On Monday morning, I took Missy to her appointment with the plastic surgeon. I wrote about how hard it was to think about going, and blogging helped me figure out why I was dreading the appointment so much. This is an update - my account of how Monday actually went.
I guess every story needs a little bit of comic relief. Most of my posts don't have ANY comic relief, but this one will. Any story with 3 preschoolers is bound to have its funny moments.
Comic Relief Moment #1: So I drove into the hospital parking garage, parked, and proceeded to unload the van. I pulled my double umbrella stroller out of the back, put Seth in one seat, Missy in the other, and then had Levi climb onto the back. Then I high-tailed it through the parking garage, pushing a good 90 pounds worth of kids. We're quite a spectacle. :-) Some people look at me like I'm nuts. Some people smile politely. Some people comment on how cute the kids are. Some people say things like, 'Ya know, whatcha need is another kid on there.'
We made our way up to the plastics office, and as soon as we walked into the waiting room, a couple who had already seen their doctor was making their way out of the office - carrying a dark gray infant seat with bright pink trim.
*I'm* supposed to be carrying a baby girl's car seat into this office.
The two receptionists were both helping other patients. Seth and Missy had climbed up into chairs at the window overlooking the top level of the parking garage and were playing 'I Spy'. I waited a minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. Good grief. The wait to check in better not be an indication of how long we may be here today.
Then Levi: 'Mom, I need to go potty.'
*BIG. SIGH.*
Comic Relief Moment #2: I took all 3 kids to the potty. I took full advantage of the trip and made them all 'try' in hopes that I wouldn't have to make any more potty trips (because taking 3 small children to the bathroom is no walk in the park). That must have been the busiest bathroom at Baptist; I think we were able to provide a good laugh for several women that morning. Seth went first, standing on top of my shoes so that he was tall enough to pee into the potty. And then: 'Look, Mom! I did it!' Missy next, telling me in her best whiny voice, 'But Mom, I don't need to go potty. I already went.' (tinkle, tinkle) Then Levi: 'I don't need to wash my hands. I didn't touch anything.' And to top it all off, Seth: 'Mommy, do you need to go pee-pee?'
Yes, we are quite a spectacle.
We went back into the waiting room where another couple carrying another girlie infant car seat was checking out and scheduling their return appointment.
Felt like a knife in my heart.
We didn't have to wait too terribly long (because the potty trip took a good 10 minutes), and we were called back to an exam room. And we waited some more.
Comic Relief Moment #3: After waiting about 20 minutes or so, the kids started asking when the doctor was going to come in. I told them I didn't know, but I hoped it would be really soon. So Seth (trying to help), in his loudest growly voice, looks at the door and says, 'Doctor, come in here NOW.' I couldn't help but laugh, which made him think that he should continue. 'Where ARE you, Doctor?!?!'
It didn't work. The doctor didn't come.
When he finally did come in, it seemed that he had reviewed his notes from Missy's last visit. But apparently, he doesn't make very good notes. He said, 'I know that the last time you were here, you were still recovering and we decided to postpone Missy's fistula repair. Are you in a better place now to go ahead and schedule surgery?'
Umm... what?
If there hadn't been small children present, and if I hadn't been fearful of being slapped with a lawsuit, I might have removed my shoe and thrown it at him. I was prepared for either complete ignorance, or compassion. But I was not prepared for that. Trivializing it. In fairness to him, I don't think he remembered the circumstances. Or... maybe he never actually knew the circumstances. I don't know. I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt.
I fumbled my way through the rest of the conversation. We decided to schedule surgery for spring break. The kids and I had to wait some more for the surgery scheduling lady to come in and talk to me. They were getting restless.
Comic Relief Moment #4: When the surgery scheduling lady came in for the second time, Seth had reached his limit. She was giving me dates and details, I was writing things in my calendar, and Seth was talking the entire time. 'Mommy, I'm ready to go now. Mommy, can you get up? Mommy, will you pick me up?' Finally, he climbed up into my lap (well, he squirmed his way through the hole between my arm and the calendar on my lap where I was writing - and I was trying to finish the conversation with the surgery scheduling lady), put his hands on my cheeks, turned my face to look at him, and said, 'Mommy, it's time to go now.'
The surgery scheduling lady got Seth's subtle 'hint'. We packed up our stuff and started to head back out to the waiting room. Several nurses and a couple of the office staff ladies were all sort of parked at the office exit. And when we walked by, they were saying, 'Oh, look at her. She is so cute! She's just adorable! I love her little outfit. You are just the cutest little thing!' They were talking about Missy. And she is cute. REALLY cute.
But tears stung my eyes. I was thinking about my other little girl, and how the nurses and office ladies might have been exclaiming over her.
And one more knife - another baby girl headed into the plastics office as we were leaving.
Is someone *trying* to torture me????
I should say - I saw no other children in the office that day. No 2-year-olds, 4-year-olds, 10-year-olds. Just babies. Four babies. Three of them tiny baby girls. Sometimes, this really does feel like a cruel joke. I'm pretty sure this isn't a cruel joke. I'm pretty sure that God doesn't do that. But I really don't understand His sovereignty right now.
I wish I had a comic relief moment #5. I could have used one more.
So that was our trip to the plastic surgeon's office. It was hard. One of those mornings that I felt like I could burst into tears at any given moment. I think if I'd only had Missy with me that day, and not all three of them, it would have been much harder. Wait - something about that sentence doesn't sound right. Maybe I should say - having all three of them there prevented me from sitting down in front of the elevators and sobbing. Not only did they keep me busy, they also distracted me, and even made me laugh a couple times. :-)
Friday, February 8, 2013
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
The Orange Flag
I went to the cemetery today. And as I drove up, I noticed the time. It was right about the time Jason was putting Elliana into a basket that Funeral Home Man brought to the hospital, on this date, four months ago.
Four months. She would have been four months old yesterday. Cooing and smiling and developing a little personality.
I remember the morning we went to the cemetery to see Elliana's plot and (attempt to) pick out a headstone. The day after I went home from the hospital. Four days after my c-section. You don't do things like that after major abdominal surgery. You don't go places and pick out cemetery plots and headstones. It felt so very wrong. Cemetery Lady was very kind. Very compassionate. We sat around a conference table looking at a map of the cemetery and a piece of paper with headstone options.
So very wrong.
And then Cemetery Lady took us to what she affectionately called 'Baby Land' - the small piece of land in the cemetery just for babies. I wish I felt affectionate towards that name, but I don't. It sort of makes me want to throw up. No, it does make me want to throw up.
I remember driving up, getting out of the van, and following Cemetery Lady to the edge of 'Baby Land' where a little orange flag marked the spot that Elliana's body would be buried the next day.
I don't remember if I said anything. I think I cried. What do you say at a moment like that? 'Yes, I like this spot.' 'This place is perfect.' 'I think Elliana will like it here.'
(Throwing shoes, wine glasses, fine china, vases and smashing laptops to pieces *here*.)
Fast-forward 3 days - October 12, I think. We visited the cemetery. The dirt was still freshly shoveled. There was hay on top of the dirt. Pretty pink roses.
And that little orange flag was was sticking up out of the ground right next to Elliana's spot.
Confession: my first thoughts were so incredibly self-centered. Surely, that flag doesn't stay there all the time, just marking where the next plot is. It's not very pretty. If it has to be there, it should at least be pink.
My next thought: What if another baby has died?
A couple days later, I had my answer. Another mound of freshly shoveled dirt. More hay. Blue flowers. A baby boy, one week old, had died. Another mom had buried her baby.
It sounds weird, I know, but I think of them as neighbors. I've never met those parents. But when I go to visit Elliana and brush all of the dirt off of her stone with the little pink scrub brush I keep in the van, I clean Baby Boy's stone, too.
And yes, I really do keep a little pink scrub brush in the van to clean her stone. It might be weird, but it's the only thing I can do to 'take care of her'. I have no baby to feed, no diapers to change, no spit-up-covered clothes to wash. I have a stone. And a metal vase. So I clean the stone, and I put pretty flowers in the vase.
Her flowers are still the pretty purple and yellow ones. And there's a sparkly yellow butterfly in there, too. But today, I don't care about the stupid sparkly butterfly. Or fake purple flowers. I just want her back.
My heart aches tonight. Remembering the hours after Funeral Home Man took her away. How I wanted to hold her just one more time.
Today when I went to the cemetery, the little orange flag was there. Next to Baby Boy's stone. Another mom will be burying her baby this week.
Four months. She would have been four months old yesterday. Cooing and smiling and developing a little personality.
I remember the morning we went to the cemetery to see Elliana's plot and (attempt to) pick out a headstone. The day after I went home from the hospital. Four days after my c-section. You don't do things like that after major abdominal surgery. You don't go places and pick out cemetery plots and headstones. It felt so very wrong. Cemetery Lady was very kind. Very compassionate. We sat around a conference table looking at a map of the cemetery and a piece of paper with headstone options.
So very wrong.
And then Cemetery Lady took us to what she affectionately called 'Baby Land' - the small piece of land in the cemetery just for babies. I wish I felt affectionate towards that name, but I don't. It sort of makes me want to throw up. No, it does make me want to throw up.
I remember driving up, getting out of the van, and following Cemetery Lady to the edge of 'Baby Land' where a little orange flag marked the spot that Elliana's body would be buried the next day.
I don't remember if I said anything. I think I cried. What do you say at a moment like that? 'Yes, I like this spot.' 'This place is perfect.' 'I think Elliana will like it here.'
(Throwing shoes, wine glasses, fine china, vases and smashing laptops to pieces *here*.)
Fast-forward 3 days - October 12, I think. We visited the cemetery. The dirt was still freshly shoveled. There was hay on top of the dirt. Pretty pink roses.
And that little orange flag was was sticking up out of the ground right next to Elliana's spot.
Confession: my first thoughts were so incredibly self-centered. Surely, that flag doesn't stay there all the time, just marking where the next plot is. It's not very pretty. If it has to be there, it should at least be pink.
My next thought: What if another baby has died?
A couple days later, I had my answer. Another mound of freshly shoveled dirt. More hay. Blue flowers. A baby boy, one week old, had died. Another mom had buried her baby.
It sounds weird, I know, but I think of them as neighbors. I've never met those parents. But when I go to visit Elliana and brush all of the dirt off of her stone with the little pink scrub brush I keep in the van, I clean Baby Boy's stone, too.
And yes, I really do keep a little pink scrub brush in the van to clean her stone. It might be weird, but it's the only thing I can do to 'take care of her'. I have no baby to feed, no diapers to change, no spit-up-covered clothes to wash. I have a stone. And a metal vase. So I clean the stone, and I put pretty flowers in the vase.
Her flowers are still the pretty purple and yellow ones. And there's a sparkly yellow butterfly in there, too. But today, I don't care about the stupid sparkly butterfly. Or fake purple flowers. I just want her back.
My heart aches tonight. Remembering the hours after Funeral Home Man took her away. How I wanted to hold her just one more time.
Today when I went to the cemetery, the little orange flag was there. Next to Baby Boy's stone. Another mom will be burying her baby this week.
Monday, February 4, 2013
My mind feels like a jumbled mess this morning. I'm hoping that writing will help to make some sense of it, but it might just be... a jumbled mess.
Today is February 4. My other daughter, Missy, has an appointment this morning with a plastic surgeon. When we got Missy as a foster baby, she had a cleft palate, among other 'malformations'. (I hate that word.) So when she was 10 months old, she had surgery to repair her palate. We've been seeing a plastic surgeon about once per year to follow her progress and make sure there aren't any fistulas (holes) in her palate.
Missy had one of her follow-ups with the plastic surgeon on October 1 last year. The day after I was admitted to the hospital. My saintly parents took her over to the great big scary maze at Baptist hospital and spent almost the entire day doing Missy's speech test and waiting to see the plastic surgeon. That night, my mom and Jason brought the kids to the hospital to see me, and I vaguely remember my mom telling me something about the surgeon finding a fistula and wanting to do another surgery sometime in the future.
I guess the future has arrived. Baptist's automated appointment reminder lady called me last week to remind me of an appointment with the plastic surgeon February 4 at 10am. I'm sure my mom told me about this appointment, but I didn't put it in my calendar. It's not been on my radar at all. And (everything else aside), it's not a big deal. It's an appointment. We're going to talk to the plastic surgeon about scheduling surgery (I think).
But it is a big deal. It's like the week of October 1st all over again. The week we fought hard and purposefully for Elliana's life. The week she was born too soon. And the week she died.
Surgeons are busy people. I'm sure that Missy is just 'another patient', and that Dr. T. probably won't remember anything about her last visit. But... what if he remembers? That my parents brought her? Will he ask questions? (Probably not.)
We saw Missy's ENT doctor at the beginning of November - I think he did remember that when Missy had her ear tube surgery in September, I was pregnant. And he asked some 'indirect' questions.
I'm not scared of the questions. I don't mind questions. I think I'm scared of whatever emotion may choose to display itself when I try to answer the question. It's the emotions and the tears (and the occasional shoe-throwing fantasy) that aren't predictable.
And... I can't help but think that by now, Elliana would have seen a plastic surgeon. Probably Missy's plastic surgeon. Elliana had a cleft lip. And a cleft palate. Had she lived, I would have been taking her to the great big scary maze at Baptist. I would have been carrying my infant girl into that office. The surgeon would have been making a plan to repair her lip, and then her palate. She may have even had her first surgery by now.
If Elliana had lived, going to Baptist wouldn't be just about Missy anymore. Elliana would have been making her mark there, too. And she would have been getting lots of ooh's and aah's over all of her blond hair.
My heart hurts more this morning. I miss her.
Today is February 4. My other daughter, Missy, has an appointment this morning with a plastic surgeon. When we got Missy as a foster baby, she had a cleft palate, among other 'malformations'. (I hate that word.) So when she was 10 months old, she had surgery to repair her palate. We've been seeing a plastic surgeon about once per year to follow her progress and make sure there aren't any fistulas (holes) in her palate.
Missy had one of her follow-ups with the plastic surgeon on October 1 last year. The day after I was admitted to the hospital. My saintly parents took her over to the great big scary maze at Baptist hospital and spent almost the entire day doing Missy's speech test and waiting to see the plastic surgeon. That night, my mom and Jason brought the kids to the hospital to see me, and I vaguely remember my mom telling me something about the surgeon finding a fistula and wanting to do another surgery sometime in the future.
I guess the future has arrived. Baptist's automated appointment reminder lady called me last week to remind me of an appointment with the plastic surgeon February 4 at 10am. I'm sure my mom told me about this appointment, but I didn't put it in my calendar. It's not been on my radar at all. And (everything else aside), it's not a big deal. It's an appointment. We're going to talk to the plastic surgeon about scheduling surgery (I think).
But it is a big deal. It's like the week of October 1st all over again. The week we fought hard and purposefully for Elliana's life. The week she was born too soon. And the week she died.
Surgeons are busy people. I'm sure that Missy is just 'another patient', and that Dr. T. probably won't remember anything about her last visit. But... what if he remembers? That my parents brought her? Will he ask questions? (Probably not.)
We saw Missy's ENT doctor at the beginning of November - I think he did remember that when Missy had her ear tube surgery in September, I was pregnant. And he asked some 'indirect' questions.
I'm not scared of the questions. I don't mind questions. I think I'm scared of whatever emotion may choose to display itself when I try to answer the question. It's the emotions and the tears (and the occasional shoe-throwing fantasy) that aren't predictable.
And... I can't help but think that by now, Elliana would have seen a plastic surgeon. Probably Missy's plastic surgeon. Elliana had a cleft lip. And a cleft palate. Had she lived, I would have been taking her to the great big scary maze at Baptist. I would have been carrying my infant girl into that office. The surgeon would have been making a plan to repair her lip, and then her palate. She may have even had her first surgery by now.
If Elliana had lived, going to Baptist wouldn't be just about Missy anymore. Elliana would have been making her mark there, too. And she would have been getting lots of ooh's and aah's over all of her blond hair.
My heart hurts more this morning. I miss her.
Friday, February 1, 2013
The Un-Pessimistic Post
I feel like I've spent the last week or two with my hands over my ears, eyes squinted shut, yelling as loudly as I can. If you're into the whole 'phases of grief' thing (and I'm not), maybe I've slipped back into denial.
In some ways, I think it helped. In other ways, it didn't help at all, and reality is still reality. Elliana is still gone.
But... I'm taking a short vacation from my normal pessimistic, life-sucks, screw-the-silver-lining outlook on life and devoting a couple paragraphs to what my days in denial DID for me. Not sure I can go so far as to say that I'm feeling 'optimistic', but maybe un-pessimistic.
Here's to looking on the bright side.
'Denial' (or whatever you wanna call it) gave my brain a break from the big black hole of grief. For a little over a week, my thoughts have not been consumed with my daughter's death. They have been consumed with cleaning, organizing, cooking, baking, and planning. And baking some more. And just a little bit of shopping.
I've tried several new crock pot recipes (only a couple got big thumbs-up from the kids) and baked cinnamon bread/rolls twice.
That's a LOT of cinnamon rolls, by the way.
I've gotten caught up on laundry several times. Because in my house, I don't get caught up and stay caught up. I get behind again in like, an hour.
I took all 4 kids to the dentist at one time and played the part of the extremely enthusiastic mom who will try just about anything to get the little ones to open their mouths for the dentist. Did I mention that I was extremely enthusiastic?
I've made significant progress on a chair I'm recovering. Trying to piece together the cushion covers with piping and zippers has scared me. But I finally just bit the bullet and started. I (well, Jason) put the partially finished chair up in my living room (right in the middle of where life happens at our house) where I can't ignore it. Now one cushion cover is finished (with the crappiest zipper job I've ever seen), and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel for the other one. Maybe zipper attempt #2 will be more successful (see?? un-pessimistic??). I'm sort of hoping 'denial' lasts until the chair is complete. :-)
I've finished (and Jason has hung) the wall of pictures in my living room. I wasn't happy with the way one of the pictures looked, and it about made my me cry thinking about trying to find a replacement photo. It took me hours to figure out which ones I wanted in the first place. But... my brain must have needed another project. I decided I wanted a picture of Elliana's flowers to go in that 8x10 spot. The flowers I put at the cemetery at the beginning of January are especially pretty, I think. Levi picked out the colors - purple and yellow. (The last time he went to the 'garden' with me, he asked if Elliana liked his flowers. :-) I told him that yes, she most certainly did LOVE them - because her big brother picked them out.) So I went to the cemetery one morning and took a few pictures of the flowers. Felt a little bit weird. To take pictures of the flowers at a cemetery. But I did. And... I'm no photographer. I knew I wanted a picture of JUST her flowers (because who wants to walk into my living room and see a cemetery landscape on my wall??), and I wanted it to be good enough quality to be blown up to an 8x10. So my friend, Dubbie, who is an aspiring photographer, came and did a little editing magic. I've ordered one, and... we'll see. This taking-a-break-from-pessimism is sort of helping me anticipate that it's going to look just as good on my wall as it does in my head.
Think I'll stop while I'm ahead. I'm afraid if I keep writing, the silver lining will disappear. I'll let this post just be... un-pessimistic.
:-) Look. It's even smiling.
In some ways, I think it helped. In other ways, it didn't help at all, and reality is still reality. Elliana is still gone.
But... I'm taking a short vacation from my normal pessimistic, life-sucks, screw-the-silver-lining outlook on life and devoting a couple paragraphs to what my days in denial DID for me. Not sure I can go so far as to say that I'm feeling 'optimistic', but maybe un-pessimistic.
Here's to looking on the bright side.
'Denial' (or whatever you wanna call it) gave my brain a break from the big black hole of grief. For a little over a week, my thoughts have not been consumed with my daughter's death. They have been consumed with cleaning, organizing, cooking, baking, and planning. And baking some more. And just a little bit of shopping.
I've tried several new crock pot recipes (only a couple got big thumbs-up from the kids) and baked cinnamon bread/rolls twice.
That's a LOT of cinnamon rolls, by the way.
I've gotten caught up on laundry several times. Because in my house, I don't get caught up and stay caught up. I get behind again in like, an hour.
I took all 4 kids to the dentist at one time and played the part of the extremely enthusiastic mom who will try just about anything to get the little ones to open their mouths for the dentist. Did I mention that I was extremely enthusiastic?
I've made significant progress on a chair I'm recovering. Trying to piece together the cushion covers with piping and zippers has scared me. But I finally just bit the bullet and started. I (well, Jason) put the partially finished chair up in my living room (right in the middle of where life happens at our house) where I can't ignore it. Now one cushion cover is finished (with the crappiest zipper job I've ever seen), and I can see the light at the end of the tunnel for the other one. Maybe zipper attempt #2 will be more successful (see?? un-pessimistic??). I'm sort of hoping 'denial' lasts until the chair is complete. :-)
I've finished (and Jason has hung) the wall of pictures in my living room. I wasn't happy with the way one of the pictures looked, and it about made my me cry thinking about trying to find a replacement photo. It took me hours to figure out which ones I wanted in the first place. But... my brain must have needed another project. I decided I wanted a picture of Elliana's flowers to go in that 8x10 spot. The flowers I put at the cemetery at the beginning of January are especially pretty, I think. Levi picked out the colors - purple and yellow. (The last time he went to the 'garden' with me, he asked if Elliana liked his flowers. :-) I told him that yes, she most certainly did LOVE them - because her big brother picked them out.) So I went to the cemetery one morning and took a few pictures of the flowers. Felt a little bit weird. To take pictures of the flowers at a cemetery. But I did. And... I'm no photographer. I knew I wanted a picture of JUST her flowers (because who wants to walk into my living room and see a cemetery landscape on my wall??), and I wanted it to be good enough quality to be blown up to an 8x10. So my friend, Dubbie, who is an aspiring photographer, came and did a little editing magic. I've ordered one, and... we'll see. This taking-a-break-from-pessimism is sort of helping me anticipate that it's going to look just as good on my wall as it does in my head.
Think I'll stop while I'm ahead. I'm afraid if I keep writing, the silver lining will disappear. I'll let this post just be... un-pessimistic.
:-) Look. It's even smiling.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Dear Chris Tomlin
Dear Chris Tomlin,
I know it's highly unlikely that you'll ever actually read this, but there are some things on my mind (inspired by music you wrote), and I felt like writing a 'letter' to you might be the best way to communicate them.
I have such an appreciation for your music. There are lots of great musicians and song writers in the world, but their music doesn't always lead me to worship my Savior. Your songs do. You write songs that people not only like and enjoy - they worship with your songs. I think I remember hearing you say something at a Thirsty conference years ago - that when you were younger, someone prayed that God would make you a psalmist for our generation. I believe He has. :-)
So... why am I writing to you??
I should tell you first that a little over six months ago, my husband and I learned that our unborn daughter had a genetic disorder, and that she would probably not live long after she was born. We spent the last three months of my pregnancy grieving the 'anticipated' death of our little girl, but hoping that our doctors were wrong, that God would heal her little body, and that she would live.
Our daughter, Elliana, was born on October 5. She only lived a few short hours.
I don't understand. I mean, I know 'bad things' happen. We live in a fallen world. Sickness and death are part of the curse. But I also know God is sovereign. Why would He create my daughter with a fatal disorder? I'm angry. Confused. Numb. Wanting to throw shoes at people. And angry some more. Thinking I may just ignore God and never speak to Him again.
But I, this mom who wants to ignore God, went to Target the other day and bought your new CD, Burning Lights. Why? I have no idea. And THEN... I listened to it. I'm probably not going to explain this well - I'm still ignoring God, but I can hear the Gospel in your music. I can't hear it well on Sunday mornings at church (mostly because I just have a crummy attitude and don't want to hear it), and I can't hear it on k-love (because I don't really give a rip about 'positive and encouraging' right now). But I heard it on your CD.
This might sound completely backwards and make no sense AT ALL, but it feels easier for my heart to remain stone-cold and resistant to the Gospel. I think I know what will happen if my heart softens: repentance. Returning to my Father. But in doing that, I fear acknowledging that His ways are higher than mine. And that even though I don't understand it, His ways are better than mine. I'm not there. I can't admit that. I can't say that His plan to give me a little girl to carry for 31 weeks and 5 days and then hold for the few hours her heart was beating was 'better' than getting to enjoy a lifetime with her.
I should also tell you that music is a language for me. It speaks to me in a way that nothing else can. And I can communicate my grief and love for my daughter when I play the piano.
All that said, your songs can reach the parts of my heart that I've been guarding. And even though the wall of anger is still there, you've reminded me that He is still there. Even in my anger. I may not want Him there, I may not acknowledge that He's there... but He is. And to some degree, in a way that makes no sense even to me, that *helps* me.
I struggle to believe the truths of the Gospel, but hearing you play and sing so passionately and worshipfully made me want to play and sing. With more passion than I've ever had before. For a brief moment, I saw myself leading others in worship - others who are hurting. Not sure how, or when, or even if that will ever happen, but just knowing that the desire is there made me think that maybe I won't be stuck in this black hole of grief forever.
I read on facebook that you were going to be in Connecticut, leading grieving families in worship. Oh, how I wish I could have been there. You worship well. And that leads others, I think even people who are hurting deeply, to worship well.
Thanks.
And hey - one day, years from now, if you lead worship in Heaven, can I play the piano with you? :-)
I know it's highly unlikely that you'll ever actually read this, but there are some things on my mind (inspired by music you wrote), and I felt like writing a 'letter' to you might be the best way to communicate them.
I have such an appreciation for your music. There are lots of great musicians and song writers in the world, but their music doesn't always lead me to worship my Savior. Your songs do. You write songs that people not only like and enjoy - they worship with your songs. I think I remember hearing you say something at a Thirsty conference years ago - that when you were younger, someone prayed that God would make you a psalmist for our generation. I believe He has. :-)
So... why am I writing to you??
I should tell you first that a little over six months ago, my husband and I learned that our unborn daughter had a genetic disorder, and that she would probably not live long after she was born. We spent the last three months of my pregnancy grieving the 'anticipated' death of our little girl, but hoping that our doctors were wrong, that God would heal her little body, and that she would live.
Our daughter, Elliana, was born on October 5. She only lived a few short hours.
I don't understand. I mean, I know 'bad things' happen. We live in a fallen world. Sickness and death are part of the curse. But I also know God is sovereign. Why would He create my daughter with a fatal disorder? I'm angry. Confused. Numb. Wanting to throw shoes at people. And angry some more. Thinking I may just ignore God and never speak to Him again.
But I, this mom who wants to ignore God, went to Target the other day and bought your new CD, Burning Lights. Why? I have no idea. And THEN... I listened to it. I'm probably not going to explain this well - I'm still ignoring God, but I can hear the Gospel in your music. I can't hear it well on Sunday mornings at church (mostly because I just have a crummy attitude and don't want to hear it), and I can't hear it on k-love (because I don't really give a rip about 'positive and encouraging' right now). But I heard it on your CD.
This might sound completely backwards and make no sense AT ALL, but it feels easier for my heart to remain stone-cold and resistant to the Gospel. I think I know what will happen if my heart softens: repentance. Returning to my Father. But in doing that, I fear acknowledging that His ways are higher than mine. And that even though I don't understand it, His ways are better than mine. I'm not there. I can't admit that. I can't say that His plan to give me a little girl to carry for 31 weeks and 5 days and then hold for the few hours her heart was beating was 'better' than getting to enjoy a lifetime with her.
I should also tell you that music is a language for me. It speaks to me in a way that nothing else can. And I can communicate my grief and love for my daughter when I play the piano.
All that said, your songs can reach the parts of my heart that I've been guarding. And even though the wall of anger is still there, you've reminded me that He is still there. Even in my anger. I may not want Him there, I may not acknowledge that He's there... but He is. And to some degree, in a way that makes no sense even to me, that *helps* me.
I struggle to believe the truths of the Gospel, but hearing you play and sing so passionately and worshipfully made me want to play and sing. With more passion than I've ever had before. For a brief moment, I saw myself leading others in worship - others who are hurting. Not sure how, or when, or even if that will ever happen, but just knowing that the desire is there made me think that maybe I won't be stuck in this black hole of grief forever.
I read on facebook that you were going to be in Connecticut, leading grieving families in worship. Oh, how I wish I could have been there. You worship well. And that leads others, I think even people who are hurting deeply, to worship well.
Thanks.
And hey - one day, years from now, if you lead worship in Heaven, can I play the piano with you? :-)
Sunday, January 13, 2013
The New Blog Look
Months ago, I asked my mom and sisters for some help thinking of a new name for my blog. It was titled 'The Lindegren Family', but since my blog is more of a journal about Elliana and not really about the whole family, I wanted the title to reflect that.
I got several title suggestions, especially from my sister, Ashley. I had no idea she could brainstorm like that. :-) Her suggestions for a blog title ranged in emotion from really serious (like 'Loving Elliana' and 'God's Answer: Elliana') to crack-me-up hilarious (like 'Naked in Front of a Crowd'). Thanks, Ashley, for inspiring my title and description. You know my heart well.
And I finally updated the family pic. My friend, Beth, who lost her own sweet little boy this past May, took the new family photo I posted. Beth is a professional photographer. An extraordinary photographer. She came over to our house when I was 30 weeks pregnant to take some family and maternity pictures. I'm SO thankful that she felt a sense of urgency to go ahead and do those pictures at 30 weeks. I was hospitalized at 31 weeks, and Elliana was born 5 short days later. All of the pictures I've posted (minus maybe 2 or 3 - and it's pretty obvious those are self-portraits. (-: ) - family pictures and pictures of Elliana - have been Beth's masterpieces. And the pictures of Elliana during the few hours she lived communicate everything we felt. There are probably close to 100 pictures, and they tell the story of the night she was born and the morning she died. Those pictures capture both our love and grief for our beautiful girl. Thank you, Beth.
Why has it taken me months to put up the new picture and re-title the blog? I have no idea. If I thought about it or wrote about it long enough, I'd probably figure it out. Not tonight - maybe another night.
I got several title suggestions, especially from my sister, Ashley. I had no idea she could brainstorm like that. :-) Her suggestions for a blog title ranged in emotion from really serious (like 'Loving Elliana' and 'God's Answer: Elliana') to crack-me-up hilarious (like 'Naked in Front of a Crowd'). Thanks, Ashley, for inspiring my title and description. You know my heart well.
And I finally updated the family pic. My friend, Beth, who lost her own sweet little boy this past May, took the new family photo I posted. Beth is a professional photographer. An extraordinary photographer. She came over to our house when I was 30 weeks pregnant to take some family and maternity pictures. I'm SO thankful that she felt a sense of urgency to go ahead and do those pictures at 30 weeks. I was hospitalized at 31 weeks, and Elliana was born 5 short days later. All of the pictures I've posted (minus maybe 2 or 3 - and it's pretty obvious those are self-portraits. (-: ) - family pictures and pictures of Elliana - have been Beth's masterpieces. And the pictures of Elliana during the few hours she lived communicate everything we felt. There are probably close to 100 pictures, and they tell the story of the night she was born and the morning she died. Those pictures capture both our love and grief for our beautiful girl. Thank you, Beth.
Why has it taken me months to put up the new picture and re-title the blog? I have no idea. If I thought about it or wrote about it long enough, I'd probably figure it out. Not tonight - maybe another night.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
How Many
One of the most difficult questions for me to answer right now is, 'How many children do you have?'
The other is, 'How are you?'
The answers to both are complicated.
How am I? I'm alive and breathing, taking care of my kids, fixing dinner at night, doing laundry, attempting to teach piano lessons, laughing at times, crying at times. But everything takes so much energy - getting the kids ready to go somewhere, getting myself ready to go somewhere, making a grocery list, conversation - all of it is just so draining.
And then there are times I get this urge to just be in the kitchen and create, so I bake. A lot. Things I don't even really like. Like hot cross buns. Yes. Hot cross buns. They weren't nearly as good as I hoped they'd be. I think I was hoping they'd be some incredible variation on cinnamon rolls, but they weren't nearly cinnamony or gooey enough.
I do weird things, like completely redecorate my living room walls. I'm in the process of putting up a gazillion pictures of my family, which will probably make people who walk through my front door a little uncomfortable. One corner of the room is finished - it's the first corner you see when you walk through my door. Now that I've realized the first picture people will see is the canvas close-up of my belly with all the kids' hands on it, I sort of wonder if maybe I should have thought that through a little better. I have no idea what people will think when they see it, but I really don't care. :-) I like it.
The other question... How many children do I have?
That one's even harder to answer.
Up until recently, I have stumbled through the answer, 'I have four children.' Because saying 'five' would probably bring me to tears, and the person asking about my kids has just met me. It's not likely they're prepared for a torrent of tears from a stranger.
But this past week, I answered the question differently. To my new dental hygienist, of all people. Poor woman.
The last time I went to the dentist was almost a year ago. They found a couple cavities, I set up a return appointment for mid-July, and then... Elliana. July 3 happened. I had to cancel the appointment because I knew I'd just sit in my dentist's chair and cry through the fillings.
I finally went back this week for a cleaning. I didn't want to go - partly because... well, who WANTS to go the dentist anyway? And I knew the dentist would fuss at me for not having the cavities filled. But he had no idea why I didn't keep that appointment to have the cavities filled.
Reminders of Elliana are everywhere - even at the dentist's office.
So I was pretty uncomfortable being there, and the hygienist picked up on that. She asked me if I was ok (also a difficult question to answer - because no, I'm not ok). I told her I was ok. She gently pushed a little more and asked if I just had some dental fears. I said no, it wasn't dental fears.
Then, as she was about to put that mini pirate's hook in my mouth, she started making small talk. Her first question to me: Do you have children? Me: Yes, I do. Hygienist: How many?
*big sigh*
Since she already knew I was not really ok, I decided to just go ahead and say it.
'I have five children, but one of my daughters died a few months ago.'
There. I did it. I said it.
The sweet hygienist responded really well, said she was so sorry, and asked what happened. It surprised me that I felt better about briefly telling her what happened than I would have felt about saying I have four children rather than five.
And then I apologized - I knew that by telling her, I had put her in an awkward position. I mean, how do you keep making small talk with someone like me after I drop that bomb on you?
But even though I know it made her a little uncomfortable, I'm glad I was honest with her. Because now, someone in that office knows. And for some reason, that helps me.
I even wish I'd gone a step further and asked her if she'd like to see a picture - because I have several in my purse. :-)
The other is, 'How are you?'
The answers to both are complicated.
How am I? I'm alive and breathing, taking care of my kids, fixing dinner at night, doing laundry, attempting to teach piano lessons, laughing at times, crying at times. But everything takes so much energy - getting the kids ready to go somewhere, getting myself ready to go somewhere, making a grocery list, conversation - all of it is just so draining.
And then there are times I get this urge to just be in the kitchen and create, so I bake. A lot. Things I don't even really like. Like hot cross buns. Yes. Hot cross buns. They weren't nearly as good as I hoped they'd be. I think I was hoping they'd be some incredible variation on cinnamon rolls, but they weren't nearly cinnamony or gooey enough.
I do weird things, like completely redecorate my living room walls. I'm in the process of putting up a gazillion pictures of my family, which will probably make people who walk through my front door a little uncomfortable. One corner of the room is finished - it's the first corner you see when you walk through my door. Now that I've realized the first picture people will see is the canvas close-up of my belly with all the kids' hands on it, I sort of wonder if maybe I should have thought that through a little better. I have no idea what people will think when they see it, but I really don't care. :-) I like it.
The other question... How many children do I have?
That one's even harder to answer.
Up until recently, I have stumbled through the answer, 'I have four children.' Because saying 'five' would probably bring me to tears, and the person asking about my kids has just met me. It's not likely they're prepared for a torrent of tears from a stranger.
But this past week, I answered the question differently. To my new dental hygienist, of all people. Poor woman.
The last time I went to the dentist was almost a year ago. They found a couple cavities, I set up a return appointment for mid-July, and then... Elliana. July 3 happened. I had to cancel the appointment because I knew I'd just sit in my dentist's chair and cry through the fillings.
I finally went back this week for a cleaning. I didn't want to go - partly because... well, who WANTS to go the dentist anyway? And I knew the dentist would fuss at me for not having the cavities filled. But he had no idea why I didn't keep that appointment to have the cavities filled.
Reminders of Elliana are everywhere - even at the dentist's office.
So I was pretty uncomfortable being there, and the hygienist picked up on that. She asked me if I was ok (also a difficult question to answer - because no, I'm not ok). I told her I was ok. She gently pushed a little more and asked if I just had some dental fears. I said no, it wasn't dental fears.
Then, as she was about to put that mini pirate's hook in my mouth, she started making small talk. Her first question to me: Do you have children? Me: Yes, I do. Hygienist: How many?
*big sigh*
Since she already knew I was not really ok, I decided to just go ahead and say it.
'I have five children, but one of my daughters died a few months ago.'
There. I did it. I said it.
The sweet hygienist responded really well, said she was so sorry, and asked what happened. It surprised me that I felt better about briefly telling her what happened than I would have felt about saying I have four children rather than five.
And then I apologized - I knew that by telling her, I had put her in an awkward position. I mean, how do you keep making small talk with someone like me after I drop that bomb on you?
But even though I know it made her a little uncomfortable, I'm glad I was honest with her. Because now, someone in that office knows. And for some reason, that helps me.
I even wish I'd gone a step further and asked her if she'd like to see a picture - because I have several in my purse. :-)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)