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
