Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking the last few weeks. Thinking about my family. Thinking about the harsh words that have flown around, and about the judgments that have been passed. I truly have NOTHING to be ashamed of, and I will NOT hide like I have done something wrong. I won’t hide my blog or my journal entries or my thoughts and feelings just because somebody else thinks differently than I know to be true. I claim my imperfections as my OWN. I own the areas I have to grown within, and I also own the areas of my life that I have soared though. For those that are with me, bless you. For those of you that judge me, don’t understand me, mock me, and try to hurt me, I DON’T CARE. There is no room for you in my life. Not now, not before, not ever.
Christmas? Bummer. I tried, I TRIED so hard this year to keep everything normal and bubbly and happy. I think I did a pretty good job. I did a good job at hiding my sadness, and I did a good job not raining on anyone’s parade. My kids had a BLAST. They felt joy, and I felt proud of myself that I was able to give them that. They felt loved and adored and appreciated and spoiled. I felt empty, angry, and sad. I still do. I know the “reason for the season”, and I know I have much to be thankful for, but I still miss my boy. Christmas this year wasn’t the same without him. I cringe when I think about last Christmas. I was 20 weeks along, sailing through the holidays, convinced as ever that I was carrying a healthy robust baby. On January 15th that air was let out of my sails in a big way. Never again to be the same Misty. Never again.
I think about this baby I am carrying. We prayed for this baby. We prayed to conceive him or her. We prayed for the answer to know when it was appropriate to allow for the chance to become pregnant again. We carefully spoke to the children about having another sibling in the family, and what that meant, and how they felt. I took my vitamins and folic acid for months before, and continue every day to take them now. I wish MORE than anything that I could feel safe and secure in this dream for our family. I wish I could feel more joy. I wish I could walk around pregnant the way I used to before I had a dead baby. I wish I believed like I used to that nothing would go wrong. I wish I could allow myself to bond to this baby, to fully trust in the Lord. I am scared shitless. Scared out of my head and heart. Scared shitless.
I KNOW things can go wrong. What happens if they go wrong again?? Would God ask this of me and my family again? Could I carry another baby to term that would die again?? How on earth could I do it twice? I pray, with every thought, that this will not be so. God promised me, in his own way, that this child that I am carrying now will be healthy. That this child will live. How on earth can I muster up the faith to whole heartedly believe in that?? I am trying. Trying and trying, and believing and believing, and praying and praying.
So now we wait. We wait and pray and look for the beauty in all things. We praise God for this blessing and beg His Son to carry us through. I can’t do it alone. It takes every ounce of my energy to just be. To just be the wife and mother that I already am. I take care of my family. I take care of myself. I hold down my job, and take care of my home - - but right now there isn’t much left over - - not much left over for extended family, for church, for life outside of my bubble.
Pray and believe with me that this baby will be well. That we will experience this joy again, and that I can live day to day feeling blessed to have been given the gift of another pregnancy in my life. Next year could be so different. SO different. Journey with me there, won’t you??
Thursday, December 10, 2009
My sweetest Isaac is behind my every thought. How we miss him, and love him.
We're plowing through the holidays - getting prepared and embracing joy as joy finds us.
As promised, lets have today be the *late* start of our holiday give-aways!
Go HERE to view a hand crafted bracelet honoring infant and pregnancy loss, as well as SIDS awareness. Sue, the owner of My Forever Child, graciously donated this item to help me thank YOU for walking this journey with me. If you're looking for a piece of remembrance jewelry, look no further. She's your woman, and she'll do what it takes to guarantee your satisfaction.
Want to win? Leave me a comment. I want to know who you are and what has led you to my blog. It's about time I got to know you better.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
I have my tree up. We'll decorate it while we make our Thanksgiving feast, which is actually our tradition, but it's been up a while. With gifts wrapped in lovely paper, bows, matching tags. Christmas is soothing to me. The lights of the tree soothes my nerves. Gifts under my tree represent love and joy, and the magic of childhood.
Christmas was not always like that for me. Living with my parents we were lucky to help decorate the tree, if that happened at all. We were not allowed in the living room, ever, to look at the tree. My parents were very unimpressed with the holiday. We were given very generic gifts - gloves, boots, socks - - all came in sets of threes, all the same color, same style. It didn't matter if you were a boy or girl. I don't remember a single toy my parents (or Santa) ever brought me. Not one. There was no joy behind gift giving and no joy behind shopping for that perfect gift. We were lucky to even have our look-a-like gifts - - my parents didn't think anything of doing away with holidays - - no trick or treating, no Easter baskets...... none of it.
All of the things my parents hated about Christmas, I ADORE. I love shopping for those I love. I love finding the perfect gift. I love pouring over toys and selecting ones I know my children will love. I love the hunt to maximize my money. I love gifts under the tree. Gifts, for me, represent love. They represent the love and joy I have over the holidays, over my family, over the magic of the season.
This Christmas represents the love I have for my God and for my Savior. I've had a hard time showing it. Feeling it even. When I listen to the stirring music of the season my heart thumps in my chest as a testimony I have. I find myself crying as I listen, as I feel the reason of the season. God lives. Christ lives. I identify with the sacrifice that was given. I gave up my boy. God did the same.
I miss my sweet Isaac with every breath that I have. Many times my heart hurts so that I fear that it will break from the physical pain I feel. I have a weary heart, sweet friends. Such a weary, sad heart.
The greatest gift I gave this year was life. I gave life to my boy, even though I knew he would die. His spirit was tenderly given a body, no matter how broken it was. He was - correction he IS - the most valiant and pure child - spirit, even - that I have ever been fortunate to come into contact with. I am thankful for him, for his life, for what he has given me. His sweet face will never be erased from my mind. Those full cheeks and loving eyes, and his mighty soul. I will never forget the mightiness of his spirit and the army angels he showed up with. He is my soldier in heaven. Always. And I am his Mama, always. No one, no one can ever change that.
Sweet dreams, sweet baby boy, but I have a feeling there is not sleeping to be had in heaven.
PS: Come back soon, if you will. We're kicking off the holidays with a series of giveaways. The catch? Getting to KNOW you, my reader.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Isaac died April 8th. The morning of April 9th Andrew and I made the decision that by 8am, we would call the mortician to come for the baby. I remember feeling very angry when I spoke to the nurse about hospital protocol. She told me that Andrew and I would have to call the mortician to take IT away, that we would have to decide what time was best. I remember clutching Isaac to my chest and thinking how dare she call my baby an IT. She wouldn't be calling a LIVE baby an IT. What a bitch. I hurt too badly to do anything about it.
I had spent the night before beating myself up for being so tired. I was so frustrated with myself because I wanted to spend every second with Isaac that I could. I counted the hours down. I kept telling myself... I can hold him 8 more hours... then 5 more hours.... then two, then one. Then the moment came when Isaac was taken from my arms. Nothing has ever hurt me more. How could this be? How could this be that my baby was dead? That I was in these shoes? Not me. This was not for me. The craziness, where my mind went, the rocking back and forth until I fell against my pillow not being able to fight anymore. That. Was. Not. Me. Yet it was.
I asked the doctor to let me leave. I was able to the next morning. Lisa spent the night with me, Andrew was with the kids. All I could think about was how I was going to get the hell out of the hospital. Being stuck in that room. Listening to other new born babies cry. My baby was lieing dead and cold on some metal slab. I was stuck on the Mother Baby floor of the hospital like some sick joke.
Andrew came to take me home. I walked in like a zombie. Home. Not pregnant. No baby. Easter was a few days away. I phoned the funeral home, they could squeeze us in to dress the baby for burial. We had a 2 hour slot. I remember how fortunate I felt that we had 2 WHOLE hours. That seemed worth it's weight in gold. So off we went - Andrew, the children, and I. We walked in the small little room, and there Isaac lay, and he looked so perfect. He's beautiful, I told the mortician. The man that had cared for Isaac had done such a lovely job. He looked perfect. We took the children out, so that I could change Isaac's hat. We didn't want the children to see Isaac's missing head, and I was touched to see that the mortician had constructed the missing part of Isaac's head out of some sturdy material, so that his hat would fit nicely. We hadn't even asked for that. I was very touched by that gesture. Hannah and Ian wanted to help dress him, so I allowed that. We sat and held the baby, and Andrew took the children back to the car so that I could have a minute alone.
I laid Isaac on the table and fiddled with his blanket. He looked perfect to me. And yet there he was, lieing next to his casket. I picked him back up and held him close to my face and whispered to him how much I loved him. The man slipped back into the room, and asked if I wanted pictures with the baby. He took a couple. Sweet man.
I walked out of the room, in pain from my surgery, and stumbled to the car. Headed back home. Still no baby. Still empty arms. Still broken-hearted.
I relive that day still. Sometimes every day. It's still not me. How can this broken-hearted mother still be me?
Sunday, November 8, 2009
All of the earth's Mothers were gathered at God's garden of flowers;
Those beautiful budding spirits
Who could someday come to earth
Were nurtured and tended in the Holy garden.
A Loving Father spoke to the Mothers of earth.
"See the works of my hands,
Someday you will be the mother's of these radiant spirits."
The Garden of God glowed with a mixture of all of the colors.
"Choose ye", He said.
Now in the East corner of the garden
Pure white roses stood as sentinels.
They were not so colorful as the rest,
But glowed with a kind of purity
Which set them apart.
One by One the Mothers stepped forward;
"I want the blue eyes one, the curly haired one,
Who will grow to maturity and be a mother in Zion."
Yet another chose a brown eyed brown haired boy,
Full of life and love
That would someday be a prince in a grand country.
The Garden buzzed with excitement as the others with their own special spirits
Those they would soon welcome into the warmth
And love of an earthy home.
Once again, Heavenly Father spoke;
"But who will take the White Roses,
The ones in the east corner of my garden?
These will return to me in purity and goodness.
They will not stay long in your home
For I must bring them back to my garden
For they belong to me
But they will gain bodies as planned
You will miss them
And Long for them
But I will personally care for them"
"NO!,NOT I" many of the earthly Mothers said in unison.
"I couldn’t bear to give one back so soon"
"Nor I" said other mothers.
We will take those who will remain and grow to maturity
and live long lives.
The Heavenly Father looked out across the multitude of Mothers
With longing in his eyes for someone to step forward
Then Heavenly Father said;
"See the most pure white and perfect of all the white ones?
I chose him.
He will go down and be a sacrifice for all mankind.
He will be scorned, mocked and crucified.
He is my OWN,
Will not anyone choose like unto Him?"
A few mothers stepped forward
Yes Lord I will
Then another as well
And then some in unison said YES we will
Soon all the pure white roses were taken
And they rejoiced in the choice in their mothers.
Heavenly Father spoke again
"Oh blessed are you who chose the white roses.
Your pain will be a Heavy Cross to bear
But your joy will be exceeding
Beyond anything you can understand at this time."
The white one embraced their mothers
And so full was their purity and love
That it filled their souls with such excitement.
Each mother knew they could endure the tasks.
The GREATEST of all the white roses gathered them
As a hen gathers her chicks
And the out pouring of love surrounded each mother and child,
Consuming all the white ones and their mothers
As he prepared them for their task.
Each mother who bore the weight of the white rose
Felt the overwhelming Love of God
As they all shouted
"Thy Will be Done"
"Parents who have surrendered the sweetest and smallest flowers from the family's garden need to remember our Heavenly Father. He has promised a special reward to those who now suffer in silence, who spend long days and longer nights through their trying times of bereavement. Our Creator has promised glory. He said, 'For after much tribulation come the blessings. Wherefore the day cometh that ye shall be crowned with much glory; the hour is not yet, but nigh at hand.' (D&C 58:4) That promised glory includes the blessing of reunion with each child who has left the family circle to help surviving members of the family to draw nearer to God. Those children still live and are a heritage to the Lord." Russell M. Nelson
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
I am wearing a pair of shoes. They are ugly shoes. Uncomfortable shoes. I hate my shoes. Each day I wear them, and each day I wish I had another pair. Some days my shoes hurt so bad that I do not think I can take another step. Yet, I continue to wear them. I get funny looks wearing these shoes. They are looks of sympathy. I can tell in others eyes that they are glad they are my shoes and not theirs. They never talk about my shoes. To learn how awful my shoes are might make them uncomfortable. To truly understand these shoes you must walk in them. But, once you put them on, you can never take them off. I now realize that I am not the only one who wears these shoes. There are many pairs in this world. Some women are like me and ache daily as they try and walk in them. Some have learned how to walk in them so they don't hurt quite as much. Some have worn the shoes so long that days will go by before they think about how much they hurt. No woman deserves to wear these shoes. Yet, because of these shoes I am a stronger woman. These shoes have given me the strength to face anything. They have made me who I am. I will forever walk in the shoes of a woman who has lost a child.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
I’ll admit I’ve been frustrated. I’ve been frustrated with the lack of understanding from person to person. The struggle to get pregnant is a very personal one. For someone to tell me to “be positive” about it is offensive. They don’t know my inner struggle with intimacy. They don’t know how desperate I feel about having another child. Trying to get pregnant after losing a child is different than plain old trying to get pregnant. Trying to get pregnant WITH fertility issues is different than trying to get pregnant without. Having gotten pregnant easily, right after your baby died, is different than waiting now 7 months to become pregnant after your baby died. Trying for 18 months, is different than trying for 7. It’s a touchy subject for me. I don’t necessarily want someone else’s opinion. You read that right - - I DON’T.
I don’t like to be asked if I’m pregnant yet. I don’t like someone to ask where I am in my cycle or treatment process. Looking back over the last couple months has made me evaluate how much I want to share – what is too much, and what is too little. I think it all really boils down to how I feel about it - - if I want someone to know about it, I’ll share. Otherwise, don’t bother bringing it up. Like it isn’t a smack in the face?? Like it’s your business??
I’m starting to feel more excited for the holidays. My heartache is so heavy and constant over Isaac being dead, but we’re finding ways to include him. He’s mine. He’s unique, he’s real. I would have done for him had he lived, why should I lose out on that now??
Below are the kids for Halloween. They are darling. They give me so much joy. I’ll admit I think about the blessing of being able to “start over” with a new baby ALL of the time, but it has not taken away how much I LOVE my older babies now. I cherish and enjoy each and every day with them - - because really, who is to say that this isn’t it for me, too?? Love who you have. All the time.
Olivia as a clown.
Ian as a ninja.
Hannah as a butterfly.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
There is a lack of understanding when it comes to trying to conceive after you've had a child die. I'd had a lot of reactions. Most reactions could have been remedied with my middle finger, but I chose the higher ground. To ignore. To bite my tongue. Some people just don't get it.
They don't get what this next baby means to me. This next baby means that I am NOT done bearing children. This next baby means hope. Means new life. Means another chance. Another dream. This child means a dream come true. There is NOTHING more important to me, besides my faith, my husband, that compares to how I feel about motherhood. It IS my calling in life.
This next child does not mean I am replacing my dead child. Isaac's place in our family is secure and forever. The desire to raise another child did not die along with Isaac. The desire grew.
When Isaac died, my security did. The security I placed in knowing my dreams would come true died with him. People say to me "at least you KNOW you can get pregnant again". People say "at least you KNOW you can have healthy children".
Do I KNOW that? No. No, I do not. I "KNEW" Isaac would be born and that he was mine to raise. I took my pregnancy for granted. What I did not "know", was what was ahead. I did not KNOW he would die. I did not KNOW he would be diagnosed with a fatal birth defect, that he would die in my arms.
I do now KNOW if I can get pregnant again. I do not KNOW if I will have a healthy baby. My fate isn't my own choice. All I KNOW is that I want another baby. All I KNOW is that I am going to try. I don't KNOW if I have faith. I don't KNOW if God hears me.
All I have is my dream. And what is most important to me. For now anyway.
I know I am broken. That I am tired. That all I have right now is what I can claim for myself that is tangible. All I have is my dreams, what ever is left of them. That's what I KNOW. Anything beyond that? Some one else has those answers.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
I stumbled across this website this morning: www.recover-from-grief.com. I pulled off the information below:
7 Stages of Grief...
1. SHOCK & DENIAL-
You will probably react to learning of the loss with numbed disbelief. You may deny the reality of the loss at some level, in order to avoid the pain. Shock provides emotional protection from being overwhelmed all at once. This may last for weeks.
2. PAIN & GUILT-
As the shock wears off, it is replaced with the suffering of unbelievable pain. Although excruciating and almost unbearable, it is important that you experience the pain fully, and not hide it, avoid it or escape from it with alcohol or drugs.
You may have guilty feelings or remorse over things you did or didn't do with your loved one. Life feels chaotic and scary during this phase.
3. ANGER & BARGAINING-
Frustration gives way to anger, and you may lash out and lay unwarranted blame for the death on someone else. Please try to control this, as permanent damage to your relationships may result. This is a time for the release of bottled up emotion.
You may rail against fate, questioning "Why me?" You may also try to bargain in vain with the powers that be for a way out of your despair ("I will never drink again if you just bring him back")
4. "DEPRESSION", REFLECTION, LONELINESS-
Just when your friends may think you should be getting on with your life, a long period of sad reflection will likely overtake you. This is a normal stage of grief, so do not be "talked out of it" by well-meaning outsiders. Encouragement from others is not helpful to you during this stage of grieving.
During this time, you finally realize the true magnitude of your loss, and it depresses you. You may isolate yourself on purpose, reflect on things you did with your lost one, and focus on memories of the past. You may sense feelings of emptiness or despair.
5. THE UPWARD TURN-
As you start to adjust to life without your dear one, your life becomes a little calmer and more organized. Your physical symptoms lessen, and your "depression" begins to lift slightly.
6. RECONSTRUCTION & WORKING THROUGH-
As you become more functional, your mind starts working again, and you will find yourself seeking realistic solutions to problems posed by life without your loved one. You will start to work on practical and financial problems and reconstructing yourself and your life without him or her.
7. ACCEPTANCE & HOPE-
During this, the last of the seven stages in this grief model, you learn to accept and deal with the reality of your situation. Acceptance does not necessarily mean instant happiness. Given the pain and turmoil you have experienced, you can never return to the carefree, untroubled YOU that existed before this tragedy. But you will find a way forward.
You will start to look forward and actually plan things for the future. Eventually, you will be able to think about your lost loved one without pain; sadness, yes, but the wrenching pain will be gone. You will once again anticipate some good times to come, and yes, even find joy again in the experience of living.
Monday, September 21, 2009
I am sitting here tonight. It's 11:33pm. I have the STRONGEST compulsion to get a pregnancy test. Actually I have three shoved in the hall closet, but I REALLY want to take one and I REALLY want to see a positive. Trouble is, I REALLY should not be testing until the end of the month. Testing you ask?? YES. Testing. This is the first month Andrew and I allowed for a pregnancy to occur. I was able to start one of my fertility treatments, which showed success, so could this be the month??? Ya think??? Maybe???
What happens if it is not??
I think I might be a little heartbroken. Maybe even a lot. But. I have a plan B. I can go into my OBGYN and get my hands on the other 2 meds I've needed in the past to produce ovulation. So if not this month. Maybe one soon.
I REALLY want it to be this month. Don't you REALLY want it to be this month for me too??
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Life changes, doesn't it, after you experience a loss?? And I'm talking all loss - - a parent, a friend, a spouse, a child. Let's get grieving out in the open. This is how we're going to do this.
ALL comment are to be shared anonymously. I will change my settings for this specific post. This is what I am looking for: I want to know how your life has changed during your grieving process. It's all out there: marriages change, friendships change, your family dynamic changes, your personality, feelings, dreams - - it ALL changes. It's private. It's heart breaking. It's hard to talk about it, share about. It is for me. The really secret stuff.
This is your time to let it all hang out. Tell me how your life has changed. After all the comments are in, I'm simply going to post them.
Let's not travel alone in this.
I'm ready to share, are you??
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
I was not meaning to blow off the few friends I have that have done their best to be here for me. I have had a friend being meals into my home. I've had a neighbor bring bread and flowers. I've had care packages in the mail. I have a friend that curled up by me on the couch as I cried for my sweet boy. I've had emails, a play date or two, a phone call from time to time.
What I wanted to explain is what I have needed, that another bereaved mother has provided to me in friendship:
1. I don't have to worry about talking about my son too much. I don't have to worry about making some one feel awkward.
2. I can talk to her about how my marriage has changed.
3. I can talk to her about this sadness has changed every day life.
3. I can talk to her about how much I love my boy, but she understands how much I hurt because I miss him.
4. She can understand that the constant care, and checking in, and cute emails and notes is something I love. I need people to remember, because I hurt every day.
5. I know she won't tire of my journey because she is journeying the same one. I know she is patient with me, and understands why I would and still do hurt. She understands that it's possible to hurt, even if you have faith in God, and she understands it's possible to hurt, even if you have moments of joy. I don't feel judged by her.
It's not that I don't appreciate what others have done for me, but I appreciate having a friend, too, that is in my same boat.
I'm sorry if I hurt anyone's feelings. I guess it's just how it is sometimes.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Some days I wonder why I blog. It is really in my best interest that I wear my heart on my sleeve? Bare my soul? Let it all hang out? I think it’s best that I have an outlet. I also think it’s best that I share in case some other bereaved mother happens across what I’ve written and doesn’t feel alone. That’s the real reason. I feel alone now. Someone else should not have to.
I generally don’t throw pity parties for myself. I was raised to “shut the hell up”. You don’t cry. You don’t complain. You don’t moan. You are not weak. You pretend what is happening is ok. You look the other way. I’ve had a lot of practice being closed off, pretending not to hurt, keeping my tears in. I found myself over 2 facebook chats tonight being honest. I reached out, over my chocolate cake, and admitted how lost I feel. And then the chatting turned into me sobbing like a maniac over my computer screen. And for a moment, I felt a little better. God made facebook for me. He and I aren’t really on speaking terms right now, so He gave me facebook chat, right?
I was talking to one of my greatest friends tonight. She lost her Noah to Anencephaly like I lost my Isaac, and we met through blogging. She is one of my greatest blessings. We talk often on the phone. We laugh, we cry, we curse, we empathize. We were talking about our friendship today, and I said to her: You know why God gave you to me? God gave you to me because I would otherwise have no one. I don’t really have any one else I can talk to about the baby. I fully admit I have trust issues. What I really want someone to do is hold me like a baby so I can cry like one, but I just can’t let myself be that vulnerable. It’s hard for me. It takes me a long time to learn to trust someone. I have spurts of bravery where I can reach out. Then days of hiding in my home. I needed her. She is my gift.
When I tell you I am ok, I’m really not. My heart is weary and I am really tired. I hurt deeply, and I don’t want to have to justify my journey to anyone else. I don’t want to explain that really what I am doing is most healthy. I just want someone to squeeze my hand, and accept me for where I am at. I want someone to do something for me to make me smile. I just want to be something. Something I can’t even explain.
I blog so someone else feels like they have someone else that understands.
And now…. Now I’ve got a date with chocolate cake and my kid. ‘Til next time.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
I have a new talent. Now this one, I have REALLY perfected. It involves my mouth and my foot. Get the picture?
I find myself feeling a little irritated tonight. I've been reading through my normal set of blogs, but some how missed some posts. Dude. Don't even get me started.
Where am I at now? I'm kinda at that faze where every one else has forgotten about Issac, and most people are tapping their fingers in anticipation for me to "get over it" already. You have the well-meaning folk that think they "understand" where you're at, and think they can some how just hurry you up through the process. Then the others that still hide from you in fear that - heaven forbid - you mention you dead child's name. And then you have those friends - you know, the really good ones, that have managed to stick by you, through thick and thin, just letting you be - ya know - your "new" self.
Let me take a stab at explaining what nearly 5 months means to me. Isaac will have been dead for 5 months now on September 8th. It still seems like yesterday I placed him in his casket for the last time.
I have now endured 5 months of endless heartache. I still miss my baby, still wouldn't mind taking him back, still cry for him every day. It is still hard for me to see other babies. I still cry nearly every time I speak about him. My heart still aches, it physically hurts. My mind wanders to him many times a day. I am still grieving.
I still like my house the best. I still like, for the most part, not seeing people. I like my safe place, even if does not include many people around me. I hate feeling like I'm being hurried up. I hate the impatience I see, the irritation of not being "myself" yet. It angers me, like I should have to explain to some one else that has no clue, that how I'm doing, is just fine. My children are cared for and loved. I work 25 hours a week. I keep a tidy home. I prepare healthy meals for my children. I play card games and basketball and take walks and chat on the phone and read and blog and laugh and play. I do all those things, and yet my heart is still broken.
I find it offensive when another would question my faith in God, because I still grieve for my son. Make no mistakes friends, I know where my child is. I know he lives. As much as I know that he lives, I know that I must learn to live my life with out him here in my home. And for one second, imagine it for yourself. Imagine carrying your baby for 25 weeks, and then being told he would die then be willing to carry him for 15 weeks more. Love him, feel him alive, then plan his funeral. Plan his funeral and plan how to say goodbye. Figure out how to watch your children's hearts break. Figure out how to manage their sorrow and then your own. Give birth to your baby. Meet him. Feel his heart beat. Watch him die in your arms, along with all of your dreams of raising him. Feel your love for him, you love him no less than your other children, but know his life was meant only to be a fleeting moment because your Maker and your son's called him home. Come home empty handed and broken hearted. Feel your body heal, but realize your heart isn't. Place your baby in his casket, listen to your children sob, feel your body heave with sorrow. Imagine your child arms length under ground. Figure out with all your might how to move on. Figure out how to grieve so that you don't alarm your children. Figure out how to keep your grief hidden. Miss your child. Dream of him. Remember him. Remember that he's dead. Imagine how it was to carry a child to term, and in one breath say hello and goodbye. Don't for one minute think that my journey has to meet your expectations, it's barely meeting mine.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Grieving has taken a toll on my patience. I'm more snippetity. I'm less patient. I'm not the mother I want to be right now. It's been on my mind a lot these days - - I can do better. I will do better. I know days run together and the children can be tiring, but I love what I'm doing. I love being a mother. I have it with in me to love and to nurture. THAT is the kind of woman I need to be.
This has been our summer to grieve Isaac. We've grieved him together. We still grieve him. Grieve him strongly. We're closer for it. I am a better mother for it. I can claim success for my children, that they have experienced the joy of summer. I didn't have that as a kid. I had summers full of boredom and fear. I was locked up in my room for weeks at a time. We longed for a different home, one where we were loved, one where we could just be kids. Although some moments I have failed miserably as a mother, my children have been happy, and nurtured, and loved. THAT I can claim this summer. I can still claim that I have given more to my children than that which was ever given to me. Small triumphs, dear friends, small triumphs.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
"And this is exactly what I meant - - even the thought that you would think you could make her "snap" out if it proves my point. Her children will be alright. Her husband not talking about it is normal - - my husband doesn't either. A year from now, even a month from now, there will be progress, and they'll look back very tenderly and realize that they've some how made it through. I cry for my baby every day - - I miss him, I want him back. I have retreated into my home, and I'm less patient with my children. I think about Isaac every moment of every day, even if no one else does. Time, sweet friend..... time is what helps. There is no way around, but only through it, through the grief. Even if we ALL know our children were called home to serve God, we with them here with us instead .
This I know to be true because I witnessed it myself: God exists, and that the spirit world is as real as the seat I sit on. It is a sad thing, though, to be chastised, and misunderstood. Faith or no faith, this is the trial of my life - - - feeling really low is part of the process. I appreciate that you apologized to her, and I appreciate that you took time to write me back. I know your intentions were good, and hopefully we've all learned to be more empathetic towards each other. Imagine it for yourself. If you can. I used to imagine it, and now it's my worst nightmare."
And now for a little of the humor I pride myself of: All my baby loss Mamas: We're going to get through this. There is peace that passes all understanding on the other side. *chest bump*
Yes, you read that last part right.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
I know there are more children for us. Some times moments pass that I would rather think there are no more, that I can find peace with the children I have now. I’d like to think that, but these sweet spirits still whisper to me that they are still waiting. Some times I think if I could just birth one more healthy baby, then if something happened during a pregnancy after that, I would be willing to make this same sacrifice again. When in all reality I think it would kill me to bury another one of my children. No more. Not again. I can’t be asked twice, right?? I find myself bartering with the Lord, almost begging and pleading with him every moment of every day. Just one more chance... just... one....more... chance........
Some how women push through and make their dreams come true. Some how women silence their own fears enough to become pregnant again and trust the fate of their little one to God again. I remember that when I am afraid. I remember the promises that have been made to me. I dream of buying a new crib and clothes and bottles and formula and baby shampoo and a new car seat. I dream of lieing there listening to my baby scream after he’s born and knowing he’s mine to take home and love and raise. I won’t leave empty handed again. I won’t be wheeled out by a nursery full of newborns while I stare ahead at the wall as hard as I can, so I won’t see. I won’t be listening to other newborn babies cry for their Mamas while I hold my baby that never made a sound. I won’t dressing my newborn in burial clothing and placing him in a casket. I won’t bleed for no reason and count every day as is passes, wishing my milk would dry up. I won’t be sitting at a computer thinking I need to get back into the world again, but knowing I’m just not ready. Life a year from now can be SO different. Let’s count on that.
Monday, July 6, 2009
It’s an interesting thing when crisis strikes, you have the opportunity to find out what you’re made up of. I haven’t felt made of much the last few days.
Meet Isaac Brigham Nielson. This is my baby boy, still living in womb, perfect to us in every way, but not so much to the doctors. We found out he has a neural tube defect called Anencephaly, which means he will be born with little or no brain and scull. His prognosis is death, shortly after birth.
I cannot even express what it meant to my world to hear this news. I felt dazed. Shocked. I cried, and couldn’t stop. I sobbed. I drove to pick up my husband from work and couldn’t remember street names and numbers, where I had driven hundreds of times. And the children. WHAT would I tell my children?
After thinking for the last couple days, I’ve decided to write. And write in such a way that is healing to me. I’ll have this record not only for myself, but for my family, so we can look back some day and realize then we are strong enough now to get through this battle now.
After receiving the news Thursday, I didn’t sleep that night. I stayed up all night researching on the internet about my boy’s condition. I read, I looked at photographs, I laid my head down on my desk and sobbed. Friday night? I decided to stay off of the internet. The kids and I made a huge bed in the living room, and we slept together. I think I was able to sleep last night for 4 or 5 hours, forcing myself to push thoughts out of my head, trying not to weep. Weep over silly things. Things that haven’t even happened yet. Like. Who of my family could be there for me when I have the baby? What happens if I cry too much when Isaac is born? How will I be able to dress my child for burial. I weep because I can’t stand to see my children is such pain, grieving. I weep because it isn’t fair. I weep because I don’t know how I am going to come home from the hospital with empty arms. I weep because my husband is in pain, and I sob because I feel so devastated and heartbroken.
God is good. I am not being punished. For some reason, Andrew, the children and I have been given this trial and blessing in our lives, and I can only cling to the knowledge that we, as a family, some how are strong enough to survive this. Not only survive, but be better for it.
I’m beginning to hate the night. It’s now Saturday evening, around 8:00 pm. Right around 6:00, it started again. The horrible sorrow. My heart aches so badly, it makes my chest hurt. Tonight I keep thinking of all the things I feel cheated out of. I keep thinking “The last time I ran the vacuum, I thought my baby was alive” or “The last time I cooked a decent meal for my family I thought I was a mother of three, preparing lovingly for her fourth child”. My husband took the crib down this afternoon, and I couldn’t watch. Each time I gaze into Ian’s room, there is a huge hole where my baby should be sleeping in May. I walked into the bathroom, and I remember last giving the children a bath and thinking I needed to buy my Johnson’s and Johnson’s shampoo for the baby. I thought today about how I wouldn’t be happily exhausted feeding a baby into the wee hours of the morning. Instead I get to come home - bleed like I’ve had my healthy newborn, feel my milk come in, and get to lay there at night, alone, and wishing for my child to be with me. I weep with sadness as I think of these things.
And now, now it’s time for movie night. The kids want to sleep together in the living room again, and right now, anything seems better then being alone in the night with my tears, grief, and thoughts I cannot quiet.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Isaac's stone went in the day after Father's Day. As I was driving to go visit him and to see his marker, my mind drifted back to the day we placed him in the ground. Our service was small, only my closest friends and family were there. I remember feeling so proud of my baby and so happy to have in my arms again. He looked like a baby doll. I don't know if it was because I was doped up on Xanax, or if it was because I wasn't familiar with funerals, but I was expecting to hold Isaac through out the service. I wasn't prepared at all for when I was instructed to lay Isaac in his casket. I remember the children starting to sob and I remember the tears blinding my eyes. I remember thinking "Oh God... Father... Do I really have to say goodbye?". "Do I really have to put my child down?". I remember kissing him over and over again, like mad, laying him down, tucking him in, kissing him again, and stumbling to my chair. I really didn't want to make a scene, but I remember thinking to myself... this is why mothers fall to their knees and wail when their children die. The pain could kill you, I swear it would, I thought in that moment. Andrew was the only listed palbearer. Ian was the only listed honorary palbearer. Andrew carried the baby out. We drove Isaac, in his casket, to the grave site, on my lap. My poor baby, dead, in a box, on my lap. I was proud to do it. But I was mad as hell. I remember thinking who the hell made this decision for me. Did I really agree to this? To carry my child, only to later bury him?
It's almost been three months now. I've struggled with blogging, because there are some people that read my blog that I have decided (peacefully and confidently) that I did not want them in my life. It bothers me to have made that decision, still knowing that they can be a part of my life this way. I've thought back and forth about setting my blog to private, but I decided it was more important to keep the avenues of communication open. Not for them, but for me, and for you. I need to be able to share my story in an open forum. I cherish meeting new people, and reaching out and touching those back, that have touched my life so deeply. If another has to read my blog to keep tabs on me, then so-be-it, I wouldn't have shared with them otherwise.
Summer rolls on here. The children are happy and my days are mad busy with work and play and housework and cleaning. I have a few people I keep in touch with personally - - those would be my nearest and dearest. Othen than that, I stay home, in my "hole" as I refer to it. I keep to myself, avoiding most communication with the outside world. I like being in my own space. I like being alone. I'm different. I can't fix or change it, and don't necessarily think I should have to. We're planning ahead for our next baby. Making plans for the days, weeks, and months ahead. But for now, for now I try to make it through my days, being present in motherhood and as a wife and friend the best I know how, inspite of this huge sorrow I feel and burden I carry. Heart ache is really over rated. I'm beginning to think growth is, too. Some days I wish I could go back to how it was before. No such luck, friends. No such luck.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Friends, it has now been two months since Isaac joined our family. Two months of a different kind of hell and joy, that I have never experienced before.
God lives. Jesus is the Christ. I believe with my whole heart that my sweet Isaac lived in the pre-existence, just as you and I did before he was born. I believe we, together, chose the right, and those of us that chose Heavenly Father's plan, also chose to usher Satan and his followers from the heavens. I believe Isaac waited to be apart of our family. I believe Isaac waited, knowing that his Father would create a body for him that would ensure his quick return back to him. I knew, and felt in every bone of my body, that this child I was asked to carry was perfect. I knew that his soul was so mighty that he would not have to live on this earth through the trials and heartache and schooling that you and I need. This child would kiss us with his holy presence and return back to God and Christ's arms and ask what he was needed to do next. When sweet Isaac was born, and for the hours to follow, the precence of God and His love, not only for Isaac, but for me, was felt time and time again. I had completed the task I had set out to do. I had delivered my child safely back into his Heavenly Father's arms. Friends, Isaac still lives, just as Jesus and God does. I feel this in my most quiet moments, and in my most sorrowful moments, my most joyous moments. I miss him, my heart aches for him, my mind searches for the right ways in which to continue to live again.
This is the struggle. To know the right balance of joy and sorrow. To know the right balance of including Isaac's memory in our home. To know that I truly have four children, but my youngest was too mighly to be raised by his earthly mother. The struggle is to praise God for this perfect child, but to beg Him to carry me as I crawl through loneliness and heart ache. The struggle is to believe with all my heart, that this child will join our family again, some day, and that I can live to be worthy of that greatest blessing.
God is there, my sweet friends. Some of His greatest requirements of us, will truly be our largest sacrifices. Carry on. Run, walk, crawl through each day, knowing He is waiting to bare you up. Christ lives. He loves you, as He love me, also.
Carry on, endure on, and know that I carry and endure on right with you. Isaac's story is the light in our life, our hope is that we can share some of that bright light with you, and that together, our lives will be better for it. My prayer is, that God's love, through Isaac's story, will reach hundreds, and that each and every one of us will continue on, to become better, more joyous, and loving people for it. Hold your children and loved ones close tonight, as I do the same.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Lisa, with Isaac, after we had bathed and dressed him.
I finished getting my blog in order. Quotes had been deleted - I fixed them. I had photos up of only Olivia and Isaac on the side bar - I added more. I've gotten things switched around and simplified, just how I want. I found myself sitting here with tears rolling down my cheeks, gazing at Isaac's sweet little face. Many days I drift back to the day he was born, and I find myself wishing to go back, to visit with him, to hug him and to kiss him.
Did you know Isaac had golden blond hair? Of course his hair was wet when he was born, but when I bathed him. I could see the golden shade, as his hair dried. Because of his deformity, I couldn't see a "full head" of hair, but the hair that he had was long - an inch in length. It would have been fuzzy and poofy like Ian's had been. Ian had so much hair that when he was first brought to me after he was born, the nurse had parted his hair. I immediately messed that part right up, but when I think of it now, it makes me chuckle.
I enjoyed bathing Isaac. Holy crap was it hard to clean the vernex off of his skin. Liken it to trying to clean diaper ointment off with water - - doesn't work. Lisa was there with me, as was Andrew. The children had left with Grandma, and I was left to do what mothers do - - fuss over their babies. This time I inspected Isaac from head to toe. I asked about his head and was told it looked pretty bad. I looked anyway, and my heart skipped a beat. It was bad. Much worse than I had seen online. But. I quickly snapped into mama mode, and I asked for clean gauze and ointment, and I took care of my child's wound no different than I had taken care of my other children's wounds before. Lisa and I washed Isaac and laughed and giggled over him. He was a thick little boy. Wide shoulders like Ian's. Burly and sweet. I had my Johnsons and Johnsons baby lotion with me - the pink, origional kind, which is my favorite. I've used it on all of my babies, just like my grandmother had used it on me when I was a child. I rubbed lotion onto Isaac and loved him and kissed him. Lisa helped me dress him and we situated a hat on his sweet little head. I could NOT believe how sweet he looked, perfect in every way. I was amazed at how quickly his body turned cold. I didn't like the feeling. He body was becoming stiff, and I felt better to have his sweet little self wrapped snuggly in a blanket. Soon after we took more pictures, soon after that, they moved me to the Mother Baby floor..........
Did I mention it is summer vacation here? I've got some pictures to post, I'll do that later in the week. It's been a little hectic. It's a little tiresome working out all of the bickering and arguements, but I feel so content that my house is full. I try not to think about Isaac missing. I think about the coming year, and I am looking forward to the fall months. We had the ok to start trying for another baby in October. For a minute today I thought about that, and felt the same excitement I've felt in the past thinking about that possibility.... buying a new crib, new clothes, a car seat, lotions and shampoos, bottles, formula..... It would be a dream come true. A dream come true. And then, I admit, a little panic set in, and I'm snapped back to reality. I can worry about that another day...........
Do me a favor, if I haven't been to your blog yet, comment and let me know. I'm trying harder to visit blogs and trying harder to get to know you better. Let me know where you are, and I'll stop by.... It's important to me.
Till then, I'll be thanking God for your support.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Few people know her. It's how you change after your baby dies in your arms. It's how I noticed I trust less people, yet trust others more. It's how I prefer to stay at home, and prefer to not see anyone, except my own family, and a best friend or two. I have been so thankful for my best friend. She lives across the street. She has really, really come through for me. She calls me every day. She involves me in her every day plans like she said she would. I'm not alone. I have her. She made promises, she kept them, I trust her. Completely.
I don't like other people's babies. I don't want to HOLD other people's babies or hear about them. I want my own baby. I don't want to hear about pregnancy, I want to be pregnant myself. And I can be, starting in October. The doctor said. I wish it was October. I hate being asked "How are you doing?" by random people. How do they think I'm doing?? How do they think they'd be doing if their baby died? I hate how people make my emotional distance from them about them. I think it's safe in this situation to assume my sorrow has nothing to do with you. Right? You bet it is. My already tight circle has tightened more. That's just how it is, and how it's going to stay. I choose - - it's my choice to have very few friends, and the ones I have, I LOVE. There isn't anything wrong with that. I don't need therapy over it, don't need to be discussed, don't need help - - it's my nature, it's who I am. My friends are my family. I don't need dozens of them.
The children are home for the SUMMER! Can I say I'm happy?? I'm HAPPY!! Really, really, really, REALLY happy. All three of my babies are home with me, for three months. Bliss. Late nights. Late mornings. No homework. All play. You just can't beat it.
I think about Isaac all of the time. I cry when I see my Ian grow, because I think that Isaac should have been that little boy, too. I was at the music festival at the kid's school today, and I thought about how I should have just given birth to Isaac, and that he would have been only a week or so old. But he's not. He's dead. I should have him to hold, but I don't.
And that, my friends, is just how it is............. Life moves on in a different sort of way. I've changed, I have new challenges, different things are important and less important to me, and I simply am learning how to live knowing I have a child, whom is a living part of our family, yet he soars above me, but is mine just the same.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Isaac was born early that Wednesday morning, and didn't make a sound. My surgery took longer then I had expected because there was scar tissue to cut through, so I asked the doctor if the baby had born yet. He hadn't. I lay there on the operating table knowing the birth of Isaac would also meant his death. I wondered if my baby would cry. I wondered how severe his defect would be. I wondered if the baby would breath, I wondered if he would even live. And live he did, for 70 minutes. Isaac was born, in all his glory, at 8am, and peacefully slipped away from us at 9:10am.
The section itself was the same old thing. I barfed a couple times. My blood pressure was all over the place. I had a hard time breathing from all the water. They pumped fluids into me like no other. And I was tired. By that point I had already been up 24 hours, and a couple times I felt like closing my eyes and just resting. Part of me wanted to sleep, to escape. I had completed my task. I had carried my baby as long as medically possible, and God was deciding the rest.
Isaac was born, and they whisked him away. I asked the doctor if the baby had attempted to cry, and he said that Isaac had pulled that classic new born grimace face and tried once to breath, once to cry. He couldn't. But. His heart was beating strongly. I knew we had him for a short time. Andrew hovered over the baby. In that moment, it broke him. He brought the baby to me, tears streaming down his face, and told me Isaac was still alive. I looked at the baby. I didn't cry. I stared. I stared and I took deep breaths. I stared and realized that God had given us this child and I loved him. Completely. I looked at Isaac's face and remarked at how pretty he was. His face was complete. He had chubby cheeks and a button nose. His eyes were open and he was looking at me. His defect didn't show, and I began to cry as I told Andrew to take the baby to the children. I knew they needed to meet Isaac alive. So I was left there, getting sewn up. Minutes ago I had been joking about how much water was gushing out of me, and now I was wondering if I would see Isaac again, alive.
About 30 minutes later I was taken into my hospital room. I cried as I was wheeled in through the door as I looked at my family member's faces. I had never seem that look in their eyes before. I told the men in the family to give Isaac a name and a blessing. They prayed over the baby, blessed him, and gave him back to me. Every few minutes or so our nurse would check Isaac's heart beat. I knew he was getting close to leaving us. He and I gazed into each other's eyes, and I held onto him. I held onto him and whispered that I loved him. I told the nurse that I felt like Isaac had died, and indeed he had. He passed quietly back to Jesus that morning, in my loving, adoring arms. At that moment I clutched Isaac to me and wept silently over this body. No one made a sound in the room. Not. One. Sound. They respectfully and quietly watched and grieved with me.
The rest of that day is hard to explain. It was the most horrifyingly spiritual experience of my life. It was the hardest day of my life, yet the most peaceful. At some point, over the next few weeks I'll account for those moments, but for now, this is the next part of our story. There is much that is too sacred and private to share, and there is much left to write about, and I will, as I write on.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Today my heart aches for my friend Celia. Today I carry her heartache and my own. She gave birth to Noah on Mothers Day, born with anencephaly, as Isaac was. Noah has entered this world, and slipped onto the next. In part, this is an update I read tonight, written by Celia's husband:
"Today was another hard part of Noah's Journey. I carried Little Noah to the funeral home. My heart broke as I pulled little Noah from Celia's arms and carried him on the last part of his journey... My tears soaked his little face as I held him close."
My heart aches for that sweet family, and my heart aches for myself. I remember watching the clock after Isaac was born and then died. I watched the clock as I knew 24 hours later, I would have to call the mortuary. I stayed up with Isaac all night, as did Andrew. I did my best to not nod off, even though I was delirious from exhaustion. I would catch myself sleeping and rub my face to wake myself up. I would shake my head and stretch my arms. I knew I needed to spend each minute with my baby. I knew the minutes would fly by, and I knew the time to say goodbye was drawing close. I knew the time I had would never be enough. It wasn't. Is still isn't. As the night turned into morning, Andrew called the funeral home. Some one was dispatched to the hospital. A kind man walked in, and I began to sob. I asked the man if I had to give him the baby, and he said that I did. I kissed Isaac over and over again, and handed him to Andrew, and looked away as he carried him out the door. I held myself and rocked and stared ahead blankly. The man passed by the door way with Isaac, and I laid back on my pillow and fell asleep. Now was the time to sleep. Now was the time to sleep and dream of my son that had just been taken from my arms. Now was the time to sleep and pretend none of what had just passed had never happened.
Stop by and offer Celia and her sweet family words of comfort. Do it for me. And for her. Tell her I sent you so that she knows that I love her.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Back to my Isaac's birth story. I've have scheduled c-sections with my babies after I gave birth to my oldest child vaginally, and she got stuck on the way out. Not pretty. Not nice. Not pleasant. VERY painful. My c-section was scheduled with Isaac at 34.5 weeks because of the high amniotic levels I was carrying around. I was informed a normal water level is up to 25. 25-35 was high, and at 33 weeks I was toting around a level of 44 and gaining. And boy could I tell. During delivery the water was very apparent. Apparent spilling over onto the floor, apparent spurting out in a spray, and apparent when we ran out of suction cups. I filled over 3 containers - usually a woman needs one per surgery. My Doc said I set the record - - 12 liters., 25 pounds or so of JUST water. Nice.
I suppose the only other mishaps of the day was my IV and my spinal block. Friends, I was poofy head to toe with water. They could not find a vein to poke to save their lives. OUCH. And my spinal block - - my spinal block took FOUR attempts. Not fun. NOT comfortable. Not to mention it HURTS. Bee sting poke, my BUTT! I would have to say that was the closest I came to blowing a fuse, hunched over my WAY too big belly, try not to tip off the table, and trying hard to not be smothered by Andrew, who was trying to make sure I was staying put. Whatever.
Next time. Now, next time we'll talk about the birth of an angel, my angel. We'll talk about it when I am a little more with it, and a little more strong.
Till then, Ladies. I love you. Each and every one of you.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Me and my greatest friend and husband, Andrew.
Me and one of my dearest friends/sister/neighbor/girlfriend, Lisa.
My sweet, sweet baby boy, Isaac.
It's time friends. It's time to start writing the story about how we came to meet this sweet and perfect soul. The last of my family has left my home, and today was my first day home, all alone. I'll be honest and admit, it was hard. Not as hard as I had expected, but it was hard for me. I've been distracted the last week having my grandparents here making plans with me each day.... today there were no plans. Just me, home with the kids, and my grief, which is still very much there. The grief, although I feel it at some level all of the time, is not what one would imagine. I still feel joy and peace and comfort. I still feel happy and blessed and content. I feel all of those things mixed in with the dull heart ache of losing my child. It's manageable. Do-able. Bearable. None of which I would wish on my worst enemy, but we're making it - - one step at a time.
April 8th was the day our sweet Isaac was born into the world, living. I stayed up the entire night before.... cleaning the house, folding clothes, pacing back and forth. I fixed my hair, did my nails..... packed and re-packed my bags. 5am finally arrived, and Andrew and I picked up Lisa, and we headed to the hospital. Our check in was un-eventful, although the nurse was a bit of a dumb ass and had not been informed about our situation. She went on and on about the nursery safety guidelines until I finally spoke up and told her that my baby was going to die that day. She looked at me with a blank stare, and went on with what she was doing.
Once we got to our room I put on my lovely gown, and was of course bare-assed. I joked with Lisa that she was going to see a "new side of me", as I scooted over to my bed. The nurses came in and did all those things that nurses do.... and would you believe me if I told you the nurse assigned to me that morning was PREGNANT?? She sure was, and obviously so..............
I'm going to continue Isaac's birth story over the next several posts, complete with pictures. I also wanted to very much thank those of you whom have visited here with me and have left behind your love and support. I'm not in good form these days, but I plan to visit each of your blogs, that you call home, but I wanted to say thank you, in the mean time. I have been so touched (and surprised) by the great numbers of visitors and commentors. We're breaking records around here.... all made possible by one sweet little baby boy, with a very mighty soul. I'll be in touch.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
I found this comment on my blog this morning:
"Holy f$&k you're retarded and deluded- I suppose it's not surprising from one so religious as yourself. The thing that came out was not a person: it was a meatdoll, devoid of consciousness- it was less a being than a lizard or dog. The best thing to do would have been to abort it. Quick tip for you: there is no god. "
To which I would like to reply:
As we each have our opinions, I would like to thank you for sharing your own. As a brother or sister through our Father in Heaven, I would like to say that I love you. For every miracle in life, there is equal adversity. My heart is sad for you because of the anger you carry in your heart. I've been there, I know what that feels like. Some thing in your life has caused you to feel that way, which is unfair, and I am sorry for your hurt. For my precious and perfect son - with out a perfect body, he still lives on with a perfect and whole spirit. We cannot always touch and see the things we believe in the most. I wish you happiness, peace, and harmony in your life.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
It still feels like a dream, friends. I sit here sometimes and I think to myself that no one knows. No one knows I carried a baby nearly full term, and that he died in my arms 70 minutes later. I look at people I don't know, and I know they have no idea I am bleeding for a child whom I wasn't able to raise, that my milk is in my breast needlessly, that my c-section aches, but that there is no baby to care for. I have FOUR children, although strangers only see three. I want to scream to a passer-by that I just had a baby, and handed him back to GOD.... and now I want him back, for keeps.
I want to claim to the world that I am surviving this nightmare. That I feel alone. And lost. That my whole being aches for my child, whom thrives in the afterlife. But some how I still have faith in our Maker, our Savior. I still have hope for healthy little ones to fill my womb in the future, that I still believe God will make this right and help my heart and family to heal.
Some how it'll happen, too. This I know. For sure. With out a doubt. Some how........
Friday, April 17, 2009
As the days pass, losing the baby gets harder. Normal life is settling in, and the loss is more apparent. Nothing seems natural. I hurt, my kids hurt, my husband hurts. I'm moody, I don't feel well, my hernia hurts, I'm still water logged, and I just feed plain old mean. I've had a migraine for three days and I'm not sleeping well.
I was sorting through the baby's things this morning. Getting his memory box together. I came across a book the hospital sent home with us.... concerning all things grief and your children.
We are going to work on this today:
Make a notebook for your child to write or draw about how he or she is feeling. When your family talks about the person who died, get it out and make lists. These might be titled:
1. What I'd like to say to the person who died
2. Thing that make me sad/angry/scared/confused
3. People I can talk to about my grief
4. Questions I have about how the person died
5. Where I go to feel safe
6. Things I worry about
7. What I do to have fun
It has been a struggle for me to un-hook from my own feelings, and concentrate on the children. I'm here, but not really, if that makes any sense. I've been able to check in with the kids a few times a day to see where they are at with their feelings, and they come to me when they want to cry or share how they feel. It's a good start, but I need to do more.
So. Today. It's going to more about them, less about me. I'll let you know how it goes.
I'll be checking back in.....
Sunday, April 12, 2009
This picture was hard to get. Olivia had had it by this point Wednesday evening, but I REALLY wanted a picture with ALL of my babies together. My husband did his best, and after a final edit from my girlfriend, this is what we have: A not so perfect picture, that is PERFECT to me.
Oh how I miss this little one. We're all struggling. This is a heartache that I have not felt before. I think of the years of abuse and abandonment we suffered as children. That heartache I felt for years compares nothing to how my heart ache now. I cannot even begin to explain the grief my body hurts with, and how I ache to be raising this child, loving him, and holding him. I fall asleep in tears, wake in tears. Yet some how, though this, I know we will come out better and more strong. I know the sacrifice I made for my God was complete and whole, and will not be forgotten.
There is so much to share. The funeral was lovely yesterday. There is a slide show I am working on. My childhood best friend is working on editing my favorites for me..... I have so much I want to write about. But, there isn't a lot of time right now. The children are home for the entire week... it's spring break now. My focus is on them, and helping their sweet little broken hearts heal. Oh the pain I feel watching my sweet children long for this child....
I'll be in touch as I can, and soon enough I'll be posting much, much more. I have a feeling writing may be one of the only ways for me to begin the healing process.
Thank you for listening, sweet friends. How I love you, and appreciate you. And to all that have written and commented... some time soon I'd be stopping by your blogs and getting to know you, too. Thank you for reaching out.