Healing Moments

Happy birthday

2009-02-01T21:55:00.000-08:00

Well baby boy,
It's your third birthday. I find myself restless right now. I should be asleep, I should be dreaming sweet dreams and storing up on my sleep in case your brother and sister wake up before my alarm goes off. Your brother especially. But instead, I'm awake and thinking about you.

Your birthday snuck up on me this year, baby boy. I was laying in bed, thinking about tomorrow (which is now today) and thinking about all that would be going on, when it suddenly hit me. Your birthday. It was like all the air rushed out of my lungs for a second. How could I forget your birthday? What kind of mother am I?

And then I took comfort in what your grandma Joy says-- Life is for the living. I have been living, my son. But just because I'm living, moving forward, healing, it doesn't mean that you are not in my heart, that my heart doesn't sing to you with every beat that is within it.

Pastor Rich had his grandson dedicated a few weeks ago. Oh Henry, it was a wonderful affair! All the family gathered around to dedicate a child to God, to promise to raise him in a way that honors God. Afterward, your daddy and I talked about you, about how you were in our thoughts and in our hearts. I went and got out your pictures, baby boy. I pulled out your hand and feet prints and marvelled at the perfection of them. And even though I cried, even though my arms felt empty, even though my very being ached for you, I still had to praise the Father.

You see, I don't have to worry about you, dear child. I ache for you, but I don't worry about you.

For some reason, baby boy, whenever I think about you, I think about Grandpa too--- must be because you are his namesake. I was sitting the other day, and realized that I was sitting in my thinking position, exactly the same way that Gpa used to sit during the last days of his life. Elbows on knees, fists under chin, staring into space. I had to smile and shake myself a little.

One of the things that keeps me from losing it completely is the thought that you are there with Gpa. I have to believe that. I can't not believe it. I know some people think that religion is a crutch. If so, I'm leaning on my faith so hard right now. I've got to think that you and Gpa are in heaven together. I've got to believe that you welcomed your Great Great Gma this summer with open arms, as I know Gpa did. I've got to believe that you're praising the Father and giving him glory for eternity. So I'll hold on to that thought. I'll hold onto Jesus, til I see you again....

Wow, I feel so rambly tonight. But I can't seem to let go.

I look at your big brother and am amazed by the depth of love I have for him. I listen to him talk, watch him play games, and am just generally amazed by the child that he is. My heart almost breaks when I stop to consider how much I love him. And your sister--- oh baby boy. She is a trip. She's sweetly stubborn, beautiful, loves the spotlight, and is everything I could ask for in a daughter. My heart almost breaks when I stop to consider how much I love her. And you, punkin--- I picture you as a three year old--- I think you would have been my child with curly hair, with reddish hair, and greenish eyes--- your brother and sister take after your daddy so strongly in those attributes. I can see your smile in my head--- so sweet, so quick. And I can see your face as you pout, with big tears rolling down your beautiful cheeks. My heart almost breaks when I stop to consider how much I love you. I know that I'll never know what you would have REALLY looked like, what your personality would have REALLY been, but I'm content with that. Somehow, I feel like I do know, that God has given me the images I need in order to find peace.

Baby Boy. My child. Have a happy birthday. I will kiss your sister and brother many many times today--- after all, life is for the living, and I will make sure that they never doubt how much they are loved.

21 weeks

2008-10-06T19:18:00.000-07:00

God help me, sometimes it just hits me how much I lost when I lost you, baby boy.

I got to listen to a parent talk about her miracle child, the boy who is in my class, last week. He was born when you were. 21 weeks gestation. They did surgery on him, matured his organs. Oh my son. He made it. He's beautiful, he's so beautiful. And gosh darn it if I didn't get angry inside when I looked at him. Why couldn't it have been you? Why didn't you live? I KNOW that they couldn't fix what wasn't there. I know that fetal kidney transplants are beyond the current capabilities. I intellectually know all of this. But emotionally, oh baby boy, emotionally, I just wanted you to be alive.

And Saturday, your aunt Jenni called me. Her little sister (the one who we used to torment as kids) just lost a baby who was around your age. Oh Henry, my heart broke for Elizabeth. I know what it is to lose your son. I know what it is to hold the lifeless body of your child in your hands, to know that this precious life will never be fulfilled. I know what it is to hold in the rage and grief because no one can understand the pain that comes from losing one so small. I know what it is to feel as though your heart will never heal, to feel as though you'll never understand anything ever again.

Baby boy, today I got to see my student's scrapbook. His hand and foot prints from when he was born. And I thought of you. All day. All day long. Oh my baby boy. I long to hold you, to kiss you, to smell you, to stroke your hair, to feel your smooth skin under my finger tips. Please understand when I cuddle this student a little bit and pretend that he's you for a minute. I love you so dearly.

Kiss Grandpa Duck for me. Your great great grandma is with you now. Cuddle her a little bit for me.

Thinking of you

2008-07-09T19:49:00.000-07:00

I spent a long time talking with my step grandma about you, Henry. She too lost a baby at about the same age as you were. We talked about the differences. When she lost her little girl, she wasn't allowed to see her or hold her. I at least got to hold you, and have memories of you.

I miss you, Henry. Some days, the hurt is still so raw. I don't understand God. But I accept His plan, His will.

Losing a child. Sometimes, Henry, I wish that I had never had you grow inside of me. Sometimes I think that never having heard your heart beat, or seeing your face, would be better than having the feel of you burned into my hands and heart forever. I can still feel you in my hand, all 9 inches of you, all 9 oz of you. I can still see your perfectly formed body, your amazingly long fingers and toes. I still wonder whether or not you would have been my musician child.

But then--- the thought of never having you grow inside of me--- that leaves me empty too. I remember how betrayed I felt, how much of failure I felt like when I was trying to get pregnant, and how elated I was when I found out you were inside of me. I felt like I had succeeded, that I was a capable woman again.

Oh baby boy. I miss you. I really really really do. It's so unfair.

Happy Second Birthday, Son.

2008-02-03T16:55:00.000-08:00

Dear Henry,

I know I'm a day late, but please don't think we didn't think of you yesterday. We did. You were missed and loved yesterday.

As we were riding in the car, on our way to the grocery store, I said, "Today Baby Henry turns two in heaven." Your big brother wondered if you saw your shadow in Heaven because it was Groundhog Day. Your Daddy and I told him that you probably did, while you were playing with Gpa Duck. We asked him what he thought you were doing in Heaven, and he said, "Playing his baby PS2." Of course. Because he loves his PS2 and wants his brother to be happy up in Heaven--- so that means having a PS2.

The pain of giving you up to God is lessening. Every now and then, between your brother and sister, I get glimpses of the child that you might have been here on earth. Somehow it comforts me when the pain grips my heart too tightly.

Everyone says that it won't hurt someday, that I won't miss you someday. But I think they're wrong. I think that my heart will always ache a little for you. I think that I will always see glimpses of you in your brother and sister and will always miss you.

You are missed, beautiful boy. Have fun in Heaven and tell Gpa Duck not to tickle you so much. He was terrible for that when I was a kid.

Love,
Mommy.

Fifteen months old

2007-10-10T14:42:00.000-07:00

I got a Huggies coupon pamphlet today.

It said, "Your child is 15 months old this month."

At first I was confused. Because Ethan is five years old. And Kara is 8 months old. Then it hit me. Right in the gut.

Henry would have been 15 months old this month if he had been born in June, on his due date.

Grief can strike at any moment.

But just as quickly, blessings can strike.

And I have a whole multitude of those. Including the screaming child at my feet. Life is hard. God is good.

Happy Birthday.

2007-02-01T19:14:00.000-08:00

Dear Henry,
Tomorrow is your birthday. I really don't know what to say. Typically, birthdays mark another year of life for someone. For you, it marks a year since you were born and died.

I've missed you this year. My heart has broken many times over at the thought of all that I had dreamed for you and all that would never happen. I have looked at Sam, a little boy who was born a month after you should have been born and my heart aches and rejoices all at the same time. I see where you would have been had you lived. And I'm so happy for Sam because he is healthy and his parents love him. But I am so sad that you are not playing with Sam and experiencing life with him, as his mommy and I had planned.

I wonder how my life would have been if you had lived. Would I still be married to your dad? Would I be frustrated and tired because I would have another baby? Would I be getting a full night's sleep by now? Would your big brother be teaching you new things right now?

I know that I would not be having the baby that is growing inside of me right now. And my dear Henry, for as much as I love and miss you, I cannot imagine what my life would be like without this child that is growing inside of me, who will grace us with her presence in 16 days. I must thank you, thank God, for this gift of life that I am anxiously awaiting. It isn't fair that her life is at the expense of yours. I'll never understand that. I can't even begin to comprehend it. But there it is. There's nothing I can do about it. I can't make the choice to have you back, I can't make things any different than they are now. Sometimes that still makes me angry, my son. I want control so badly, I want to call all the shots. But I realize now, it's not always possible. And I've learned how to accept this.

When people ask me, "Is this your second child?" about this pregnancy, I hesitate. Because yes, she's my second living child. But I want to remember you. I want them to know that a piece of my heart is with you. And so I tell them that we had a son who was stillborn before this pregnancy.

I'm at peace with your birthday, Henry. That doesn't mean that I don't grieve for you, that I don't miss you. But I've come to accept what I cannot change. You live in mine and your dad's hearts. You will always be with us. Play a little with Grandpa Duck up there in Heaven, ok? Kiss him and tell him that your mommy misses him. Tell your Grandpa Tom that I wish I had gotten to meet him--- from all that I know, we would have gotten along like a house on fire. And I know that your big brother would want you to pet his cat, Lenny, for him.

My son, I love you.

Mommy

David and Goliath

2007-01-28T19:44:00.000-08:00

"David knew he could slay Goliath because he had already faced the bear and the lion."

I wish our pastor would warn us before he decides to use us in a sermon. :) Today he talked about David and Goliath--- how David stepped forward to slay Goliath, because he had already killed a bear and a lion, with God's help.

Our pastor mentioned us in his sermon--- how we faced our Goliath in the last year. Our loss, our relationship, and finally, the blessing of this pregnancy. I cried. Oh, how I cried. What's interesting is that I didn't know what the sermon was about. And my Sunday School lesson that I taught today was about loss and suffering and how God is faithful throughout those times.

I dunno. I'm reliving this week, last year, in my head. It tears me apart, but I still think that it is only in exposing the wounds that they can be healed.

Timing

2007-01-25T14:41:00.000-08:00

My grandpa died two years ago yesterday.
In two days, it will have been one year since we found out about Henry.

I find the timing so interesting for some reason.

My grandpa and grandma played a big part in raising my brother and me. There were times we called them "Dad and Mom." A lot of who I am was shaped by my grandparents.

When my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer, I can't say that I was too surprised. He had been losing weight and having pains for a while. He'd also been losing his memory and had beed diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I'll never forget teasing him about his memory loss (we could do that, he knew he was losing it and would make fun of himself) and telling him that I had to do something while he still remembered who I was. He looked me straight in the eye and told me that he would never forget who I was. And you know, he didn't.

I'm an organizer by nature. When my grandfather got it in his head that he HAD to have his office upstairs rearranged and organized, my mom tried to do it with him. That didn't last for very long. I went upstairs with him and let him direct me--- "Move that filing box there. Move those papers here. I want that. Marji needs that." For two hours I moved things with him and really, I still don't know why. Nothing was really changed when we were finished. But that was 2 hours that I got to spend with him. And I got to pretend to organize him. :) There really was no organizing Gpa. You'd think a military man would be more disciplined... but Gpa was a pack rat. And a junk food rat. It wasn't unusual to see a pile of papers beside the bed and a box of Crunch N Munch right beside it.

It took Grandpa eight weeks to die from the time that he was originally diagnosed with cancer. They live 7 hours away from me, so I went to their house every other weekend during that time. My mother had moved in with them to help take care of Gpa, and sometimes she just needed a full night's sleep. So I would try to give that to her.

I was certain that I would find out that I was pregnant right after Gpa's funeral. I just KNEW I would have a baby to name after him, a baby to carry on his spirit. At this point, my marriage wasn't so bad, having a baby would have been a good thing.

But I wasn't pregnant. And depression hit hard when Gpa died. I knew all the platitudes, but it didn't stop me from being angry that my children wouldn't get to know this wonderful man whom I loved so much. I have a tendency to shut down when I can't handle emotions. So that's what I did. I shut down emotionally. And that was the beginning of the roughest times for my marriage.

When I found out about Henry--- his incompatibility with life--- all I could do was scream at God --- "This was supposed to be a happy memory to offset my Gpa's death!" I was so angry. So very angry. Angry doesn't really even begin to describe the emotion. Blind rage.

But you've read the story of how I got past that anger and rage.

And here we are, that time of year again. I find that I'm a bit melancholy. But not angry. Not even sad, per se. I ache inside and I pull out Henry's hand and feet prints. I cuddle the blanket he was wrapped in. I look at the funeral notice with the picture of my grandpa that stays on my dresser. And strangely, I take comfort in those things. I did have a baby to name after my Gpa. My Gpa's name was Henry and my baby boy was Henry. It doesn't matter that I didn't get to see him grow, or that he was stillborn. He was still my boy and he is named after one of the best men I've ever known. And there's comfort in that, somehow. There's comfort in knowing that they're together, in Heaven, and my Gpa can play with his namesake in a way that he wouldn't have been able to play here on earth. That's my comfort.

I'm making it. I'm breathing. Grief is with us for a long time. But when we embrace it, roll with it, instead of fighting it, it heals so much faster.

And life goes on.

2007-01-12T06:51:00.000-08:00

So I looked and saw that my last post was June 21st. Two days before Henry's due date. Two days before I found out I was pregnant again.

Yes, I found out I was pregnant on Henry's due date. And I'll be delivering this baby on February 17th, fifteen days after Henry's birth and death.

As I read through the old posts, my tears began to flow. Because the emotions are still there, somewhere below the surface, but still there.

I didn't intend to get pregnant again. We didn't think I could get pregnant without fertility assistance. Everyone says, "God's timing!" and "God's grace and mercy." And yes, those are indeed wonderful things. But throughout this pregnancy, I've questioned those things.

You see, when I was pregnant with Henry, I was very unhappy with my marriage. I resented the fertility treatments that I was undergoing, feeling like I was doing this in an attempt to save my marriage and to keep my husband happy. Once I got pregnant, I resented that too. I dreamed, during my moments of extreme sickness (and there were many, let me tell you) that I would have a miscarriage, that the tests were wrong. I didn't want to stay in my marriage, and I knew that having another child would complicate the leaving process that I had planned in my head. It's not that I didn't want the baby-- I love babies and I truly view them as a blessing. But in addition to this one being a blessing, it was a block to leaving my marriage as quickly as possible.

But still I planned to leave. I've never been one to let obstacles stand in my way. If anything, they make me more determined. So I saved my money. I made inquiries about places to live. I checked out job opportunities in a different city. I researched day care costs and utilities and everything. I was serious.

And then January 27th happened. As the doctor said those words, "This condition is incompatible with life," I felt my heart collapse. I was all set for a weekend away right after the doctor's appointment. E was going to his grandparents for a week or so, and I was meeting them in a different state with him. While I was in that state, I was going to stay the weekend and "have a girl's weekend." Yeah, what I was really going to do was look at apartments and job prospects. Remember, I was serious.

I still went that weekend, but I spent most of it crying instead of hunting.

When I came home, my husband was in shock, just as I was. Yet, I kept myself distant from him, even then. I couldn't allow him to see my guilt, my grief, my confusion. If he knew that there were times that I had dreamed of losing this baby, how would he treat me then? The divorce surely wouldn't go so well, right?

The next week and a half was a whirlwind of doctor's appointments, discussions of procedures, evaluations of risks, and eventually, decisions. Thank God my mom was there to be a buffer and a support, and thank God E was with the other grandparents. We barely functioned during that time.

I wish I could say that giving birth to Henry with Aaron by my side, holding my hand, healed our marriage. I wish I could say that as he held me, I realized what a gift he was to me. But instead, it sealed me off more from him. I pushed him away even more.

But circumstances change. And one night, a night of brutal honesty, I told him everything. How I was planning on leaving, how unhappy I was, how I hated myself, what I had done to destroy our marriage... everything.

And he looked at me. He was hurt. He was angry. But he looked at me, and he said, "Do you want to try to make this work?" And I said, "I don't know. I guess so. I mean, we have to try, right?"

So we started counseling. His view was that we could and would make it through everything together-- losing Henry, my anger, my resentment, my unhappiness with our marriage. I wasn't nearly so optimistic. I had seen my parents try and fail. I knew it wouldn't be as easy as I wanted it to be. I was ready to give up before it began.

But we pushed forward, and by May, we had made progress with our grief and with our marriage. I still wasn't convinced that I was staying in my marriage, but I knew that was mainly my pride speaking. After all, how could I be so convinced about leaving my marriage, and then change my mind a few months later. I'm not that wishy washy, right? I had to tell myself that I had to keep my options open.

So in May, the inner turmoil got to be too much. I still ached, still wanted my baby-- the baby that I had resented! Oh, talk about guilt! My breasts were still producing milk. I had lost a boocoo of weight, and I was functioning very well on the surface. But not inside.

I came home from work sick on day. E wasn't with me, he stayed at daycare and a neighbor brought him home. As I sat on the couch, depressed, reading about Potters Syndrome and the chances of reoccurance (we had been talking in our counseling about whether or not we wanted to try again) the darkness overwhelmed me. I became frantic. I just wanted out, forever. I looked at the kitchen knives, but pain scares me. I looked in the medicine cabinet, but Aaron had thrown everything out soon after we lost Henry and I was wanting to die along with him. I finally thought, "The garage, the car! I can be comfortable." And so I got in my car. Closed the garage door. Turned on the car, rolled down all the windows, and listened to my Christian radio station. I cried. I got hot. I went inside for a few minutes--- thought about what I was doing--- texted Aaron. And climbed back in the car. Total, I was there for nearly two hours with the carbon monoxide filling the garage and the car. Aaron by this point, knew what was happening and called 911. They came, they took me to the hospital, and by God's grace (yes, God's grace!) there were no permanent physical damages. But they kept me in the psych ward for three days.
And there, my life changed. I was lonely. I was desolate. I was lost. All I had was God. Aaron could visit some, and I could use the phone. But there were crazy people who stalked you if you sat and talked on the phone for too long. So I stayed in my room for the most part and thought. And wrote. And cried. And begged God to heal me. That was my turning point. That was my lowest moment. That was when He reached down and pulled me close to Him.

When I got out of the hospital, the grief over Henry was still there. The grief and guilt from my actions were still there. My anger at Aaron was still there. But this time, I was acknowledging those feelings. I used to stuff them down, pretend they didn't really exist. And by stuffing them, I was giving them too much power over me.

It's amazing how a brush with death (even a voluntary brush) can change you. You appreciate life a bit more. You see the beauty in your child's eyes more. You see what your husband is doing to change things. And you see how selfish you are. And it humbles you. Humbles you right down to your knees.

A month later, we found out I was pregnant again. I was scared beyond belief. Why would God give me another child, knowing I had tried to kill myself just a few weeks before? Surely His clock was a little off? How could I deal with pregnancy again when I still grieved for Henry? Was this grace? Was this mercy? I didn't understand.

His grace was in forgiving me for my selfishness. And because He forgave me, because I asked for forgiveness, He gave me the greatest gift. Another chance--- a chance to see E grow up-- and a chance to love another baby again. His mercy has been evident throughout the past 8 months. When I've thought I would die, when I've thought I would suffocate from the pressure inside of my heart, He relieved me. He allowed me to see what was really going on inside, and He cradled me as I faced myself.

God's timing. God's grace. God's mercy. Only when we look back can we really see them.

Why did He let me get pregnant with Henry? Why did He let him die? Why did He give me free will? Ah, that's our God. I wanted to be pregnant in a mistaken attempt to save my marriage. He gave me the free will to make that choice, even if it wasn't the best one. Did He cause Henry to die? I can't grasp that concept. I believe He allowed life to take its course because of our actions. I do know that had I not lost Henry, I would no longer be married today. I would have left soon after he was born. I know this in my heart.

Now, my marriage is happier than it's been in a number of years. It is stronger, healthier, revitalized. We still have our problems, but our counseling has helped us learn how to communicate about those problems--- instead of letting them suffocate us with their silence. This pregnancy has been easy! And it's a baby girl--- which allows me to love this baby without feeling guilty. If it had been a boy, I would have felt like it was a "replacement" baby. But she's not.

I know the next few weeks might hit me hard. It'll be the anniversary of a lot of things. But I'm gonna try to acknowledge those emotions and roll with them, instead of fighting them. And I'm gonna give those emotions over to God, allow Him to filter them for me, and give back to me what is healthy and good to feel.

Life, thankfully, goes on.

Oh God

2006-06-21T20:03:00.000-07:00

Oh God, oh God, oh God,

Stand by Susan Ashton and Held by Natalie Grant have been in my heart all day. As I read the complete lyrics earlier this evening, I knew why.

Oh God. It is so hard to breathe. I do want to beat my chest right now. I want to run away. I want to hide. I want to cry. I want to be 9 months pregnant. Big, hot, sweaty.

Lord, I'd give up being this lovely size 8 to have Henry back. I'd so rather be heavy again than not have him. Oh God. Oh God. I'd go through being sick as a dog all over again, if I could just have him. It just hurts so much. I just want my baby. I don't understand. I don't want to understand. I just want to be done.

Why does it hurt so much, Lord? Please, tell me? When I had my miscarriage at 18, it wasn't this bad. Why is this so much worse? Why does this make my chest hurt? Why can't I get better? Why? GOD! WHY?????????? I hate this. I hate this situation. I hate it, God, I hate it! Do you hear me? I HATE IT! I HATE IT! I HATE IT. There aren't words to express how angry I am right now.

I want everyone to hurt like I do right now. I want to scream and let everyone hear my pain. I want to stop hurting. I hate this. God. I'm so angry. Why would you take my baby when I was a good mommy? Why do you give children to people who can't handle them? Dammit.

I know in a little bit, the lyrics will comfort me. I will embrace the pain. I will be held. I will stand, with my face to the wind, with the storm beating down. And You'll hold me, Lord. But right now, it's the storm and I have to feel wild and hurt.

Thank you, Lord.

I can. I can.

2006-06-18T21:35:00.000-07:00

If I can make it through til Saturday, I will be fine. Really. I'll put everything behind me.

See, here's my problem. I want to be the perfect person. I don't want to feel negative emotions. Hell, half the time, I simply don't want to feel. I wish that I could be driven by logic and reasoning rather than emotion. But it just doesn't seem to be the way that I am wired. Yet, reacting and using my emotions seems so, I don't know, weak, to me. As of yet, I haven't found strength in my emotions.

Yet, as my friend Melissa pointed out tonight, I feel things deeply. And it's true. I do. She says it is how God made me, and I guess she's right. I just don't understand why! I don't want to feel things so deeply. I know that I wouldn't be complete if I didn't feel as deeply as I do though.

Tonight, I'm awake. My emotions have kept me awake. I find myself fighting my emotions. And I wonder if it would just be easier to go with them instead of fighting them. Instead of pushing down my anger, my grief, my confusion, my fear, my whatever-- maybe I should acknowledge them. Would it take away their power if I acknowledged their existence? Would it do any good to scream? Would it do any good to cry?

When I'm on zoloft, my emotions are very numbed. I think tonight is the first time in a while that I've felt emotional enough to have tears come to my eyes. So perhaps I'll go roll with my emotions for a while. Perhaps I'll stand outside on the deck and let the warm wind blow through my mind. But then, that might be weird, since I'm in a nightgown. And it's 1 am. Yeah. Might be weird.

But I can make it through til Saturday. I can make it past Henry's due date on Friday. I can and I will.

Little Moments

2006-06-09T19:54:00.000-07:00

So today, I met with my new individual therapist. She's a keeper. I think I'll do well with her. Anyhow, we were talking about Henry, and the loss of my grandfather last year. We talked about God. She's a Christian.

I told her this story and I wanted to share it with y'all.

Yesterday evening, as we were on our way to an impromptu Reds game, this was the conversation between Ethan and I, with Aaron listening.

E-- "I miss Lenny (our old cat)."

J-- "I know, honey. Sometimes I miss Grandpa Duck a lot too."

E--"When will Lenny and Grandpa Duck and Baby Henry come back from Heaven?"

J--"Well honey, they won't. When you go to heaven, you don't want to come back to earth because you like being with God."

Silence.

E--"Oh. But when God and Jesus come again, we'll see them, right?"

J and A look at each other, wondering where THIS is going.

J--"Right."

E-- "And when God and Jesus come again, it will be the end of the days, right?"

J and A look at each other in confusion--- having NEVER talked with E about their beliefs as far as the end of time, and Jesus' return. And knowing that he's not learned about that section of theology in Sunday School...

J--"That's right, honey. How did you know that?"

E--"I dreamed it at rest time today."

Back to me here.

My therapist said that it's amazing how God reaches down to us, talks to us in ways that we can understand and listen. I agree.

Every Breath I Take

2006-04-21T20:43:00.000-07:00

It hurts so much this week. I have felt as though I cannot breathe completely all this week. I feel wrapped up, overwhelmed, surrounded, suffocated.

Our counselor gave me a grief cd to listen to. The songs on it wrench my heart, even as they heal it. But the terrible thing is, I'm torn between my grief over losing Henry (whose "real" due date comes up June 23rd) and thinking so much about my grandpa as I listen to the cd. Do you want to know something terrible in my mind? On January 26th, 2005, we buried my grandpa. On January 27, 2006, we found out that Henry was incompatible with life. A year and a day.

Do you know what I keep thinking? Dammit! "I was supposed to find out good news that week, good news that would offset the memories of grandpa dying and his funeral." Instead, I find out that my BABY is INCOMPATIBLE WITH LIFE! Why? Can someone answer me that? Please? Why?

Every breath hurts this week. Every single one. WIth every breath, I want to scream. With every breath, I want to hit something. With every breath, I feel helpless. And so I hug the Hethan a lot. And I push others away.

I told a friend that I felt distant today. This friend told me, like any good friend should, to eat ice cream. :) Yes, well. I did this evening. And I'm still crying now. Why?

Isn't it supposed to get better, as time passes? And yes, I am functioning a heck of a lot better. But I think, a lot of the time, that it's an act. My brain is just de sensitized to the reality these days. My heart still feels raw a lot of the time. So tell me, when does it get better? I need a schedule for my grief. I need a schedule for healing.

I need a schedule for breathing. I want to do it when it doesn't hurt so much.

Conversations with Children

2006-03-09T18:32:00.000-08:00

Children
me

The lunch table with the children today.

"Miss Jenette, are you having another baby?"
"No, not right now."
"Good. I don't like babies."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want them to cut the baby out of my tummy."
"They don't always have to do that."

Two minutes later.

"Miss Jenette, when I have a baby someday, it won't die. Your baby died because you didn't eat enough."
"No, honey, my baby died because he was missing a part of his body."
"What part?"
"Silly, he was missing his kidneys, Miss Karen said so."
"What are kidneys, Miss Jenette?"
"They're a part of your body that helps you go to the bathroom."
"Were your baby's kidneys floating around somewhere?"
I don't know. He just didn't have any kidneys inside of his body."
"I have kidneys."
"Yes, you do."

End of conversation.
Lunch. Not my favorite time some days.

What to say?

2006-02-28T17:25:00.000-08:00

As I was driving to our counseling appointment today, I kept reliving the moment that I gave birth to Henry over and over in my head. I remember so clearly the pressure, the need to push, and telling Emily, Aaron's sister, that I felt something. She got the doctor (Emily is a Labor and Delivery nurse at the hospital where we delivered) and they told me to go ahead and push. I passed a large blood clot (sorry) and I remember that Emily, the other nurse, and the doctor all looked at each other. Then I told them that I felt more pressure, more need to push. They told me to go ahead, and with one push and a lot of sobbing, I gave birth to Henry.

It's the sobbing that I keep remembering. My mom was at my head, Aaron was holding my hand. And as I felt the need to push, all I could think about was the fact that my baby was dead, that this was the end of the journey for him. All I could do was sob. I didn't REALLY want to give birth, not to that end. But I didn't have a choice.

I'm reading CS Lewis' "A Grief Observed," and it's good. In the very first part, Lewis questions where God is when we face this grief of losing someone we love. Here are some exerpts that I wish I could have underlined. But we don't underline books in our house :) I don't know that I'll always feel this way, but sometimes, in my darkest moments, these are the sort of thoughts that go through my head. I'll leave you with these words from CS Lewis. But know, I haven't given over to my grief. I am merely trying to find the way to flow with it, without being swept away.

Meanwhile, where is God? This is one of the most disquieting symptoms [of grief]. When you are happy, so happy that you have no sense of needing Him, so happy that you are tempted to feel His claims upon you as an interruption, if you remember youself and turn to Him with gratitude and praise you will be- or so it feels- welcomed with open arms. But go to Him when your need is desperate, when all other help is vain, and what do you find? A door slammed in your face, and a sound of bolting and double bolting on the inside. After that, silence. You may as well turn away. The longer you wait, the more emphatic the silence will become. There are no lights in the windows. It might be an empty house. Was it ever inhabited? It seemed so once. And that seeming was as strong as this. What can this mean? Why is He so present a commander in our time of prosperity and so very absent a help in time of trouble?

I tried to put some of these thoughts to C. this afternoon. He reminded me that the same thing seems to have happened to Christ:'Why hast thou forsaken me?' I know. Does that make it easier to understand?

Not that I am ( I think) in much danger of ceasing to belive in God. The read danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about Him. The concusion I dread is not 'So there's no God after all,' but 'So this is what God's really like. Deceive yourself no longer.'

I'll be buying stock...

2006-02-14T06:48:00.000-08:00

in helium balloons.

So Ethan and I got to talking about his baby brother yesterday. We talked about how his baby brother had to go to heaven and would grow up there. We talked about how we could go outside and wave up to heaven so his baby brother could see us. Then we talked about drawing a picture for his brother, and Ethan wanted to know how we would get the picture to heaven. So we decided that balloons that fly would make it up to heaven and we could use those to get stuff to his baby brother.

So we're going to be buying lots of helium balloons for the Hethan. Perhaps we should invest in one of those helium tanks. :)

Buried

2006-02-10T08:14:00.000-08:00

I'm at my grandmother's. I'm showered. Dressed. Teeth are brushed. I've been upstairs to check on Gma and to spend some time with her. I know she knows that I'm not well today, because I didn't sit in my usual place or talk her ear off. Usually when I come home, I sit on the bench at the kitchen table, with a glass of water or sweet tea (TEE, April, not TAY) and talk talk talk talk talk. Even when I've been sad before, I can always talk talk talk talk to gma.

But I feel buried today. My chest is crushed down. It is so hard to breathe. I might take gma's Mustang out and drive for a while.

But I can still breathe.

Off to Heal

2006-02-08T12:36:00.000-08:00

I feel a little guilty. I'm leaving Aaron alone for 7 days.

I'm flying to Georgia tonight. Staying the night with some friends, then hitching a ride up to my hometown, two hours north of Atlanta. I'll stay at my grandmother's house until Sunday or Monday, and then hitch a ride to Columbia, S.C. to be with Aaron's parents and the Hethan. We'll all fly back to Ohio on the 15th.

For me, it will hopefully be a time of healing. Going to my home in the mountains always soothes my soul. I look forward to seeing my childhood best friend (still my best friend today), my grandmothers, my mom and step dad, my step-siblings, and my brother and his wife. Most especially, I look forward to Mom, Gma, Jenni, and Jon. I don't have to pretend in front of them. And then I can get my Hethan hugs and cuddles in S.C.

But back to feeling guilty. Aaron will be all alone for 7 days. I worry about him, though he reassures me that he needs some time alone to grieve. So I'm going to trust him. But I still feel guilty.

Incompatible with Life

2006-02-07T19:38:00.000-08:00

I have come to hate that phrase. Let it be known.

First Post

2006-02-07T15:35:00.000-08:00

Most of my Musings readers know what we've been dealing with lately. Making the choice to end our pregnancy because our child was not viable was a hard choice. Though I know it made sense logically and humanely, it made no sense emotionally.

I like writing about my thoughts. I don't do so well when it comes to speaking about our loss just yet. Everyone has offered to be there, to be an ear, a shoulder, whatever part of the body we need. And I really love that. I wish I could take them up on it. The problem is, I find that I have no spoken words to express my grief. When I begin to talk, I start to cry. And when I start to cry, I just kinda lose it. So I can write, and if I cry, I can take a break.

People want to know how we're doing. All I can say is that we're breathing. Aaron says that we're doing as well as can be expected. It's true. I don't necessarily want to be honest when people ask me how I'm doing. If I answered every person honestly, it would be something like this: "I start each day wondering if everything was a dream. By the time I've showered and gotten dressed, I realise that it wasn't a dream. By the time I get some food in me, I've come to terms with my loss for a while. By the time midafternoon rolls around, I'm starting to feel confused. By the time 6 pm rolls around, it's an effort to breathe, much less speak. By the time I get to bed, all I want to do is cry." That's the honest answer. Each moment is different.

I get sick of crying. I get sick of thinking about everything. It just makes me mad. I just want to kick someone or something. I just want to be finished with this whole process. I don't want to cry anymore. I want everything to be ok again. I just don't know how to make it ok again.

I hope someday that they come up with a cure for Potter's Syndrome. I hope they can identify the genes that cause it. I pray that no one else that I know ever has to go through this heartbreak. Losing a child, whether it is a "live" child, or a child in utero, has got to be the hardest thing on a family ever.

Breathe.