby sister. It is one thing to wrestle with these feelings in my head, where logic and reason live beside the emotions, where the blame comes only from myself. It is quite another to stand, naked with vulnerability and simply stated facts, and admit to my child, "Elena died because Mommy's body didn't work right." And to fear that he may blame me too. And to know that it is a simple, unchanging fact. I failed her. I am so sorry, my sweet Elena. And I am sorry, my Sunshine Boy. And I am sorry, my Rainbow Baby. Please know that I would have given anything to make it different. I love you all, precious children of mine.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Missing Nana
My maternal grandmother lost her battle with cancer yesterday. She was the only one of my grandparents to see my children be born. It's hard...hard to see my grandmother suffer, hard to watch my mom go through losing her mom, hard to watch my oldest child go through the death of a loved one (he gets it so much more now than he did with Elena - he was really too young to understand much with Elena), hard to miss my Nana. I grew up knowing two of my Great-Grandmothers. Both lived into my teenage years. I am sad my kids won't get that. I guess no matter when it happens, it's never long enough, but I still feel like we didn't have her long enough. I love and miss you, Nana. Until we meet again....
Sunday, January 26, 2014
The Picture I Never Took
Driving last week with the boys, I passed the hospital. My Sunshine commented that his grandmother took him to the play area at the hospital when my Rainbow was born. I said that yes, that was true. He then asked if he was there when Elena was born. I told him that he was. "I don't remember. Mom, do you know remember how Elena looked? I don't remember that."
He was not quite 2 when she was born. He was able to meet her and see her. He remembered and talked about her for a long time, but I had figured that he would eventually forget, forget actually being there, and apparently now he has. I mourn again not getting a picture of him with Elena.
Why didn't I get that picture? The nurse even asked me if there were any other pictures we wanted after she had taken a couple dozen for us. I thought I should get one with her big brother, but I did not ask. I wasn't sure if it was appropriate. I wasn't sure how the nurse would react to that request, or what my husband or my mom would think about it either. I wasn't even sure where my mom and my son were - she had taken him out of the room to try to entertain him for a while, probably to the play area. And I was scared that he might hurt her. He was so little and a rough and tumble toddler, not yet very good about being gentle. I wanted him to hold her, but I couldn't help but feel terrified that he might hurt her. So I said no, there were no other pictures we needed, thank you for taking so many for us. And shortly after that, Elena died.
I am still so upset that I didn't take that picture. Both of my first two children were there, together in the delivery room, and I didn't photograph it. I have no pictures of them together. I have wished so many times that I had gotten a picture of them together. Now I wish it even more. I think he would appreciate so much seeing a picture of him with his sister instead of pictures of just her, to see that he was there and he met her instead of just hearing about it.
Failing to take that photo is one of my biggest regrets from that day. I wish I could redo it.
He was not quite 2 when she was born. He was able to meet her and see her. He remembered and talked about her for a long time, but I had figured that he would eventually forget, forget actually being there, and apparently now he has. I mourn again not getting a picture of him with Elena.
Why didn't I get that picture? The nurse even asked me if there were any other pictures we wanted after she had taken a couple dozen for us. I thought I should get one with her big brother, but I did not ask. I wasn't sure if it was appropriate. I wasn't sure how the nurse would react to that request, or what my husband or my mom would think about it either. I wasn't even sure where my mom and my son were - she had taken him out of the room to try to entertain him for a while, probably to the play area. And I was scared that he might hurt her. He was so little and a rough and tumble toddler, not yet very good about being gentle. I wanted him to hold her, but I couldn't help but feel terrified that he might hurt her. So I said no, there were no other pictures we needed, thank you for taking so many for us. And shortly after that, Elena died.
I am still so upset that I didn't take that picture. Both of my first two children were there, together in the delivery room, and I didn't photograph it. I have no pictures of them together. I have wished so many times that I had gotten a picture of them together. Now I wish it even more. I think he would appreciate so much seeing a picture of him with his sister instead of pictures of just her, to see that he was there and he met her instead of just hearing about it.
Failing to take that photo is one of my biggest regrets from that day. I wish I could redo it.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Dreaming Death
I find that I am still struggling lately. I am really missing
Elena, and I have had a lot of anger about her death recently.
Last Friday I took a (very short) nap on the
floor in my oldest's room while he played. I only slept about 10 minutes, but I
dreamt about Elena. In my dream I relived her death. She gasped for breath but
couldn't breathe. It was so real.
I am so very thankful we had time with
Elena on earth, but watching your child die...suffice it to say that it is the
hardest thing I have ever endured. It's difficult to have those images in my
head. And it's hard to shake the nightmares off.
Sunday, January 12, 2014
2014
Another new year is here already. 2014 will bring three years without Elena. An eternity? A blink of an eye? I'm not sure which, honestly. I guess some of both.
I've neglected her blog. I feel bad about that. I just haven't had it in me lately. I have to remind myself that a lack of blogging is not a lack of loving. And running out of words is not the same as running out of love. But there is a pang of guilt: perhaps I am failing her...again.
I've neglected her blog. I feel bad about that. I just haven't had it in me lately. I have to remind myself that a lack of blogging is not a lack of loving. And running out of words is not the same as running out of love. But there is a pang of guilt: perhaps I am failing her...again.
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