Friends, this road is so long and so hard. Grieving seems to have a time and season of it's own. Some days are good - - really, really good. And some days are hard - - really, really hard. Mothers Day hurt this year. Today hurt. Tonight hurts.
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.