Eight

"Nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it." - Calla Quinn

Our Dear Elena,

It is said that "time heals all wounds," but that simply isn't true.  Only heaven will heal the hole in our hearts where you should be.  We see your absence in every family picture, hear it in every dinner conversation, feel it in every moment.  We miss you so very much, Sweet Princess, and long for the day we will hold you again.  We love you forever.  Happy 8th Birthday, Precious Baby Girl!

All our love,

Mommy, Daddy, and your brothers

❤    ❤    ❤  

She would be eight.  Eight.  It's my eldest's favorite number.  I remember being 8 - it may have just been my favorite year growing up.  She would be eight, and we're missing another year of who she would have been.  I miss her so much.  Every.Single.Day.

People often act as if any sign of mourning means unfaithfulness to God, as if hope and despair, joy and sorrow, faith and pain cannot coexist.  Yet even Jesus wept when his friend died.  Knowing that He was about to raise Lazarus from the grave, that His friend would be alive again that very hour, Jesus still showed grief in His weeping.  Grieving is not a sin.  But we are still so uncomfortable with it.

To avoid pain, people like to try to comfort others (and perhaps even themselves) by saying that everything will work out, that everything will be okay, that time will heal all wounds.  They don't like to see grief and offer any number of platitudes to try to hide it.  People like to believe that everything will work out fine in the end.  But sometimes everything is NOT okay in this life.  Sometimes it DOESN'T work out fine this side of heaven.  Not every story has a happy ending.

Nonetheless, I believe every story is beautiful.  Elena's story didn't get a happy ending here on earth (I believe she has the ultimate victory in Christ and is celebrating the final happily ever after, but I will grieve the ending of her earthly story until I'm reunited with her).  The ending of her earthly story is quite the opposite of happy or even okay - it's sad, traumatic, heartbreaking, agonizing, soul wrenching.  Yet so very beautiful.  So worth every tear, every moment that I've been brought to my knees in grief.  Her story is worth celebrating, even though it wasn't written the way we wanted.  Her story is as beautiful as she was - even more - her story is as beautiful as the One who redeems it, because He redeems it.  He takes these ashes in our stories and makes such beauty from them.

So today, Elena, we celebrate your birth.  We cry tears of anguish because we don't get to celebrate WITH you yet, but we celebrate nevertheless as we cling to the assurance through Christ that we will someday.  We thank God for the time we had you on earth, even if it was far shorter than we wanted.  We live with the despair at your absence side by side with the hope of eternity.  We allow the sorrow of your death and the joy of your life to comingle in our hearts.  We see both the ashes and the transformation of them, the beauty of your story and the impact you have made.  Happy Birthday, Sweetheart, we love you so very much.

To May 13

May 13....

You snuck up on me this year.  Between school activities, end of the school year events, practices, sporting games, musical recitals, other kid things, and several major projects going on at home, I somehow overlooked that you were almost here.  This morning hit me like a ton of bricks.  I was not expecting that.  May 13.  Here you are.  May 13 and the following 10 days are among the hardest of the year for me.  Eight years ago today I had Long John Silver's for lunch after working my typical half day Friday.  Eight years ago I picked up my napping toddler from preschool.  Eight years ago I realized my bleeding had picked up quite a bit.  Eight years ago I called my husband to come home from work to take me to the hospital.  Eight years ago I learned that I wasn't going to leave that hospital until my baby was born.  Eight years ago my daughter's life was in danger.  Eight years ago I was terrified.

May 13....

You mark the beginning of the end of my pregnancy with my sweet baby girl.  The last day I would step foot outside and breathe fresh air while carrying my precious baby.  The last time I would eat fast food fried fish without fighting back tears.  The last time I'd sit at our dining table without seeing an empty chair.  The last day I would drive a car without an empty seat in my rear view mirror.  The last time I would go to work before becoming the mother of a dead baby.  The last day time was measured simply as time and not divided into "before" and "after."  The last time I would be at home with my family complete.  The last day that life would ever be "normal" again.

May 13....

My little girl and I fought for 10 more days beyond you, but it wasn't long enough.  Seeing your number on the calendar brings so many painful memories crashing down around me.  So many what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.  Eight years ago, I was terrified, but I was hopeful.  Eight years ago I didn't yet know what our futures held.  Today I know how you play out, May 13.  Today I know that I would only have 10 more days with my sweet princess after you.  Today the missing of her aches especially hard.  Oh, May 13....

Flashbacks

Elena is not a "bad word" in our family.  Her brief life and her death have never been taboo topics in our household.  She is remembered, both in our hearts and in our conversations, daily.  With the passage of time and the healing that comes from the work of grief, of which talking is a huge role, these conversations that include Elena are not usually full of sorrow.  It's been my experience that most grieving parents, over time, find a way to separate the crushing grief of the death of their babies from the beautiful lives of their children.  I can talk about Elena all day long without crying.  I look forward to our reunion in heaven with joyful anticipation.  Elena is a cherished blessing to our family, and including her in conversation is not only normal for us, but makes me think of Paul's letter to the Philippians.  "I thank my God every time I remember you."  I thank God for the gift of my daughter, and I would not trade her existence even if it meant the pain of her absence would be gone.  I would do it all over again in a heartbeat, even if the outcome wouldn't change.  I love her.  I cherish her and her memory, hearing her name and talking about her.

For my living children, conversations about their sister are very normal.  I was reminded yesterday of the time a year ago when my preschooler replied to the man who commented about our crew walking out of the grocery store, "We have one more that's dead."  I am sure strangers are sometimes quite taken aback by their matter-of-fact way of speaking about the death of their sister (oh the stories I could tell about our conversations out in public), but this is all they know.  My oldest does not really remember much about life from the time before Elena, and my younger two were born into a family already missing a daughter.  A sister in heaven has always been their normal (or almost always, in the case of my oldest).  They are comfortable talking about her and are still learning the niceties that most in our society use in discussions of death and dying.  

While talking about my sweet baby girl brings joy to my heart, thinking of her actual death is difficult.  Occasionally when conversations shift more to her death, the weight of grief comes crashing down on me again.  This is our life, though, and sometimes it does come up, especially with her brothers.  They have so many questions as they grow up trying to make sense of the fact that they have a sister who died, a "baby" sister who is actually a big sister to two of them.  Their questions change as they mature and their understanding deepens.  My husband and I have always believed strongly in open, honest, age-appropriate dialogue concerning their sister.  We try very hard not to discourage any of their questions, even the difficult ones.  This morning brought one of the difficult ones, so I find myself here on the blog, processing the discussion with my keyboard and tears.  

After dropping off my oldest, my younger two boys asked about Elena's birth and death.  "How many minutes did she live?"  137 minutes.  "How many hours is that?"  2 hours and 17 minutes.  "Why did she die?"  (This one is asked frequently.)  She was born too early and her lungs were not developed enough.  My 6 year old then asked, "Did she cry?"  -I'm in a hospital bed, holding my newborn daughter in my arms.  She gasps for air, trying to breathe with lungs too underdeveloped to support her.  I hear a tiny cry as her mouth opens, as she fights to hold onto her life.-  Yes, I tell him, she did cry.  "Was she scared?  Is that why she cried?" -I gaze at my precious girl.  Her heartbeat is strong, but she does not open her eyes.  I wonder what color they are.  I wonder if she knows how much I love her.-  I tell him that babies have to adjust to the world that is louder, brighter, and colder than the warm snugness of their mom's wombs, and that's a new experience for them.  "Did it hurt her to die?"  -I know she is trying to breathe, and they won't do anything for her.  Her tiny body, not ready for a trip through the birth canal, is bruised.  "Is the NICU team coming?"  No, they won't bring anyone to help.  She's too premature.  The charge nurse periodically checks her pulse.  It's slowing but still beating.  We take pictures, bathe her, dress her.  Her skin is so fragile.  Seeing her bruises, watching her struggle for breath adds agony to my already aching heart.  My sweet baby!  Why won't someone help her?  The nurse checks her pulse once more.  It is gone.  It is 6:05 a.m.  She is gone.  The cry I hear next I do not recognize.  It is my own.-  So many times I've wondered if she hurt.  I couldn't help her.  I'm her mom, and I couldn't help her.  Imagining her feeling pain crushes me.  I usually try to stay far away from that train of thought now because it still wrecks me every time.  I don't know how to answer.  There is no pain in heaven.  -It is dark outside.  Our baby is coming.  My husband is not here yet.  Please hurry, please hurry.  Please.  He walks into the room.  The chaplain won't arrive for 20 minutes.  My husband asks repeatedly about a cup on my bedside table.  My brain will not process exactly what he's asking me or why.  I don't understand his obsession with this cup.  He fills it with water.  How can he be thirsty now?  I push.  It is 3:48 a.m.  We have a daughter.  Elena Marie.  Her heart is beating.  My husband, with that cup of water, baptizes her.  The nurse hands her to me.  We have a daughter.  She is beautiful.  She is baptized.-  There is no pain in heaven.  I cling to this reassurance.

"He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away." -Revelation 21:4