We drove back from my parents' house in SC today - December 31, 2012. New Year's Eve. Unpacked the van, put things away, settled back in. Got the kids ready for bed. Needed to make a quick milk-and-juice run.
And go to the cemetery.
Definitely a first for me. I've never rung in the new year surrounded by granite stones and fake flowers.
This has been a hard year for several of my friends. A year of hell for a few of them. And a couple of them are really glad to say 'goodbye' to 2012. To be done with the year of heartache. I think I can understand why.
But I'm not ready for 2012 to end. As if I have any control over it. Midnight will come and go, and 2012 will be gone. But I'm dreading it. 2012 was Elliana's year. We found out she was on her way at the end of March, so she was a part our lives for most of the year. In this short year, we anticipated her arrival, learned of her fatal diagnosis, loved her as she continued to grow, planned for her birth, hoped for her life, and held her as she died.
I could just live in 2012 forever. All of my memories of my sweet baby girl are in this year. For me, she was 2012.
I've spent the last week trying to 'make it through'. Unfortunately, I'm not one of those people who tries to make the most of a bad situation. I suck at looking on the bright side. I think our kids enjoyed Christmas day - but for me, the bright spot was going to the cemetery after naptime and eating Christmas dinner at the Denny's 'near' Elliana. Which just feels... pitiful.
But in all honesty, 'making it through' is about the best I can do most days. And this past week, 'making it through' has taken several different forms. Like ignoring social media completely for a few days so I wouldn't have to read all of the 'baby's first Christmas' comments. Or baking. I baked more cookies and sweets in the days right before Christmas than in the past 10 years combined. Even eating and drinking. I've thought that maybe - if I could just eat enough - it would fill that empty space in me. Or drinking - whether it be coffee, coke, or wine - maybe a little bit more would make the hole feel not quite so big. I've wondered if a new 'toy' - my own ipad, or a new phone - would distract me enough to give my mind a rest from thinking and my heart a rest from hurting.
I guess those things could help - for a moment or two. The 'bite' of that first sip of coke, and the way it makes that numb feeling go away. For just a moment. The sweet escape of a stupid computer/phone game to take my thoughts far away for a short while. Sometimes, I'd give anything for a moment of relief.
But I know I'm longing for relief that this world can't ultimately give me.
I know, I know, I KNOW. (Throwing extremely fragile imaginary vases and bashing computers *here*.)
But that's about as far as I get. Knowing. Can't quite bring myself to move toward the One who could give me relief.
Not even sure if I want to right now.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Monday, December 24, 2012
Christmas Eve
Why are holidays particularly difficult? For the past few days, Elliana's absence has felt heavier. My empty arms feel emptier. My heart feels more weighted. Tears come to my eyes much more quickly.
Although I know that there is comfort and reassurance in the events that made Christmas a reason to celebrate, there is so much about these holidays that just hurts. The Christmas story is about a baby. Not that I'm comparing Elliana to the King of kings who came as a babe. But just hearing about a baby is difficult. And it's everywhere. Manger scenes, songs on the radio, Christmas hymns, Christmas sermons. Reminders are everywhere. Reminders that I'm supposed to be holding and snuggling a baby girl this Christmas, and I'm not. Reminders even in a dirty santa game - in a gift that our family wound up with: diaper rash cream.
REALLY??
Why couldn't we have opened the scarf, or the 'Life Begins at 40' mug?
Diaper rash cream. Another reminder that my baby is gone.
I sorta want to cuss. And throw something.
We finally decorated our tree - last Sunday night. It was up for 2 weeks before we put any lights or ornaments on it. We have several ornaments this year that are 'Elliana's' - that made it easier to think about decorating the tree.
Although I know that there is comfort and reassurance in the events that made Christmas a reason to celebrate, there is so much about these holidays that just hurts. The Christmas story is about a baby. Not that I'm comparing Elliana to the King of kings who came as a babe. But just hearing about a baby is difficult. And it's everywhere. Manger scenes, songs on the radio, Christmas hymns, Christmas sermons. Reminders are everywhere. Reminders that I'm supposed to be holding and snuggling a baby girl this Christmas, and I'm not. Reminders even in a dirty santa game - in a gift that our family wound up with: diaper rash cream.
REALLY??
Why couldn't we have opened the scarf, or the 'Life Begins at 40' mug?
Diaper rash cream. Another reminder that my baby is gone.
I sorta want to cuss. And throw something.
We finally decorated our tree - last Sunday night. It was up for 2 weeks before we put any lights or ornaments on it. We have several ornaments this year that are 'Elliana's' - that made it easier to think about decorating the tree.
I made some ornaments with each of the kids' pictures in them, and included Elliana.
Elijah picked out an ornament just for me - the dove - and told me it was in remembrance of Elliana.
It's not visible in this picture, but I gave Jason a football ornament that says 'Daddy's Ella Belle' - because their favorite thing to 'do together' was watch football games.
A friend gave me an angel - an ornament of remembrance.
Another friend sent me several ornaments, each with significance for this Christmas - the glittery silver heart, 'Believe', 'Joy', 'Noel', 'Peace' (which I dropped and broke - feels appropriate), and the snowman with the family.
And the blond angel. My favorite.
My mom and dad stopped by our house a couple weeks ago on their way back home. My mom brought an ornament for me. She said she had found it in her collection of Christmas ornaments as she was decorating her tree.
My mom doesn't remember finding this ornament in Christmases past.
It's an angel made out of blond hair. It's in the picture above, almost at the top of the tree.
When I went through the memory box from the hospital, the first envelope I saw said 'A Lock of Hair'. Relief washed over me, and I picked up the envelope to look inside.
It was empty. No lock of hair. I sobbed. And sobbed. I searched the rest of the box. I looked in the envelope again. And then once more. And it still wasn't there. I don't know why it was so important to me, but it was.
So... in a strange way that maybe only makes sense to me, this angel ornament made of blond hair feels like a gift. A gift not just from my mom. But from the One who gave me Elliana. Who gave her that beautiful blond hair just for me. And Who took her away.
I don't know how to reconcile all of that. He gives and He takes away. I hear people say that a lot. Like it's just part of life. It just happens. We should expect it. And sometimes it even sounds like... we (I) should be ok with it.
But I'm not ok with it. It's not ok that she's gone. It's not ok that I only got to hold her for a few hours before she died. It's not ok that the body of one of my children will be in a cemetery on Christmas morning - rather than in my arms, being part of the Christmas morning chaos.
It's not ok. I'm not ok.
And yet somehow, I know that the birth of Jesus gives hope. The Gospel is hope.
I wish I could see it - the hope. And hear it. My brain is clouded by fog - nothing seems clear, and nothing makes sense.
I made a broccoli and rice casserole today, which called for 1 cup of dry rice. I had 1/2 a cup of rice. Went to the store, bought more rice, came home, and without thinking, I dumped the entire bag of rice into the bowl of other ingredients I'd already combined. Like, cream of mushroom and celery soups - the rice stuck like glue. Realized my mistake, gasped, and amost cried.
If I can't comprehend and get a freakin' recipe right, how in the world will the Gospel ever make sense to me again?
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Her Hair
I remember one of the first things I heard after Elliana was born. It wasn't the sound of her cry. It was the anesthesiologist, with a little sparkle of happiness in her eyes, telling me, 'She has blond hair.'
She had SO MUCH blond hair.
When I see other little girls with beautiful blond hair, it brings tears to my eyes. Obviously, it's partly because I'll never get to see what my Elliana looks like as a bright-eyed, curious 3-year-old with long blond hair. But it's something else, too. The other day, I finally realized what it was.
I was at the mall playground with my littlest boys. A blond little girl, probably 2, was running around, a little initimidated by the rowdiness of my boys. :-) (Elliana wouldn't have been intimidated. She would have been just as rowdy.) This little girl was with her grandmother. I found myself wishing that I could tell that grandmother about my little girl.
People ooh and aah over babies. Their cute noses, their tiny fingers, their chubby cheeks. I think if my girl were still living, people would be exclaiming over her hair. They might comment about how much she had, or how blond it was, or ask which side of the family she got it from (and Jason would be super quick to take credit.).
And even though she's not here, I still have a longing to show her off. I wish I could have shared with that grandmother that my little girl also had beautiful blond hair. Just like her granddaughter. I wish that, at the very least, I'd had some reason to show her a picture - because even though she's gone, she's still my little girl. And I think she was beautiful. And I want the ooh's and aah's.
My son, Seth, has (had) gorgeous blond hair. It was a little on the long side before Elliana was born. But after she was born, I couldn't bear to cut it. I felt like his little blond head was the only real glimpse I'd get of what Elliana's hair would have looked like if she had lived. So I let it grow - and it was really cute. :-) Jason was patient for a while, but about a week ago, he felt like it was time. And we cut Seth's hair.
Confessions of a grieving mom: I saved some of his hair. Because the hospital didn't save any of Elliana's.
Heart. Broken.
My other daughter, Melissa, has a genetic disorder that we haven't officially identified. There's been one strong possibility, and one of the characteristics of that particular disorder is 'excessive' hair. But, as far as I know, excessive hair isn't one of the characteristics of Tetrasomy 9p. So, I've wondered - did Elliana's Creator give her that beautiful head full of blond hair just for me? Did He give me that piece of her just so that I would be able to 'see her' in the little blond heads that cross my path? Or, is it just some random characteristic of a genetic disorder that has absolutely nothing to do with me, and she just had lots of blond hair because of the extra copies of chromosome 9?
So... if you're brave enough to do it, ask me to show you her picture. Because if you ask me, I'll probably be very glad to show you her picture. I have some on my phone, and I'm about to get some wallet-sized ones in the mail. I might get teary-eyed, but I would be very happy to show off my beautiful 'Belle', and get your ooh's and aah's.
She had SO MUCH blond hair.
When I see other little girls with beautiful blond hair, it brings tears to my eyes. Obviously, it's partly because I'll never get to see what my Elliana looks like as a bright-eyed, curious 3-year-old with long blond hair. But it's something else, too. The other day, I finally realized what it was.
I was at the mall playground with my littlest boys. A blond little girl, probably 2, was running around, a little initimidated by the rowdiness of my boys. :-) (Elliana wouldn't have been intimidated. She would have been just as rowdy.) This little girl was with her grandmother. I found myself wishing that I could tell that grandmother about my little girl.
People ooh and aah over babies. Their cute noses, their tiny fingers, their chubby cheeks. I think if my girl were still living, people would be exclaiming over her hair. They might comment about how much she had, or how blond it was, or ask which side of the family she got it from (and Jason would be super quick to take credit.).
And even though she's not here, I still have a longing to show her off. I wish I could have shared with that grandmother that my little girl also had beautiful blond hair. Just like her granddaughter. I wish that, at the very least, I'd had some reason to show her a picture - because even though she's gone, she's still my little girl. And I think she was beautiful. And I want the ooh's and aah's.
My son, Seth, has (had) gorgeous blond hair. It was a little on the long side before Elliana was born. But after she was born, I couldn't bear to cut it. I felt like his little blond head was the only real glimpse I'd get of what Elliana's hair would have looked like if she had lived. So I let it grow - and it was really cute. :-) Jason was patient for a while, but about a week ago, he felt like it was time. And we cut Seth's hair.
Confessions of a grieving mom: I saved some of his hair. Because the hospital didn't save any of Elliana's.
Heart. Broken.
My other daughter, Melissa, has a genetic disorder that we haven't officially identified. There's been one strong possibility, and one of the characteristics of that particular disorder is 'excessive' hair. But, as far as I know, excessive hair isn't one of the characteristics of Tetrasomy 9p. So, I've wondered - did Elliana's Creator give her that beautiful head full of blond hair just for me? Did He give me that piece of her just so that I would be able to 'see her' in the little blond heads that cross my path? Or, is it just some random characteristic of a genetic disorder that has absolutely nothing to do with me, and she just had lots of blond hair because of the extra copies of chromosome 9?
So... if you're brave enough to do it, ask me to show you her picture. Because if you ask me, I'll probably be very glad to show you her picture. I have some on my phone, and I'm about to get some wallet-sized ones in the mail. I might get teary-eyed, but I would be very happy to show off my beautiful 'Belle', and get your ooh's and aah's.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
Throwing Shoes and Breaking My Laptop
I think I'm a fairly even-tempered person. OK, well, my children might disagree. BUT - overall, I think I can keep my cool. I don't typically flip people off in traffic. I don't lose it with waitresses who get my order wrong.
But lately, I've had the urge to throw something at people. Usually a shoe. And if I'm wearing flip flops, I consider throwing Jason's shoe. Because flip flops just aren't heavy enough.
I should say that no one has been rude to me. No one has said anything wrong, or even untrue. I just hear everything with very different ears. My ears are tuned to the death of my daughter, and almost everything reminds me of her in one way or another.
I think the shoe-throwing fantasy is directed at people who say things that strike me the wrong way. Things that fall on my ears and make me want to scream.
I want to throw something and break it. Glass. Glass on concrete. I want to throw it. And hear it shatter. And watch it break into a million pieces.
Or my laptop. I could just take a hammer to my laptop. No, a hammer is too small. A baseball bat. A really heavy baseball bat.
There are times that I can feel this awful rage stirring inside of me, and all I want to do is THROW SOMETHING. Rage over the reality that my daughter is gone. That I won't be holding her this Christmas. Anger because it feels like she was created just to die. And because the world is moving on and I'm still stuck in October.
Death is just wrong. And I hate it.
And I just want to throw something.
But lately, I've had the urge to throw something at people. Usually a shoe. And if I'm wearing flip flops, I consider throwing Jason's shoe. Because flip flops just aren't heavy enough.
I should say that no one has been rude to me. No one has said anything wrong, or even untrue. I just hear everything with very different ears. My ears are tuned to the death of my daughter, and almost everything reminds me of her in one way or another.
I think the shoe-throwing fantasy is directed at people who say things that strike me the wrong way. Things that fall on my ears and make me want to scream.
I want to throw something and break it. Glass. Glass on concrete. I want to throw it. And hear it shatter. And watch it break into a million pieces.
Or my laptop. I could just take a hammer to my laptop. No, a hammer is too small. A baseball bat. A really heavy baseball bat.
There are times that I can feel this awful rage stirring inside of me, and all I want to do is THROW SOMETHING. Rage over the reality that my daughter is gone. That I won't be holding her this Christmas. Anger because it feels like she was created just to die. And because the world is moving on and I'm still stuck in October.
Death is just wrong. And I hate it.
And I just want to throw something.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
Due Date
Today was my due date.
Even if things had gone according to our plan, we wouldn't have made it to today - she would have been delivered early by c-section. But it's been a hard day. I think because it's the last 'anticipating Elliana's arrival' date on my calendar.
After today, my calendar will only have two dates pencilled in for Elliana on it - her birthday and the day she died. But there are so many more dates that are 'hers'. I think I've realized that it will take a long time to pry my finger loose of anything that is hers or reminds me of her. It's all I have of her, and I notice myself hanging onto anything - dates, blankets, a voicemail from the week I was in the hospital, my bracelet, a pink sleeper hanging on my closet door - that is Elliana's. Silly things. But important things.
I've spent the last week with some form of hyper-ADD. I've described it to a few people as feeling like I have ADD, but on crack. I. Can't. Focus. On. Anything. And I want to do everything all at once.
Clean the house.
Go to Hobby Lobby.
Re-cover a chair.
Christmas shop.
Vacuum out the van.
Go to Starbucks.
Get a new comforter.
Redecorate my bedroom.
Go to Bath and Body Works and take advantage of that really good deal.
Redecorate the kids' rooms.
Reorganize the kitchen.
Clean out the storage room.
Tear down a wall.
Go to the mall so the boys can run around somewhere indoors.
Create photo books.
Throw the laptop. And shatter it.
Go get some chips and salsa.
Redecorate the entire house.
Play 'Bakery Story' - a really stupid time-consuming game on my phone. I'm embarrassed to admit this publicly.
Re-cover the other chair.
Go back to Bath and Body Works and take advantage of that really good deal again.
Do all the laundry. In one morning.
Get rid of a bunch of toys.
Paint all the upstairs trim.
Find little architectural (good word, Beth) thingies for above the mantle.
And this is only the beginning of the list in my head.
One really important task - get a Christmas ornament for our tree with Elliana's name on it.
Our other kids either have ornaments with their name on it, or ornaments that they've made. Elliana needs one. At least one.
Poor kids - Elijah and Missy can escape to school and have some degree of normalcy. Levi and Seth, on the other hand, wake up and have no idea what to expect for their day.
And Jason - I told him my ADD list yesterday morning, and he just wanted to help me try to get it all done. Yesterday. Obviously, that didn't happen. :-)
I saw Kate (from Kids Path) on Tuesday, and she reassured me that I'm not going nuts. This inability to focus is part of grief. And although I hate the idea that going through grief is a 'process', and their are steps to it, and what I'm feeling is 'normal' (because there is nothing 'normal' about burying a baby), it does help - just a little bit - to know that I'm not going insane.
Even if things had gone according to our plan, we wouldn't have made it to today - she would have been delivered early by c-section. But it's been a hard day. I think because it's the last 'anticipating Elliana's arrival' date on my calendar.
After today, my calendar will only have two dates pencilled in for Elliana on it - her birthday and the day she died. But there are so many more dates that are 'hers'. I think I've realized that it will take a long time to pry my finger loose of anything that is hers or reminds me of her. It's all I have of her, and I notice myself hanging onto anything - dates, blankets, a voicemail from the week I was in the hospital, my bracelet, a pink sleeper hanging on my closet door - that is Elliana's. Silly things. But important things.
I've spent the last week with some form of hyper-ADD. I've described it to a few people as feeling like I have ADD, but on crack. I. Can't. Focus. On. Anything. And I want to do everything all at once.
Clean the house.
Go to Hobby Lobby.
Re-cover a chair.
Christmas shop.
Vacuum out the van.
Go to Starbucks.
Get a new comforter.
Redecorate my bedroom.
Go to Bath and Body Works and take advantage of that really good deal.
Redecorate the kids' rooms.
Reorganize the kitchen.
Clean out the storage room.
Tear down a wall.
Go to the mall so the boys can run around somewhere indoors.
Create photo books.
Throw the laptop. And shatter it.
Go get some chips and salsa.
Redecorate the entire house.
Play 'Bakery Story' - a really stupid time-consuming game on my phone. I'm embarrassed to admit this publicly.
Re-cover the other chair.
Go back to Bath and Body Works and take advantage of that really good deal again.
Do all the laundry. In one morning.
Get rid of a bunch of toys.
Paint all the upstairs trim.
Find little architectural (good word, Beth) thingies for above the mantle.
And this is only the beginning of the list in my head.
One really important task - get a Christmas ornament for our tree with Elliana's name on it.
Our other kids either have ornaments with their name on it, or ornaments that they've made. Elliana needs one. At least one.
Poor kids - Elijah and Missy can escape to school and have some degree of normalcy. Levi and Seth, on the other hand, wake up and have no idea what to expect for their day.
And Jason - I told him my ADD list yesterday morning, and he just wanted to help me try to get it all done. Yesterday. Obviously, that didn't happen. :-)
I saw Kate (from Kids Path) on Tuesday, and she reassured me that I'm not going nuts. This inability to focus is part of grief. And although I hate the idea that going through grief is a 'process', and their are steps to it, and what I'm feeling is 'normal' (because there is nothing 'normal' about burying a baby), it does help - just a little bit - to know that I'm not going insane.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
The Stone
Today is one of those 'supposed to be' days. November 21, 2012. Today was supposed to be Elianna's birthday.
It took us several weeks to actually pick a day for the c-section. The Thanksgiving holiday made it much more complicated. But we settled on today, hoping that our Thanksgiving would be especially meaningful. We'd hoped that Elliana would surprise us all and prove the doctors wrong - and live.
But today has looked so very different from what we had hoped and planned.
The pendulum of my thoughts and emotions has swung from one end to the other. Several times.
I've felt an ache so deep that my tears can't even begin to express it. And then I've imagined her healed, perfect little body in glory.
I've longed to hold her just one more time - to feel the weight of her on my chest. And then I've remembered that she'll never know the pain of this world.
I've wished that I could have known her longer, and carried her for these past 6 1/2 weeks, even if only in the womb. And then I've wondered if she would have suffered - if those extra weeks of life would have been hard on her.
This morning, I went back to the church where Elliana's funeral was held. I haven't been back since that day, October 10. I played the piano on the stage where my musician friends led us in worship that day. It was so hard to go back. And it was so difficult to put my fingers on the keys and play.
But it was healing.
Jason received a phone call yesterday from Cemetery Lady. (I feel like I should have good nicknames for Cemetery Lady and Funeral Home Man. But I don't. They are just... Cemetery Lady and Funeral Home Man.) Cemetery Lady said that Elliana's stone had been placed.
**Big Sigh**
So I got a last-minute sitter and met Jason at the cemetery shortly before dark so we could see her stone together.
It looked so final. And heavy. And done. Finished. Forever.
Seeing her name on that stone was like another cold splash of reality.
'Elliana' - our ray of sunshine, and God's answer to me.
'Belle' - the name her daddy picked, and the second half of his sweet nickname for her - Ella Belle.
'Mackenzie' - a family name on my side. All of the Odell cousins have 'Mackenzie' as their second middle name. As I stood there, looking at this piece of granite in the ground, this reality hit me hard so hard: one of the cousins is in a cemetery. There is now an Odell cousin with a headstone.
'Lindegren' - the first Lindegren in this generation to have had a funeral, and her name put on a stone.
This morning, I placed the first flowers in her vase.
It feels a little bit weird to post a picture of her stone. But this - the blog - is my journal. I would put a picture in my journal. It's not a great picture - the bottom of it says 'Our little ray of sunshine'. And there's a sun peeking out from the clouds in the top right corner. Looking back, I sorta wish I'd found the energy to push a little harder and find a bigger sun. But as we looked at proofs of what would be inscribed on the stone, and as we looked through pictures of symbols to place on it, all of it just felt so wrong. So very wrong. I didn't have the energy or motivation to make it 'absolutely perfect'. I just wanted my baby. And to stop looking at proofs of what would be inscribed on a piece of rock.
I don't think it's possible for a mom to be 'happy' with a headstone for her child. I'd rather have my child, and no headstone at all. But if she had to have a stone, then this one is 'fitting' for my Elliana.
*A note from Jason - And if you notice right around the edge of the stone, the grass is still green near the end of November.
It took us several weeks to actually pick a day for the c-section. The Thanksgiving holiday made it much more complicated. But we settled on today, hoping that our Thanksgiving would be especially meaningful. We'd hoped that Elliana would surprise us all and prove the doctors wrong - and live.
But today has looked so very different from what we had hoped and planned.
The pendulum of my thoughts and emotions has swung from one end to the other. Several times.
I've felt an ache so deep that my tears can't even begin to express it. And then I've imagined her healed, perfect little body in glory.
I've longed to hold her just one more time - to feel the weight of her on my chest. And then I've remembered that she'll never know the pain of this world.
I've wished that I could have known her longer, and carried her for these past 6 1/2 weeks, even if only in the womb. And then I've wondered if she would have suffered - if those extra weeks of life would have been hard on her.
This morning, I went back to the church where Elliana's funeral was held. I haven't been back since that day, October 10. I played the piano on the stage where my musician friends led us in worship that day. It was so hard to go back. And it was so difficult to put my fingers on the keys and play.
But it was healing.
Jason received a phone call yesterday from Cemetery Lady. (I feel like I should have good nicknames for Cemetery Lady and Funeral Home Man. But I don't. They are just... Cemetery Lady and Funeral Home Man.) Cemetery Lady said that Elliana's stone had been placed.
**Big Sigh**
So I got a last-minute sitter and met Jason at the cemetery shortly before dark so we could see her stone together.
It looked so final. And heavy. And done. Finished. Forever.
Seeing her name on that stone was like another cold splash of reality.
'Elliana' - our ray of sunshine, and God's answer to me.
'Belle' - the name her daddy picked, and the second half of his sweet nickname for her - Ella Belle.
'Mackenzie' - a family name on my side. All of the Odell cousins have 'Mackenzie' as their second middle name. As I stood there, looking at this piece of granite in the ground, this reality hit me hard so hard: one of the cousins is in a cemetery. There is now an Odell cousin with a headstone.
'Lindegren' - the first Lindegren in this generation to have had a funeral, and her name put on a stone.
This morning, I placed the first flowers in her vase.
It feels a little bit weird to post a picture of her stone. But this - the blog - is my journal. I would put a picture in my journal. It's not a great picture - the bottom of it says 'Our little ray of sunshine'. And there's a sun peeking out from the clouds in the top right corner. Looking back, I sorta wish I'd found the energy to push a little harder and find a bigger sun. But as we looked at proofs of what would be inscribed on the stone, and as we looked through pictures of symbols to place on it, all of it just felt so wrong. So very wrong. I didn't have the energy or motivation to make it 'absolutely perfect'. I just wanted my baby. And to stop looking at proofs of what would be inscribed on a piece of rock.
I don't think it's possible for a mom to be 'happy' with a headstone for her child. I'd rather have my child, and no headstone at all. But if she had to have a stone, then this one is 'fitting' for my Elliana.
*A note from Jason - And if you notice right around the edge of the stone, the grass is still green near the end of November.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Peppermint Mochas, Pumpkin Muffins, and Chips & Salsa
I have no idea why there is significance in food. But there is.
Peppermint Mochas
I remember my last Starbucks Peppermint Mocha (my favorite coffee) before Elliana was born, thanks to one of my nurses at the hospital that week, Caroline. She learned that the Peppermint Mocha was my favorite and brought me one the very next morning, Wednesday, October 3.
It's significant because... well, it just is.
Pumpkin Muffins
Another of my nurses, Stephanie, talked several times throughout that week about some pumpkin chocolate chip muffins from a bakery that she absolutely loved. She brought me two of those muffins the day I went home from the hospital, October 8.
Yesterday, Seth, Levi & I baked some pumpkin muffins. It's the first thing I've made in my kitchen that required more than 2 ingredients since July 3. It was just too difficult to follow a recipe. My mind has been incapable of focusing on the list of ingredients and following the instructions. Even yesterday, baking was still really challenging. Embarrassingly challenging. I realized 7 ingredients into the bowl that I needed to go to the store and get pumpkin. PUMPKIN. The main ingredient in pumpkin muffins. But I finished. I baked 2 dozen muffins. Half with chocolate chips in them.
Today, I took some pumpkin muffins to the hospital along with a note for my nurse friends. I got to see and hug three of them. It was hard. And it was sweet.
Chips & Salsa
I love Mexican food. I think I might be part Hispanic, although my parents might disagree. :-)
OK. I realize it's just chips & salsa. It's just chips & salsa.
But it's significant.
The day Elliana was born, a friend came to the hospital and brought some chips, salsa, and cheese dip to share with me. It was after my last ultrasound. And right before things got scary. It was the last thing I ate before the beginning of the end.
So... it's significant. Probably not to anyone else. But it is to me.
And it goes even beyond being the last thing I ate that day.
The Wednesday before I went into the hospital, Seth and I made a spontaneous trip up to the town where Jason works. We made last-minute plans to meet him for lunch. Jason suggested we meet at this Mexican restaurant we'd never been to before. So we went.
Shortly after we sat down, I started thinking about a cemetery Kate (from Kids Path) had told me about that was located in this town (something every mom-to-be thinks about during lunch with her husband, right?). At this point, Jason and I hadn't chosen a cemetery. I think we were both hoping we'd never need to. But out of the cemeteries that Kate had checked into, this one sounded like it might be the best (is there such a thing as 'best' when it comes to cemeteries?) option.
We were eating our chips & salsa. I remember Jason asking me what I was thinking about. And I think I said, 'Do you really want to know?' Because who wants to talk about possible burial sites for their daughter over chips & salsa?
Of course, he wanted to know. So I told him. "I'm wondering where the cemetery is.'
He looked it up. It was 1/2 a mile from where we were sitting.
Cooincidence? I don't know. Maybe. This wasn't any kind of earth-shattering moment. It wasn't something that felt 'meant to be'. I believe in the sovereignty of God. And that He orchestrates and cares about even tiny details. But does He sovereignly plan things like us eating at a Mexican restaurant 1/2 a mile from where we would eventually bury our daughter? I don't know. Because if THAT'S true, than it's also true that He sovereignly planned that I'd walk past a very pregnant walmart employee at the very moment she was telling some curious stranger that her baby was due in 3 weeks and it was a girl. On a Sunday exactly 3 weeks from my due date. I think that moment was the first moment since Elliana's death that I felt anger stirring in my soul. Why couldn't I have walked past her 2 minutes earlier? Or later? But that's another blog for another time.
Anyway...
After lunch, we drove over to the cemetery. It wasn't difficult for me to find which part of the cemetery was set aside just for the burial of babies. There were lots of flowers and lots of gravestones clustered together on a small piece of land. I think we both 'knew' - this was the place. If we were going to have to bury our baby, it would be here.
Since then, Jason and I have met several times for lunch at that Mexican restaurant. And after we eat together, we drive 1/2 a mile to the cemetery (or 'garden' if the boys are with me) to visit Elliana.
About 2 weeks ago, I found out that the chips, salsa and cheese dip my friend brought to me in the hospital were from that restaurant. Out of all the Mexican restaurants in this area (and there are a LOT), she brought me my last meal before Elliana's death from that restaurant.
I have no idea why this is significant to me. It's just a restaurant. I don't know anyone there. It's just chips & salsa. Did God Himself actually plan all of that? If He did, why in the world does He care about the Mexican restaurant and the chips & salsa? It feels silly. Am I just taking all of these meaningless events and trying to force them all together to give them meaning, as if that will help me feel better about losing my little girl?
Or maybe God gave me this. Maybe He took something that I love - Mexican food - and gave it significance. Just for me. Because He loves me?
Hard to swallow when you're angry with Him.
Stupid chips & salsa. It feels silly.
But it's significant. To me.
Peppermint Mochas
I remember my last Starbucks Peppermint Mocha (my favorite coffee) before Elliana was born, thanks to one of my nurses at the hospital that week, Caroline. She learned that the Peppermint Mocha was my favorite and brought me one the very next morning, Wednesday, October 3.
It's significant because... well, it just is.
Pumpkin Muffins
Another of my nurses, Stephanie, talked several times throughout that week about some pumpkin chocolate chip muffins from a bakery that she absolutely loved. She brought me two of those muffins the day I went home from the hospital, October 8.
Yesterday, Seth, Levi & I baked some pumpkin muffins. It's the first thing I've made in my kitchen that required more than 2 ingredients since July 3. It was just too difficult to follow a recipe. My mind has been incapable of focusing on the list of ingredients and following the instructions. Even yesterday, baking was still really challenging. Embarrassingly challenging. I realized 7 ingredients into the bowl that I needed to go to the store and get pumpkin. PUMPKIN. The main ingredient in pumpkin muffins. But I finished. I baked 2 dozen muffins. Half with chocolate chips in them.
Today, I took some pumpkin muffins to the hospital along with a note for my nurse friends. I got to see and hug three of them. It was hard. And it was sweet.
Chips & Salsa
I love Mexican food. I think I might be part Hispanic, although my parents might disagree. :-)
OK. I realize it's just chips & salsa. It's just chips & salsa.
But it's significant.
The day Elliana was born, a friend came to the hospital and brought some chips, salsa, and cheese dip to share with me. It was after my last ultrasound. And right before things got scary. It was the last thing I ate before the beginning of the end.
So... it's significant. Probably not to anyone else. But it is to me.
And it goes even beyond being the last thing I ate that day.
The Wednesday before I went into the hospital, Seth and I made a spontaneous trip up to the town where Jason works. We made last-minute plans to meet him for lunch. Jason suggested we meet at this Mexican restaurant we'd never been to before. So we went.
Shortly after we sat down, I started thinking about a cemetery Kate (from Kids Path) had told me about that was located in this town (something every mom-to-be thinks about during lunch with her husband, right?). At this point, Jason and I hadn't chosen a cemetery. I think we were both hoping we'd never need to. But out of the cemeteries that Kate had checked into, this one sounded like it might be the best (is there such a thing as 'best' when it comes to cemeteries?) option.
We were eating our chips & salsa. I remember Jason asking me what I was thinking about. And I think I said, 'Do you really want to know?' Because who wants to talk about possible burial sites for their daughter over chips & salsa?
Of course, he wanted to know. So I told him. "I'm wondering where the cemetery is.'
He looked it up. It was 1/2 a mile from where we were sitting.
Cooincidence? I don't know. Maybe. This wasn't any kind of earth-shattering moment. It wasn't something that felt 'meant to be'. I believe in the sovereignty of God. And that He orchestrates and cares about even tiny details. But does He sovereignly plan things like us eating at a Mexican restaurant 1/2 a mile from where we would eventually bury our daughter? I don't know. Because if THAT'S true, than it's also true that He sovereignly planned that I'd walk past a very pregnant walmart employee at the very moment she was telling some curious stranger that her baby was due in 3 weeks and it was a girl. On a Sunday exactly 3 weeks from my due date. I think that moment was the first moment since Elliana's death that I felt anger stirring in my soul. Why couldn't I have walked past her 2 minutes earlier? Or later? But that's another blog for another time.
Anyway...
After lunch, we drove over to the cemetery. It wasn't difficult for me to find which part of the cemetery was set aside just for the burial of babies. There were lots of flowers and lots of gravestones clustered together on a small piece of land. I think we both 'knew' - this was the place. If we were going to have to bury our baby, it would be here.
Since then, Jason and I have met several times for lunch at that Mexican restaurant. And after we eat together, we drive 1/2 a mile to the cemetery (or 'garden' if the boys are with me) to visit Elliana.
About 2 weeks ago, I found out that the chips, salsa and cheese dip my friend brought to me in the hospital were from that restaurant. Out of all the Mexican restaurants in this area (and there are a LOT), she brought me my last meal before Elliana's death from that restaurant.
I have no idea why this is significant to me. It's just a restaurant. I don't know anyone there. It's just chips & salsa. Did God Himself actually plan all of that? If He did, why in the world does He care about the Mexican restaurant and the chips & salsa? It feels silly. Am I just taking all of these meaningless events and trying to force them all together to give them meaning, as if that will help me feel better about losing my little girl?
Or maybe God gave me this. Maybe He took something that I love - Mexican food - and gave it significance. Just for me. Because He loves me?
Hard to swallow when you're angry with Him.
Stupid chips & salsa. It feels silly.
But it's significant. To me.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Tom Sawyer
A litte less than three weeks ago, I received a facebook message, asking if I'd be interested in accompanying our local youth theater's production of 'The Adventures of Tom Sawyer' on the piano. Opening night was 10 days away.
My first reaction: Umm... are you kidding??
A few minutes later: Could I even do it? Is it even a possibility? (It was a big time commitment. I would need to be at tech week rehearsals four weeknights in a row, and then three performances.)
A few minutes after that: Maybe I could do it. Maybe I'd even enjoy it. Maybe...
48 hours later: Done deal. Committed. I said 'yes'.
72 hours later: Completely freaking out. What the heck did I get myself into?!?!?
The freaking out subsided over the next couple of days as I practiced and felt more comfortable with the music.
Going to rehearsals and being with a completely different group of people than I normally hang out with turned out to be a much-needed escape for me. Escape from the heaviness of grief. And something to 'look forward to'. It was kind of like a goal - I could get up in the mornings and know that at 6pm, I had to be somewhere. I had to be functioning, clean, wearing something other than pajamas, ready to focus, and prepared to play.
I so needed it. I think my husband and kids needed for me to need it, too.
The third night into tech week, the conductor and 4 other instrumentalists joined me. They played the acoustic guitar, upright bass, violin, and mandolin. They were all (conductor included)... college guys.
So there I was with the mini-orchestra, and the first time we were all seated together and ready to play, I thought, 'I'm the oldest person up here. I am the oldest person up here. Oh. My. Goodness. I'm a frumpy mom!!!'
The next night, the banjo man came. I was very relieved to give up my title of 'oldest person in the orchestra'.
Overall, it was a good experience. The performances went well and the youth did a great job. I was able to remain sort of anonymous. Almost no one knew who I was or the circumstances of my life. It was a relief to go and be in a strange place with (mostly) strangers doing something I don't normally do.
Only one moment really caught me off guard. Up until the third night of tech week, I played all of the songs without any other instrumentalists. I really didn't pay much attention to the words. I didn't see much of what the characters were doing while they were singing. The first night the guys came and played with me, a little over halfway through the play, I started a song - it was Aunt Polly's solo, a slower song, and my music said 'piano solo' on the first page. So it just didn't even dawn on me that the other instruments might come in at some point during the song. But they did. The acoustic guitar, and the bass, and the violin - the piano solo turned into a small orchestral arrangement. And it was beautiful. So beautiful. It brought tears to my eyes.
Then I started to listen to what Aunt Polly was singing. And that really did me in.
And then I remembered where I was and who was sitting around me. And I felt really silly. Shining moment for the frumpy mom.
As much as I tried to deny it for that week, music still moved me. I had become sort of numb that week - feeling like I needed to hold my emotions in check. There were several times I wanted to cry, and I couldn't - the tears would not come. But that night, when the music stirred up the emotions I'd been burying, it was almost a relief. I hadn't become completely numb. The emotion was there. The tears were there. Grief was still there. Losing Elliana still hurt. That moment of 'weakness' helped me.
I don't know if I will ever see most of those people again. They may never know how much I needed them. Or, in my eyes, what that week was about. It wasn't just about me being a part of something for them. It was so much bigger than that. They were a part of something for me.
My first reaction: Umm... are you kidding??
A few minutes later: Could I even do it? Is it even a possibility? (It was a big time commitment. I would need to be at tech week rehearsals four weeknights in a row, and then three performances.)
A few minutes after that: Maybe I could do it. Maybe I'd even enjoy it. Maybe...
48 hours later: Done deal. Committed. I said 'yes'.
72 hours later: Completely freaking out. What the heck did I get myself into?!?!?
The freaking out subsided over the next couple of days as I practiced and felt more comfortable with the music.
Going to rehearsals and being with a completely different group of people than I normally hang out with turned out to be a much-needed escape for me. Escape from the heaviness of grief. And something to 'look forward to'. It was kind of like a goal - I could get up in the mornings and know that at 6pm, I had to be somewhere. I had to be functioning, clean, wearing something other than pajamas, ready to focus, and prepared to play.
I so needed it. I think my husband and kids needed for me to need it, too.
The third night into tech week, the conductor and 4 other instrumentalists joined me. They played the acoustic guitar, upright bass, violin, and mandolin. They were all (conductor included)... college guys.
So there I was with the mini-orchestra, and the first time we were all seated together and ready to play, I thought, 'I'm the oldest person up here. I am the oldest person up here. Oh. My. Goodness. I'm a frumpy mom!!!'
The next night, the banjo man came. I was very relieved to give up my title of 'oldest person in the orchestra'.
Overall, it was a good experience. The performances went well and the youth did a great job. I was able to remain sort of anonymous. Almost no one knew who I was or the circumstances of my life. It was a relief to go and be in a strange place with (mostly) strangers doing something I don't normally do.
Only one moment really caught me off guard. Up until the third night of tech week, I played all of the songs without any other instrumentalists. I really didn't pay much attention to the words. I didn't see much of what the characters were doing while they were singing. The first night the guys came and played with me, a little over halfway through the play, I started a song - it was Aunt Polly's solo, a slower song, and my music said 'piano solo' on the first page. So it just didn't even dawn on me that the other instruments might come in at some point during the song. But they did. The acoustic guitar, and the bass, and the violin - the piano solo turned into a small orchestral arrangement. And it was beautiful. So beautiful. It brought tears to my eyes.
Then I started to listen to what Aunt Polly was singing. And that really did me in.
And then I remembered where I was and who was sitting around me. And I felt really silly. Shining moment for the frumpy mom.
As much as I tried to deny it for that week, music still moved me. I had become sort of numb that week - feeling like I needed to hold my emotions in check. There were several times I wanted to cry, and I couldn't - the tears would not come. But that night, when the music stirred up the emotions I'd been burying, it was almost a relief. I hadn't become completely numb. The emotion was there. The tears were there. Grief was still there. Losing Elliana still hurt. That moment of 'weakness' helped me.
I don't know if I will ever see most of those people again. They may never know how much I needed them. Or, in my eyes, what that week was about. It wasn't just about me being a part of something for them. It was so much bigger than that. They were a part of something for me.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
This is the longest I've gone without blogging since the beginning of July. My thoughts feel like a jumbled mess now, with too many things competing for my mind and too many emotions competing for my heart.
Some of the things I hope to blog about soon...
'Tom Sawyer' - it was so good for me.
Chips & Salsa.
The moments in life I just have to get through.
Tonight, I'm at the tail end of one of my worst days in a couple of weeks. I survived it. I was even sort of 'productive'. I cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, and put the clean dishes away. I remembered to make the house payment before it was late. I went to Walmart. Granted, it wasn't the Walmart I usually go to here in my small town. But I did go, and I bought some groceries. I did 2 loads of laundry. They're not folded, but the clothes are clean. I helped Elijah finish a science project. And I reluctantly went along with Seth's (rather strong) desire to be potty trained (what the heck?? Because right now is such an ideal time to deal with accidents, as well as even more pee in, around, on, and - how in the world does this happen - above the toilet.).
There were some successes today.
And then there were several failures. I made more than one of my kids cry with my short temper. I let them eat things and wear things that I wouldn't typically say 'yes' to - mostly because I just didn't care enough to say 'no' (or have the energy to deal with the fall-out if I said 'no'). I didn't make Elijah finish studying for his tests tomorrow - because I was done. Really, really done. With parenting, disciplining, thinking, trying. I was done at about 4:00 today, and when Jason came home at 5:00 with a splitting headache, I was not gracious and understanding. I was grumpier, and just plain p&*!ed off because I had to do 3 more hours of parenting by myself. And when 3 of the kids were finally in bed, I escaped to my van out in the driveway and cried.
I guess the ache to hold Elliana again has not been quite as painful over the past 10 days. I've had distraction and busy-ness to make that pain just a little bit 'numb'. But the distraction ('Tom Sawyer') is gone, and staying busy makes me so tired. I think today was the day that reality hit yet again. And I realized that looking at her picture and holding her blanket will never be able to take the place of looking at her and holding her. And saying 'I love you' to the fresh patch of grass covering her grave will never be the same as the day I was able to whisper it in her ear.
Looking forward to sleep. The sweet relief of sleep.
Some of the things I hope to blog about soon...
'Tom Sawyer' - it was so good for me.
Chips & Salsa.
The moments in life I just have to get through.
Tonight, I'm at the tail end of one of my worst days in a couple of weeks. I survived it. I was even sort of 'productive'. I cleaned the kitchen, ran the dishwasher, and put the clean dishes away. I remembered to make the house payment before it was late. I went to Walmart. Granted, it wasn't the Walmart I usually go to here in my small town. But I did go, and I bought some groceries. I did 2 loads of laundry. They're not folded, but the clothes are clean. I helped Elijah finish a science project. And I reluctantly went along with Seth's (rather strong) desire to be potty trained (what the heck?? Because right now is such an ideal time to deal with accidents, as well as even more pee in, around, on, and - how in the world does this happen - above the toilet.).
There were some successes today.
And then there were several failures. I made more than one of my kids cry with my short temper. I let them eat things and wear things that I wouldn't typically say 'yes' to - mostly because I just didn't care enough to say 'no' (or have the energy to deal with the fall-out if I said 'no'). I didn't make Elijah finish studying for his tests tomorrow - because I was done. Really, really done. With parenting, disciplining, thinking, trying. I was done at about 4:00 today, and when Jason came home at 5:00 with a splitting headache, I was not gracious and understanding. I was grumpier, and just plain p&*!ed off because I had to do 3 more hours of parenting by myself. And when 3 of the kids were finally in bed, I escaped to my van out in the driveway and cried.
I guess the ache to hold Elliana again has not been quite as painful over the past 10 days. I've had distraction and busy-ness to make that pain just a little bit 'numb'. But the distraction ('Tom Sawyer') is gone, and staying busy makes me so tired. I think today was the day that reality hit yet again. And I realized that looking at her picture and holding her blanket will never be able to take the place of looking at her and holding her. And saying 'I love you' to the fresh patch of grass covering her grave will never be the same as the day I was able to whisper it in her ear.
Looking forward to sleep. The sweet relief of sleep.
Monday, November 5, 2012
One Month
One month ago at this moment (11:09pm), our little girl was alive and trying to breathe. A neonatologist was examining her. Not looking at images on an ultrasound. This doctor was looking at the actual body of our baby and finding answers to some of the questions we'd had for months.
Had she lived, Elliana would be a month old today. If she were still with us, I'd be posting pictures, probably from the NICU. I would put a great big pink bow on her beautiful blond head. I would post stats of her growth and describe as much as possible about the personality of a one-month-old. I would talk about her all day - to anyone who would listen.
I haven't been speaking with my Heavenly Father much lately. I really just don't know what to say. But earlier today, Jason and I went to 'Elliana's garden' and laid some pretty pink roses on her grave. Before I left , I told God that He needed to make a really big deal about celebrating 'one month'. I have no idea if God honors requests like that (Although... I probably didn't make it sound like much of a request. It probably sounded more like 'You owe me'. Yes, there's sin in that. And I'll think about that later.) I think He probably makes a big deal over all the babies and children in Heaven.
One month ago, right about now (11:22pm), Jason and I were holding her for the first time. That time with her was so short. Too short.
I miss her.
Had she lived, Elliana would be a month old today. If she were still with us, I'd be posting pictures, probably from the NICU. I would put a great big pink bow on her beautiful blond head. I would post stats of her growth and describe as much as possible about the personality of a one-month-old. I would talk about her all day - to anyone who would listen.
I haven't been speaking with my Heavenly Father much lately. I really just don't know what to say. But earlier today, Jason and I went to 'Elliana's garden' and laid some pretty pink roses on her grave. Before I left , I told God that He needed to make a really big deal about celebrating 'one month'. I have no idea if God honors requests like that (Although... I probably didn't make it sound like much of a request. It probably sounded more like 'You owe me'. Yes, there's sin in that. And I'll think about that later.) I think He probably makes a big deal over all the babies and children in Heaven.
One month ago, right about now (11:22pm), Jason and I were holding her for the first time. That time with her was so short. Too short.
I miss her.
Sunday, November 4, 2012
A Month Ago Today...
... at this moment, I was laying in a hospital bed, and Ruthe was my nurse. She was my favorite night shift nurse. :-)
Ruthe was awesome. I didn't get to know her well, but this is what I do know about her. She's really creative. The nurses had a bulletin board across from their work station. I wandered out to their station one afternoon because I felt the onslaught of tears coming - my nurse told me to come out and 'chat' with them if I needed a distraction. So I did. Anyway, Ruthe did the bulletin board. And she did a great job. The bulletin board was beautiful. There was a tree on it with lots of a fall-colored leaves, and all of the nurses' names were on it. The other nurses actually took pictures of Ruthe's bulletin boards because they were so good.
A month ago tonight, I learned that Ruthe had a Samsung Galaxy SIII. She showed me a couple of her bulletin board pictures on it. Jason really wants a Samsung GSIII. I must admit - I gloated a little that I got to play with Ruthe's GSIII, and Jason didn't.
Ruthe is also just a spectacular nurse. I was on an IV antibiotic for the first 48 hours I was in the hospital. This particular antibiotic is known for being REALLY painful when administered through an IV. There were times it made my wrist and thumb hurt about as much as pitocin-induced contractions. It was awful. But Ruthe, AKA super-nurse, knew some top secrets of the trade to reduce my pain. I will love her forever for that. :-)
It's amazing the details I remember, or strain to remember, of my last week with Elliana. At this moment one month ago, I was watching the last episode of the first season of Downton Abbey.
A month ago tonight, Elliana was still strong. Her heartbeat was steady. She was kicking and moving and objecting to the monitors attached to my belly. And sitting squarely on my bladder. AND... She was giving me so. much. heartburn.
In my experience, the old wives' tale is definitely true: heartburn = lots of hair.
A month ago tonight, my little girl was still alive. The umbilical cord that connected the two of us was her lifeline. I was still taking care of her - by laying in a hospital bed, staying pregnant.
One month ago, I was enjoying her. And I still had hope that I would be able to bring her home.
And now, at this moment, she's perfect - living, breathing, no cleft lip, no 'flaws' in her physical body. She's perfect in heaven.
I'm thankful that she's not suffering. But I would go back and be pregnant all over again if it meant being with her just a little while longer.
Ruthe was awesome. I didn't get to know her well, but this is what I do know about her. She's really creative. The nurses had a bulletin board across from their work station. I wandered out to their station one afternoon because I felt the onslaught of tears coming - my nurse told me to come out and 'chat' with them if I needed a distraction. So I did. Anyway, Ruthe did the bulletin board. And she did a great job. The bulletin board was beautiful. There was a tree on it with lots of a fall-colored leaves, and all of the nurses' names were on it. The other nurses actually took pictures of Ruthe's bulletin boards because they were so good.
A month ago tonight, I learned that Ruthe had a Samsung Galaxy SIII. She showed me a couple of her bulletin board pictures on it. Jason really wants a Samsung GSIII. I must admit - I gloated a little that I got to play with Ruthe's GSIII, and Jason didn't.
Ruthe is also just a spectacular nurse. I was on an IV antibiotic for the first 48 hours I was in the hospital. This particular antibiotic is known for being REALLY painful when administered through an IV. There were times it made my wrist and thumb hurt about as much as pitocin-induced contractions. It was awful. But Ruthe, AKA super-nurse, knew some top secrets of the trade to reduce my pain. I will love her forever for that. :-)
It's amazing the details I remember, or strain to remember, of my last week with Elliana. At this moment one month ago, I was watching the last episode of the first season of Downton Abbey.
A month ago tonight, Elliana was still strong. Her heartbeat was steady. She was kicking and moving and objecting to the monitors attached to my belly. And sitting squarely on my bladder. AND... She was giving me so. much. heartburn.
In my experience, the old wives' tale is definitely true: heartburn = lots of hair.
A month ago tonight, my little girl was still alive. The umbilical cord that connected the two of us was her lifeline. I was still taking care of her - by laying in a hospital bed, staying pregnant.
One month ago, I was enjoying her. And I still had hope that I would be able to bring her home.
And now, at this moment, she's perfect - living, breathing, no cleft lip, no 'flaws' in her physical body. She's perfect in heaven.
I'm thankful that she's not suffering. But I would go back and be pregnant all over again if it meant being with her just a little while longer.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Escape
People handle grief in different ways. To be honest, I've been a little afraid of what this might do to me.
I've seen Lifetime movies about mothers who start acting really weird after something traumatic happens to one of their children. Like, they make up imaginary children. Or start collecting baby dolls and treating them like real babies.
In the news, I've heard about mothers who just can't handle life anymore and do really, really awful things.
I don't have any imaginary children (I don't think). And I haven't started any baby doll collections. And I'm not considering doing anything drastic or awful.
What am I doing?
What anyone other musician would do. Sort of.
I'm accompanying our local youth theater in next weekend's production of 'The Adventures of Tom Sawyer'.
No, I'm not kidding.
A little on the insane side, right?
Because 'Tom Sawyer' isn't really my style. My favorite composers are Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, and Chopin. And I love to play in a band, leading worship. I don't really do bluegrass, ragtime... ummm... 'hick' music. (No offense intended. Forgive me, any 'hick' fans/friends of mine.)
How like God to provide an opportunity for me to play - without really playing. Music is the language I use for communicating my heart. When I play Beethoven, my heart and soul are in it. When I help lead worship from behind the piano, I pour my whole being into the notes.
But my heart is not the least bit tied to 'Tom Sawyer'. I have no emotional investment in this musical. I can play the notes on the page. I can even put some enthusiasm into it - without being emotionally tied to it. I will confess, though - the songs are actually sort of growing on me. My dad used to play a lot of Scott Joplin when I was young - this score has a Scott Joplin kind of feel to it. My dad would be proud. As would my piano professor from college. :-)
So for the next week, I'll be spending many hours at the civic center with a bunch of people who don't have any idea who I am, pounding out (obnoxiously fast) jazzy tunes. I'll be hiding behind the piano, escaping the heaviness of grief for several hours every night.
I get to do what I love, without putting my heart out there yet.
Yay for 'Tom Sawyer'.
I've seen Lifetime movies about mothers who start acting really weird after something traumatic happens to one of their children. Like, they make up imaginary children. Or start collecting baby dolls and treating them like real babies.
In the news, I've heard about mothers who just can't handle life anymore and do really, really awful things.
I don't have any imaginary children (I don't think). And I haven't started any baby doll collections. And I'm not considering doing anything drastic or awful.
What am I doing?
What anyone other musician would do. Sort of.
I'm accompanying our local youth theater in next weekend's production of 'The Adventures of Tom Sawyer'.
No, I'm not kidding.
A little on the insane side, right?
Because 'Tom Sawyer' isn't really my style. My favorite composers are Beethoven, Rachmaninoff, and Chopin. And I love to play in a band, leading worship. I don't really do bluegrass, ragtime... ummm... 'hick' music. (No offense intended. Forgive me, any 'hick' fans/friends of mine.)
How like God to provide an opportunity for me to play - without really playing. Music is the language I use for communicating my heart. When I play Beethoven, my heart and soul are in it. When I help lead worship from behind the piano, I pour my whole being into the notes.
But my heart is not the least bit tied to 'Tom Sawyer'. I have no emotional investment in this musical. I can play the notes on the page. I can even put some enthusiasm into it - without being emotionally tied to it. I will confess, though - the songs are actually sort of growing on me. My dad used to play a lot of Scott Joplin when I was young - this score has a Scott Joplin kind of feel to it. My dad would be proud. As would my piano professor from college. :-)
So for the next week, I'll be spending many hours at the civic center with a bunch of people who don't have any idea who I am, pounding out (obnoxiously fast) jazzy tunes. I'll be hiding behind the piano, escaping the heaviness of grief for several hours every night.
I get to do what I love, without putting my heart out there yet.
Yay for 'Tom Sawyer'.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
My mom has been staying at our house for the past 4 1/2 weeks. She and my dad came the day I was admitted to the hospital and took care of the kids for the entire week I was there. And my mom has been staying with us since I came home from the hospital. She went home a few weekends, but has been the 'resident Mimi' for a solid month.
When you leave the hospital after a c-section, one of the rules is: Don't pick up anything heavier than your baby.
After Levi was born in January of 2008, we had our 20-pound, 5-month-old foster son, Matthew, with us. He still needed to be picked up LOTS, so my mom came for a few weeks - to help with Matthew and to enjoy her new, fuzzy-headed, completely adorable grandson, Levi. One of my sisters also came to help for a week.
After Seth was born in August of 2010, Levi was a clingy 2 1/2-year-old and Missy was a not-yet-walking, teeny tiny, please-hold-me-all-the-time, almost 2 1/2-year-old. So my mom came again and stayed for several weeks, holding toddlers and enjoying this newest sweet little grandson.
This time. This time has been so different. I had a c-section almost 4 weeks ago. This recovery has felt harder physically - maybe it actually has been harder, or maybe it's all in my head. I've said several times, 'I don't know how to recover from a c-section without a newborn.' A new baby forces you to slow down. An infant forces you to be still, feed them, change them, hold them.
I don't have my newborn.
But I do have a clingy 2-year-old (Seth) who wants to be picked up and held. I've broken the rules of abdominal surgery recovery several times, with 'permission' (sort of) from a doctor. I've picked him up and carried him around. My mom has been here to help. She's been taking care of kids, keeping the house clean, preparing meals, and being a companion for me. She's done an amazing job, keeping up with the kids' schedules and routines, tolerating lots of noise and tantrums, and loving all of us really, really well. (Thanks, Mom.)
My mom left today.
This wasn't a surprise. I knew it would be today. I thought I was prepared for it. Sort of. I knew it would be difficult to be 'on my own' in this survival mode I'm living in. But I've lived in a similar sort of survival mode - between the 18th and 31st weeks of my pregnancy. I thought that this - the period of time after my mom left - would resemble what the last 3 months of my pregnancy looked like. And maybe it will.
But her leaving today was a lot more difficult than I anticipated it would be. Reality hit again when I said goodbye to my mom.
My mom leaving today meant another ending to another chapter of Elliana's life. Even though there has been nothing normal about the past 4 weeks, having my mom here made this part of recovery just like the recovery from Levi's and Seth's births. I didn't realize it until today, but my mom being here made Elliana's 'life' last just a little bit longer, if that makes ANY sense at all.
Standing there saying goodbye to my mom, I was so incredibly aware of how physically alone I was about to be. For the first time, I was very conscious of the fact that I don't have Elliana with me anymore. She was physically a part of me for months. She was with me all the time. My mom has been here, with me, or at least in the same house with me, for almost the entire time that Elliana has been gone. And if my mom wasn't here, Jason was. My mom leaving means that I'll be spending significantly more time alone. Well, without another adult in the house.
I feel like this makes no sense at all.
What now? My mom has gone home. This chapter of life - the postpartum recovery - is basically over. I have no newborn to take care of. No sibling adjustment to make. No waking-up-every-2-hours-to-feed-a-baby, sleep-deprived nights. Life, the physical demand and routine of life, is back to normal. Or... what normal was before the 2 pink lines appeared on the pregnancy test on March 26.
But life is not normal. I'm not normal. I'm a grieving mother. I buried my daughter 22 days ago.
It scares me - not knowing what's next. I know what to expect (as much as anyone can) when you add a new baby to the family. But I don't know what this looks like. I don't know what life looks like without Elliana.
When you leave the hospital after a c-section, one of the rules is: Don't pick up anything heavier than your baby.
After Levi was born in January of 2008, we had our 20-pound, 5-month-old foster son, Matthew, with us. He still needed to be picked up LOTS, so my mom came for a few weeks - to help with Matthew and to enjoy her new, fuzzy-headed, completely adorable grandson, Levi. One of my sisters also came to help for a week.
After Seth was born in August of 2010, Levi was a clingy 2 1/2-year-old and Missy was a not-yet-walking, teeny tiny, please-hold-me-all-the-time, almost 2 1/2-year-old. So my mom came again and stayed for several weeks, holding toddlers and enjoying this newest sweet little grandson.
This time. This time has been so different. I had a c-section almost 4 weeks ago. This recovery has felt harder physically - maybe it actually has been harder, or maybe it's all in my head. I've said several times, 'I don't know how to recover from a c-section without a newborn.' A new baby forces you to slow down. An infant forces you to be still, feed them, change them, hold them.
I don't have my newborn.
But I do have a clingy 2-year-old (Seth) who wants to be picked up and held. I've broken the rules of abdominal surgery recovery several times, with 'permission' (sort of) from a doctor. I've picked him up and carried him around. My mom has been here to help. She's been taking care of kids, keeping the house clean, preparing meals, and being a companion for me. She's done an amazing job, keeping up with the kids' schedules and routines, tolerating lots of noise and tantrums, and loving all of us really, really well. (Thanks, Mom.)
My mom left today.
This wasn't a surprise. I knew it would be today. I thought I was prepared for it. Sort of. I knew it would be difficult to be 'on my own' in this survival mode I'm living in. But I've lived in a similar sort of survival mode - between the 18th and 31st weeks of my pregnancy. I thought that this - the period of time after my mom left - would resemble what the last 3 months of my pregnancy looked like. And maybe it will.
But her leaving today was a lot more difficult than I anticipated it would be. Reality hit again when I said goodbye to my mom.
My mom leaving today meant another ending to another chapter of Elliana's life. Even though there has been nothing normal about the past 4 weeks, having my mom here made this part of recovery just like the recovery from Levi's and Seth's births. I didn't realize it until today, but my mom being here made Elliana's 'life' last just a little bit longer, if that makes ANY sense at all.
Standing there saying goodbye to my mom, I was so incredibly aware of how physically alone I was about to be. For the first time, I was very conscious of the fact that I don't have Elliana with me anymore. She was physically a part of me for months. She was with me all the time. My mom has been here, with me, or at least in the same house with me, for almost the entire time that Elliana has been gone. And if my mom wasn't here, Jason was. My mom leaving means that I'll be spending significantly more time alone. Well, without another adult in the house.
I feel like this makes no sense at all.
What now? My mom has gone home. This chapter of life - the postpartum recovery - is basically over. I have no newborn to take care of. No sibling adjustment to make. No waking-up-every-2-hours-to-feed-a-baby, sleep-deprived nights. Life, the physical demand and routine of life, is back to normal. Or... what normal was before the 2 pink lines appeared on the pregnancy test on March 26.
But life is not normal. I'm not normal. I'm a grieving mother. I buried my daughter 22 days ago.
It scares me - not knowing what's next. I know what to expect (as much as anyone can) when you add a new baby to the family. But I don't know what this looks like. I don't know what life looks like without Elliana.
Monday, October 29, 2012
October
The month of October is a blur. I was admitted to the hospital on September 30 - 4 weeks ago yesterday. Elliana was born on October 5. She died on October 6. I came home on October 8. Her funeral was on October 10. Life has been mainly about survival since then.
And now it's October 29. Fall in its prime. This is my favorite time of year. And I feel like I've missed it.
I'm not going to be able to explain this well because I don't really understand it. But fall will forever be more special - more meaningful - because of Elliana. The beauty and the color will be more to me than just 'the most beautiful time of year'. Fall holds significance now. The significance of the birth of our Elliana. And the significance of a life taken far too quickly.
I've driven down the highway several times over the past few weeks. But this year, instead of enjoying the beauty of the fall colors, I've been worrying about what the trees will look like in the coming weeks. I'm dreading the day that I drive down I-85 to visit 'the garden' (our vocabulary for 'the cemetery', for the sake of our little ones who have no idea what a cemetery is) and see it lined with bare, leafless trees. Gray. Lifeless. Another reminder of death. The northeast coast is being pounded by Hurricane Sandy - and all I can think about is how it's going to affect me. How the wind will strip the trees even faster. (How self-centered is that?)
I do know that the trees aren't really dead. They will have leaves on them again in the spring. And then next fall, the leaves will die, turn beautiful colors, and the cycle repeats itself. I know there's probably some really good parallel you could draw between the life cycle of a tree and human life, but I'm way too literal (and cynical at the moment) to do that.
I love the gold-colored leaves this year. They remind me of Elliana's beautiful little blond head. :-)
And now it's October 29. Fall in its prime. This is my favorite time of year. And I feel like I've missed it.
I'm not going to be able to explain this well because I don't really understand it. But fall will forever be more special - more meaningful - because of Elliana. The beauty and the color will be more to me than just 'the most beautiful time of year'. Fall holds significance now. The significance of the birth of our Elliana. And the significance of a life taken far too quickly.
I've driven down the highway several times over the past few weeks. But this year, instead of enjoying the beauty of the fall colors, I've been worrying about what the trees will look like in the coming weeks. I'm dreading the day that I drive down I-85 to visit 'the garden' (our vocabulary for 'the cemetery', for the sake of our little ones who have no idea what a cemetery is) and see it lined with bare, leafless trees. Gray. Lifeless. Another reminder of death. The northeast coast is being pounded by Hurricane Sandy - and all I can think about is how it's going to affect me. How the wind will strip the trees even faster. (How self-centered is that?)
I do know that the trees aren't really dead. They will have leaves on them again in the spring. And then next fall, the leaves will die, turn beautiful colors, and the cycle repeats itself. I know there's probably some really good parallel you could draw between the life cycle of a tree and human life, but I'm way too literal (and cynical at the moment) to do that.
I love the gold-colored leaves this year. They remind me of Elliana's beautiful little blond head. :-)
Friday, October 26, 2012
Contradiction
I feel like a walking contradiction right now. The way I think doesn't seem to make any sense.
I long for life to be normal again. We haven't experienced 'normal' life since July 3 - almost four months ago when we had our 18 week ultrasound. And I feel like 'normal' is completely out of reach right now.
Here's the contradiction: I'm longing for 'normal', but I am so resistant to changing the things that would lead to 'normal'.
I'm still wearing the wrist bands from the hospital. I haven't been able to take them off. I feel like taking them off is sort of ending that part of my life. The part where Elliana was alive, and her heart was beating so strongly, and I was feeling her kick.
Right before I left my room for the c-section, the nurse asked me if I was wearing any jewelry. The only jewelry I had on was my engagement and wedding rings. I hadn't been able to get them off of my finger in years. So I didn't even bother to try - I just told the nurse they wouldn't come off. She put some lotion on my finger and asked me to try. And my rings came off. With hardly any effort. It suprised me. Shocked me. And then it scared me. That little bit of security in having my rings on was going to be gone during the scariest hours of my life. It feels silly - they were only rings, for Pete's sake. But at the time, it felt awful.
I've thought that maybe, when I cut the wrist bands off, I'll 'trade' them for my rings. Maybe putting my rings back on will make it not quite so difficult to put the wrist bands away.
I haven't cut my fingernails in weeks. Since before I went into the hospital on September 30. This is really unusual for me. I break and split fingernails regularly playing the piano, so it makes absolutely no sense to grow them out. And if the piano didn't keep them short, the dishes, laundry and children would. But these new claws of mine are starting to catch on things, and I will have to cut them soon. But for some reason, I'm having a really hard time bringing myself to actually do it.
I haven't played the piano since the funeral. Playing is so personal. I just can't do it. Yet.
There are flowers on my dresser that are dead or dying. I haven't been able to throw them away. I don't want to acknowledge that they're gone. It's like the hospital wrist bands - throwing the flowers away is sort of... moving on. I don't know if I can do it.
I haven't been able to go through the memory box that the hospital put together and gave us. It's still sitting in the same bag, in the same exact spot as the day I came home from the hospital. Right next to my side of the bed on the floor. On our birth plan, there was a section to indicate what items we wanted the hospital to save for us. A lock of Elliana's hair was one of the things that we wanted, although when we were putting the birth plan together, we had no idea if she would have any hair at all. (All of that heartburn was well worth it, wouldn't you say?? (-: ) I'm so afraid that I'll open that box and that there won't be a lock of hair in it. I feel guilty that I didn't make sure we did that. I'm her mom. I should have thought about it when I was holding her and proudly admiring her golden crown.
Eventually, I will cut the wrist bands off. Put my rings back on. Cut my fingernails. Play the piano. Throw the flowers away. Open the memory box.
Longing for 'normal'. But not remembering what 'normal' was. And knowing that whatever kind of 'normal' I settle into will probably look different from life before Elliana.
I miss her so much.
So. Much.
I long for life to be normal again. We haven't experienced 'normal' life since July 3 - almost four months ago when we had our 18 week ultrasound. And I feel like 'normal' is completely out of reach right now.
Here's the contradiction: I'm longing for 'normal', but I am so resistant to changing the things that would lead to 'normal'.
I'm still wearing the wrist bands from the hospital. I haven't been able to take them off. I feel like taking them off is sort of ending that part of my life. The part where Elliana was alive, and her heart was beating so strongly, and I was feeling her kick.
Right before I left my room for the c-section, the nurse asked me if I was wearing any jewelry. The only jewelry I had on was my engagement and wedding rings. I hadn't been able to get them off of my finger in years. So I didn't even bother to try - I just told the nurse they wouldn't come off. She put some lotion on my finger and asked me to try. And my rings came off. With hardly any effort. It suprised me. Shocked me. And then it scared me. That little bit of security in having my rings on was going to be gone during the scariest hours of my life. It feels silly - they were only rings, for Pete's sake. But at the time, it felt awful.
I've thought that maybe, when I cut the wrist bands off, I'll 'trade' them for my rings. Maybe putting my rings back on will make it not quite so difficult to put the wrist bands away.
I haven't cut my fingernails in weeks. Since before I went into the hospital on September 30. This is really unusual for me. I break and split fingernails regularly playing the piano, so it makes absolutely no sense to grow them out. And if the piano didn't keep them short, the dishes, laundry and children would. But these new claws of mine are starting to catch on things, and I will have to cut them soon. But for some reason, I'm having a really hard time bringing myself to actually do it.
I haven't played the piano since the funeral. Playing is so personal. I just can't do it. Yet.
There are flowers on my dresser that are dead or dying. I haven't been able to throw them away. I don't want to acknowledge that they're gone. It's like the hospital wrist bands - throwing the flowers away is sort of... moving on. I don't know if I can do it.
I haven't been able to go through the memory box that the hospital put together and gave us. It's still sitting in the same bag, in the same exact spot as the day I came home from the hospital. Right next to my side of the bed on the floor. On our birth plan, there was a section to indicate what items we wanted the hospital to save for us. A lock of Elliana's hair was one of the things that we wanted, although when we were putting the birth plan together, we had no idea if she would have any hair at all. (All of that heartburn was well worth it, wouldn't you say?? (-: ) I'm so afraid that I'll open that box and that there won't be a lock of hair in it. I feel guilty that I didn't make sure we did that. I'm her mom. I should have thought about it when I was holding her and proudly admiring her golden crown.
Eventually, I will cut the wrist bands off. Put my rings back on. Cut my fingernails. Play the piano. Throw the flowers away. Open the memory box.
Longing for 'normal'. But not remembering what 'normal' was. And knowing that whatever kind of 'normal' I settle into will probably look different from life before Elliana.
I miss her so much.
So. Much.
Monday, October 22, 2012
A Little More Love
I knew I'd leave some things out of my last post. And I'm sure there are still going to be things I'm not thinking of.
More ways we have been loved well...
So many people have been praying for us. People I have never met are praying for us. People who have commented on a blog post. Friends who have asked their churches to pray for us. Physicians and nurses we have come into contact with.
I have several friends (and a couple sisters) who text me regularly. Some to find out if we need anything, others just to let me know that they're thinking about me. So many of these texts just read, 'Thinking about you. Love you.' I have one friend who texts me every single day, and she's been doing this for a few weeks. She writes to distract me, encourage me, make me laugh, or just share a 'life sucks' mood with me. I have another friend who doesn't text (yet), but she emails me frequently, letting me know she's praying for me or offering to come and visit. I have been thankful for all of these people - they have helped me feel not quite so alone in my pit.
And lastly (for today), but most definitely not least, I have a friend who is more like my NC 'family'. She could easily hold the title 'honorary auntie' with my kids. The day I went into the hospital, we dropped our 3 youngest kids off at her house (around 1 or 1:30), and she kept them all afternoon. When we realized I was going to be admitted to the hospital, she fed them dinner, took them back to our house, put them all to bed, and stayed with them until after 10, waiting on my parents to arrive from SC. She's been 'on-call' to help however she can, and has done so several times over the past month. More than a month, actually. This friend has been there for me as long as I've known her. She's loved us well - she's loved our children well, too. I wish Elliana could have met her.
And I'm sure there will be more to write about another day.
More ways we have been loved well...
So many people have been praying for us. People I have never met are praying for us. People who have commented on a blog post. Friends who have asked their churches to pray for us. Physicians and nurses we have come into contact with.
I have several friends (and a couple sisters) who text me regularly. Some to find out if we need anything, others just to let me know that they're thinking about me. So many of these texts just read, 'Thinking about you. Love you.' I have one friend who texts me every single day, and she's been doing this for a few weeks. She writes to distract me, encourage me, make me laugh, or just share a 'life sucks' mood with me. I have another friend who doesn't text (yet), but she emails me frequently, letting me know she's praying for me or offering to come and visit. I have been thankful for all of these people - they have helped me feel not quite so alone in my pit.
And lastly (for today), but most definitely not least, I have a friend who is more like my NC 'family'. She could easily hold the title 'honorary auntie' with my kids. The day I went into the hospital, we dropped our 3 youngest kids off at her house (around 1 or 1:30), and she kept them all afternoon. When we realized I was going to be admitted to the hospital, she fed them dinner, took them back to our house, put them all to bed, and stayed with them until after 10, waiting on my parents to arrive from SC. She's been 'on-call' to help however she can, and has done so several times over the past month. More than a month, actually. This friend has been there for me as long as I've known her. She's loved us well - she's loved our children well, too. I wish Elliana could have met her.
And I'm sure there will be more to write about another day.
Saturday, October 20, 2012
Loved
Life is hell right now, but... we feel very loved.
We are surrounded by family and friends who are loving us so well.
I can even see evidence of our Heavenly Father's love for us. Even though I'm beginning to wonder (in a somewhat angry sort of way) why in the world He did this.
Back to the family and friends...
Our families have been so supportive over the past several weeks. Several family members were able to meet Elliana. My sisters made sure she had something beautiful and warm to be buried in. They loved her so well, and in turn, loved me well.
My parents and siblings have taken care of our kids, fed them, and made sure their needs were met. Someone replaced several burned out light bulbs in our house. And someone even hung a new curtain in our kitchen. They cleaned my house and made my bedroom a sanctuary to come home to. They loved me well.
We have received so many sweet cards. It's such a thoughtful thing to do - to put a card in the mail. Someone wrote a poem for Elliana. Others have told us about how our little girl's short life has been a testimony to them. So many sweet cards. Even one from my brother's 11th grade class. So many people praying for us and letting us know that we're on their minds - they are loving us well.
On the day of Elliana's funeral, we were so grateful for all of the hugs. Friends from college - several friends who drove a distance - came to hug us and tell us how sorry they were. Teachers from Missy's school - last year's teachers, this year's teachers, and her principal. A few new friends - people I barely know - but who I'm certain have prayed for us. Some friends even signed their kids out of school early so they could come. Friends from church, friends from Bible study. A couple of friends who have buried a child of their own. We were loved well.
Several men gave up an afternoon of work to come and lead worship at the funeral. Some sacrificed quite a chunk of time to prepare and set up for it. Some went out of their way to make sure I had a discreetly placed piano to play. Some gave of their time to run sound. Others gave their time to watch our kids during the service. They loved us well.
And meals - so many meals. People have been cooking for us for weeks now. Friends down the street, friends and family who live hours away. They have gone out of their way to help by providing a meal - and let me tell you, it helps tremendously. Feeding our family - relieving this one daily chore several times throughout the week - is loving us well.
My sweet friend, Lisa, has asked, more than once, if she can bring us anything. In fact, a few people have offered to do that. Lisa brought over a gallon of Sunny D (Jason's version of 'orange juice') one night when we were completely out, and then played with a couple of our kids for a while. Loving us well.
And then, there are two particular ways I can see my Father's love for me in the timing of Elliana's birth. I'll probably never be able to say something like, 'I'm thankful that she was born so prematurely. Otherwise, ??? and ??? would not have happened.' I'm not glad she came so early. I'm not thankful that she died when she did.
But...
If her death was inevitable no matter when she entered the world, then I am thankful for these two things.
1 - My friend, Beth, was able to be at the hospital to photograph Elliana's few hours of life. Beth is one of my dearest friends. And she's also a very gifted photographer. In the days preceding Elliana's birth, the doctors were saying that, all circumstances considered, they'd like to see her stay put until 34 weeks. At 34 weeks, they would probably have delivered her, just because the benefits outweighed the risks by that point. But at 34 weeks (tomorrow), Beth would have been out of town.
I'm thankful that Beth was here the night Elliana was born. She loved me so well. She wept with me. She gave me a collection of photos that I will cherish forever.
2 - Our friends, Jeremy and Gina, were also here. They were able to be a part of the most difficult time we have ever been through. They were able to weep with us. Jeremy was able to perform her funeral. They left for Japan 2 days ago. If we had made it to 34 weeks (tomorrow), they would have been gone. I know that they would have grieved with us from Japan had they not been here for her birth, but it helped to have them physically with us.
And I know that Jeremy and Gina are still grieving with us - loving us from across the world.
There are probably so many other ways that we have been loved well that are not coming to mind right now. I know God's ways are much higher than mine, and I can't even begin to see all that He has orchestrated to love us so well. And I'll confess: I live most of the time as if I don't want to see all that He has orchestrated. Because it is so incredibly difficult for me to reconcile these two truths - that He ordained this, and that He is good.
We are surrounded by family and friends who are loving us so well.
I can even see evidence of our Heavenly Father's love for us. Even though I'm beginning to wonder (in a somewhat angry sort of way) why in the world He did this.
Back to the family and friends...
Our families have been so supportive over the past several weeks. Several family members were able to meet Elliana. My sisters made sure she had something beautiful and warm to be buried in. They loved her so well, and in turn, loved me well.
My parents and siblings have taken care of our kids, fed them, and made sure their needs were met. Someone replaced several burned out light bulbs in our house. And someone even hung a new curtain in our kitchen. They cleaned my house and made my bedroom a sanctuary to come home to. They loved me well.
We have received so many sweet cards. It's such a thoughtful thing to do - to put a card in the mail. Someone wrote a poem for Elliana. Others have told us about how our little girl's short life has been a testimony to them. So many sweet cards. Even one from my brother's 11th grade class. So many people praying for us and letting us know that we're on their minds - they are loving us well.
On the day of Elliana's funeral, we were so grateful for all of the hugs. Friends from college - several friends who drove a distance - came to hug us and tell us how sorry they were. Teachers from Missy's school - last year's teachers, this year's teachers, and her principal. A few new friends - people I barely know - but who I'm certain have prayed for us. Some friends even signed their kids out of school early so they could come. Friends from church, friends from Bible study. A couple of friends who have buried a child of their own. We were loved well.
Several men gave up an afternoon of work to come and lead worship at the funeral. Some sacrificed quite a chunk of time to prepare and set up for it. Some went out of their way to make sure I had a discreetly placed piano to play. Some gave of their time to run sound. Others gave their time to watch our kids during the service. They loved us well.
And meals - so many meals. People have been cooking for us for weeks now. Friends down the street, friends and family who live hours away. They have gone out of their way to help by providing a meal - and let me tell you, it helps tremendously. Feeding our family - relieving this one daily chore several times throughout the week - is loving us well.
My sweet friend, Lisa, has asked, more than once, if she can bring us anything. In fact, a few people have offered to do that. Lisa brought over a gallon of Sunny D (Jason's version of 'orange juice') one night when we were completely out, and then played with a couple of our kids for a while. Loving us well.
And then, there are two particular ways I can see my Father's love for me in the timing of Elliana's birth. I'll probably never be able to say something like, 'I'm thankful that she was born so prematurely. Otherwise, ??? and ??? would not have happened.' I'm not glad she came so early. I'm not thankful that she died when she did.
But...
If her death was inevitable no matter when she entered the world, then I am thankful for these two things.
1 - My friend, Beth, was able to be at the hospital to photograph Elliana's few hours of life. Beth is one of my dearest friends. And she's also a very gifted photographer. In the days preceding Elliana's birth, the doctors were saying that, all circumstances considered, they'd like to see her stay put until 34 weeks. At 34 weeks, they would probably have delivered her, just because the benefits outweighed the risks by that point. But at 34 weeks (tomorrow), Beth would have been out of town.
I'm thankful that Beth was here the night Elliana was born. She loved me so well. She wept with me. She gave me a collection of photos that I will cherish forever.
2 - Our friends, Jeremy and Gina, were also here. They were able to be a part of the most difficult time we have ever been through. They were able to weep with us. Jeremy was able to perform her funeral. They left for Japan 2 days ago. If we had made it to 34 weeks (tomorrow), they would have been gone. I know that they would have grieved with us from Japan had they not been here for her birth, but it helped to have them physically with us.
And I know that Jeremy and Gina are still grieving with us - loving us from across the world.
There are probably so many other ways that we have been loved well that are not coming to mind right now. I know God's ways are much higher than mine, and I can't even begin to see all that He has orchestrated to love us so well. And I'll confess: I live most of the time as if I don't want to see all that He has orchestrated. Because it is so incredibly difficult for me to reconcile these two truths - that He ordained this, and that He is good.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
This must be what hell feels like.
Waking up and not being able to go back to sleep. Waking up from the sweet relief of sleep, and realizing that it really happened.
Feeling like each day is going to last an eternity.
A weight on my chest that just makes my whole being feel... heavy. And empty at the same time.
Facing the reality that the doctors were right. She only lived a couple of hours. And feeling like it was so foolish to get my hopes up that I'd have her in my arms for a few days. And downright stupid to think I'd get to bring her home.
I'm so tempted to sugar-coat this so that this doesn't turn into the most depressing post ever. But sugar-coating is not me. I've been completely honest for the past 3 months and 15 days. Why stop now?
Elliana is always at the front of my mind. And so many things strike me in unexpected ways and at unexpected times because of her.
Seth laid his head on my chest this morning and fell asleep. I remembered all of Elliana's 2 pounds and 11 ounces fitting in that same spot.
I walked downstairs and saw a basket full of clothes that don't fit Missy anymore. I thought about how Elliana would never get to wear them.
Levi is so much a 'big brother'. He can be so sweet with Seth and Missy. I would have loved to watch him with Elliana.
I filled out a book-it calendar for Elijah for the month of October. Writing in the dates of Elliana's birth and death, the 5th and 6th, made me cry.
My mom gives raindrop kisses to my kids. And I think about how she was only able to do that once with Elliana.
There are so many people she never got to meet. Cousins she won't get to grow up with.
I wish I knew if her belly button would have been an inny or an outy.
I wish I could see what her hair would look like in a year. Two years. Ten years. How long and beautifully blonde it would be.
I wish I could hold her again. I just want to hold her again.
I do think that this must be what hell feels like. Except that I know there's one big difference.
Hope.
I can't write a whole lot about hope right now. But I know it's somewhere in the months ahead of me.
Waking up and not being able to go back to sleep. Waking up from the sweet relief of sleep, and realizing that it really happened.
Feeling like each day is going to last an eternity.
A weight on my chest that just makes my whole being feel... heavy. And empty at the same time.
Facing the reality that the doctors were right. She only lived a couple of hours. And feeling like it was so foolish to get my hopes up that I'd have her in my arms for a few days. And downright stupid to think I'd get to bring her home.
I'm so tempted to sugar-coat this so that this doesn't turn into the most depressing post ever. But sugar-coating is not me. I've been completely honest for the past 3 months and 15 days. Why stop now?
Elliana is always at the front of my mind. And so many things strike me in unexpected ways and at unexpected times because of her.
Seth laid his head on my chest this morning and fell asleep. I remembered all of Elliana's 2 pounds and 11 ounces fitting in that same spot.
I walked downstairs and saw a basket full of clothes that don't fit Missy anymore. I thought about how Elliana would never get to wear them.
Levi is so much a 'big brother'. He can be so sweet with Seth and Missy. I would have loved to watch him with Elliana.
I filled out a book-it calendar for Elijah for the month of October. Writing in the dates of Elliana's birth and death, the 5th and 6th, made me cry.
My mom gives raindrop kisses to my kids. And I think about how she was only able to do that once with Elliana.
There are so many people she never got to meet. Cousins she won't get to grow up with.
I wish I knew if her belly button would have been an inny or an outy.
I wish I could see what her hair would look like in a year. Two years. Ten years. How long and beautifully blonde it would be.
I wish I could hold her again. I just want to hold her again.
I do think that this must be what hell feels like. Except that I know there's one big difference.
Hope.
I can't write a whole lot about hope right now. But I know it's somewhere in the months ahead of me.
Saturday, October 13, 2012
One Week
I wasn't even anticipating the 'one week' mark. Jason said something on Thursday night about 'dreading tomorrow'. I asked why. He said, 'She would have been one week old tomorrow.'
Yesterday, I found myself needing several things. I needed to go visit Elliana. I needed to remember the events of last Friday afternoon with as much detail as I could. I needed to think through the decision to go ahead with the c-section and try to convince myself it really was the right thing to do. I needed to linger on Seth's face and blonde hair a little longer than usual and wonder what his baby sister might look like right now, with a perfectly healthy little body in heaven.
And this one just feels silly - I needed to have chips, salsa, and cheese dip last night. That was our last meal together before our 'goodbye' began.
She was born at 10:56pm. Last night, by 11:15pm, I just needed to go to sleep. I couldn't relive her birth and the few hours following.
And today. Today just feels like it will drag on forever. But I don't want it to end either. Weird, I know.
One week ago, I didn't see how I'd ever be able to let her out of my arms. But I knew that I couldn't hold her forever. I knew that the 'goodbye' was inevitable. I knew that the funeral home man would come and take her tiny body.
I remember being desperate to savor every moment with her. Wanting to memorize everything about her. But I also remember being desperate for rest. And I couldn't rest while she was with me. I think my mommy-heart couldn't believe that she was really gone. I think in the back of my mind, I was sort of just waiting for her to wake up. Waiting for her to move. To breathe again.
The last thing I said to Jason before we went to sleep last night was, 'One week ago right now, she was alive. She was breathing.'
It helps to remember her life.
Yesterday, I found myself needing several things. I needed to go visit Elliana. I needed to remember the events of last Friday afternoon with as much detail as I could. I needed to think through the decision to go ahead with the c-section and try to convince myself it really was the right thing to do. I needed to linger on Seth's face and blonde hair a little longer than usual and wonder what his baby sister might look like right now, with a perfectly healthy little body in heaven.
And this one just feels silly - I needed to have chips, salsa, and cheese dip last night. That was our last meal together before our 'goodbye' began.
She was born at 10:56pm. Last night, by 11:15pm, I just needed to go to sleep. I couldn't relive her birth and the few hours following.
And today. Today just feels like it will drag on forever. But I don't want it to end either. Weird, I know.
One week ago, I didn't see how I'd ever be able to let her out of my arms. But I knew that I couldn't hold her forever. I knew that the 'goodbye' was inevitable. I knew that the funeral home man would come and take her tiny body.
I remember being desperate to savor every moment with her. Wanting to memorize everything about her. But I also remember being desperate for rest. And I couldn't rest while she was with me. I think my mommy-heart couldn't believe that she was really gone. I think in the back of my mind, I was sort of just waiting for her to wake up. Waiting for her to move. To breathe again.
The last thing I said to Jason before we went to sleep last night was, 'One week ago right now, she was alive. She was breathing.'
It helps to remember her life.
Friday, October 12, 2012
Her Daddy's Love
My husband is my hero right now.
Not the knight-in-shining-armor kind of hero.
He loved his Ella Belle in a way that I have not seen before - strong in a meek kind of way, gentle in a protective sort of way, doting in a way that I wish I could watch for years.
I'm pretty sure that Jason's Ella Belle knew his voice. When we'd crash on the couch after the other kids were in bed, she would start moving around a little bit more when he started talking. When he and I 'argued' over what to watch on tv, she kicked more when he talked about football.
We both think she would have been a tomboy. I might have been able to get some pink dresses on her for a while, but she'd have been in torn jeans and muddy t-shirts by the time she and Seth could have played together. :-)
Jason talked to her often. He kissed my belly. During ultrasounds, he was able to recognize body parts faster than me. He would ask the tech all kinds of questions. He prayed for her. He worried about her. He loved her.
When we had to say goodbye to her in the hospital, Jason was the one who took her from my arms and placed her so gently in a basket. A nurse didn't do it. The funeral home man didn't do it. Ella Belle's daddy did.
It took an immeasurable amount of love - for me and his Ella Belle - to do that.
On Monday, before we left the hospital, we had to finish filling out the information for her birth certificate. We had not been able to settle on one of her middle names. Jason did lots of searching after Elliana was born. He searched names and meanings of names. And finally, when it came down to the last minute and we had to pick something, Jason chose. He didn't choose something spiritual and Hebrew and pastor-ish. Which is basically what we've done with our other kids. He chose something French... and really girlie. 'Belle'. He chose it because it means 'beauty'. And he chose it because he likes the nickname 'Ella Belle'.
I agonized over who the pallbearers would be at the funeral. For days. And we were told we really only needed one person to carry her tiny casket. That felt awful. For one person to bear the weight of carrying her. I thought that it might not be quite so unbearable if two people carried her.
My dad and brothers - we couldn't ask them. Couldn't ask my dad to carry his granddaughter. Couldn't ask my brothers to carry their niece.
I thought of close friends, elders from our church. Anyone who could take this burden.
I agonized. Me. Just me.
Jason wasn't worrying about who was going to carry her. Jason was in a different kind of agony. A 'daddy' kind of agony. Loving his baby girl so much that he wanted to carry her one last time, even if it broke his heart all over again.
I wanted a back-up plan, just in case he changed his mind at the last minute. My sweet husband (somewhat reluctantly) did let his control-freak wife have a back-up plan.
But I think he knew we wouldn't need one.
At the end of the service, I watched Jason walk over to Elliana's casket and pick it up. It was probably the moment he felt his weakest as a daddy. But he showed more strength and love and sacrifice in that moment than I have ever seen. As awful as it was, there was beauty in that moment.
Our time with her was so short. It feels like we were robbed of a lifetime with her. But I think one of the things I will miss the most is watching this daddy love his Ella Belle.
Not the knight-in-shining-armor kind of hero.
He loved his Ella Belle in a way that I have not seen before - strong in a meek kind of way, gentle in a protective sort of way, doting in a way that I wish I could watch for years.
I'm pretty sure that Jason's Ella Belle knew his voice. When we'd crash on the couch after the other kids were in bed, she would start moving around a little bit more when he started talking. When he and I 'argued' over what to watch on tv, she kicked more when he talked about football.
We both think she would have been a tomboy. I might have been able to get some pink dresses on her for a while, but she'd have been in torn jeans and muddy t-shirts by the time she and Seth could have played together. :-)
Jason talked to her often. He kissed my belly. During ultrasounds, he was able to recognize body parts faster than me. He would ask the tech all kinds of questions. He prayed for her. He worried about her. He loved her.
When we had to say goodbye to her in the hospital, Jason was the one who took her from my arms and placed her so gently in a basket. A nurse didn't do it. The funeral home man didn't do it. Ella Belle's daddy did.
It took an immeasurable amount of love - for me and his Ella Belle - to do that.
On Monday, before we left the hospital, we had to finish filling out the information for her birth certificate. We had not been able to settle on one of her middle names. Jason did lots of searching after Elliana was born. He searched names and meanings of names. And finally, when it came down to the last minute and we had to pick something, Jason chose. He didn't choose something spiritual and Hebrew and pastor-ish. Which is basically what we've done with our other kids. He chose something French... and really girlie. 'Belle'. He chose it because it means 'beauty'. And he chose it because he likes the nickname 'Ella Belle'.
I agonized over who the pallbearers would be at the funeral. For days. And we were told we really only needed one person to carry her tiny casket. That felt awful. For one person to bear the weight of carrying her. I thought that it might not be quite so unbearable if two people carried her.
My dad and brothers - we couldn't ask them. Couldn't ask my dad to carry his granddaughter. Couldn't ask my brothers to carry their niece.
I thought of close friends, elders from our church. Anyone who could take this burden.
I agonized. Me. Just me.
Jason wasn't worrying about who was going to carry her. Jason was in a different kind of agony. A 'daddy' kind of agony. Loving his baby girl so much that he wanted to carry her one last time, even if it broke his heart all over again.
I wanted a back-up plan, just in case he changed his mind at the last minute. My sweet husband (somewhat reluctantly) did let his control-freak wife have a back-up plan.
But I think he knew we wouldn't need one.
At the end of the service, I watched Jason walk over to Elliana's casket and pick it up. It was probably the moment he felt his weakest as a daddy. But he showed more strength and love and sacrifice in that moment than I have ever seen. As awful as it was, there was beauty in that moment.
Our time with her was so short. It feels like we were robbed of a lifetime with her. But I think one of the things I will miss the most is watching this daddy love his Ella Belle.
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Her Mama's Love
I played the piano at my daughter's funeral.
That feels a little bit weird.
But it wasn't weird - it was the only thing I could do. My brain could not form words to speak anything at the service. And my heart would definitely not have been able to contain the emotion that would have spilled over if I had tried.
So I played the piano. It's the only language I know that can communicate what's in my soul.
I can not describe with words what music does for me. Or in me. When we walked into the service yesterday, and walked down the aisle towards where our daughter lay, some of my favorite acoustic guitarists were playing. I wasn't expecting that. But oh, how I needed it. It brought peace to my soul. It was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my week, and the sound that filled the room made it feel not quite so... empty. Or awful. Or like death.
The music made that moment tolerable. Even beautiful in some ways. It helped me breathe.
We sang four songs during the service, and I played with the band during three of them. Like I said, it feels a little bit weird.
But I needed it. I so needed it.
It was the only way I could communicate my love, my grief, my sorrow. And it was one of the only ways I could 'hear' hope.
I heard our friend, Jeremy, who reminded us of the Gospel yesterday.
And I could hear the promises of life and hope in the songs that we played and sang.
My sweet Elliana may not have heard me play as many times as I would have liked while in the womb. But I know she heard me yesterday, from the lap of her Savior. She heard her mama's love yesterday.
That feels a little bit weird.
But it wasn't weird - it was the only thing I could do. My brain could not form words to speak anything at the service. And my heart would definitely not have been able to contain the emotion that would have spilled over if I had tried.
So I played the piano. It's the only language I know that can communicate what's in my soul.
I can not describe with words what music does for me. Or in me. When we walked into the service yesterday, and walked down the aisle towards where our daughter lay, some of my favorite acoustic guitarists were playing. I wasn't expecting that. But oh, how I needed it. It brought peace to my soul. It was one of the most heartbreaking moments of my week, and the sound that filled the room made it feel not quite so... empty. Or awful. Or like death.
The music made that moment tolerable. Even beautiful in some ways. It helped me breathe.
We sang four songs during the service, and I played with the band during three of them. Like I said, it feels a little bit weird.
But I needed it. I so needed it.
It was the only way I could communicate my love, my grief, my sorrow. And it was one of the only ways I could 'hear' hope.
I heard our friend, Jeremy, who reminded us of the Gospel yesterday.
And I could hear the promises of life and hope in the songs that we played and sang.
My sweet Elliana may not have heard me play as many times as I would have liked while in the womb. But I know she heard me yesterday, from the lap of her Savior. She heard her mama's love yesterday.
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
My Heart
A piece of my heart is buried underground about 20 minutes from here.
And all I can think about is how cold it's going to get tonight. And how she is all alone there.
Her sweet aunties picked out a warm blanket and sewed it to be just her size. They gave the funeral home specific instructions on how to wrap her up in the blanket - just so I wouldn't worry about her being cold.
I know that she is not really there. I know she's safe. She's whole. She's not struggling to breathe anymore. Levi's sweetest words today - 'Jesus is keeping her safe.'
Even though I know these things, it's taking every rational part of my being to fight the 'mommy' urge in me to just get in the car and go to be with her.
And today, when she would have been 5 days old, my body physically longs for her. Aches for her. And there is no relief from it until I return to my pre-pregnant, pre-baby state.
When I close my eyes, I can still feel the weight of her laying on my chest.
I can feel the softness of her hair under my fingers.
And I can hear her trying to breathe.
Her blanket still smells like her.
I miss her so much. And I wonder if my heart will ever feel whole again.
And all I can think about is how cold it's going to get tonight. And how she is all alone there.
Her sweet aunties picked out a warm blanket and sewed it to be just her size. They gave the funeral home specific instructions on how to wrap her up in the blanket - just so I wouldn't worry about her being cold.
I know that she is not really there. I know she's safe. She's whole. She's not struggling to breathe anymore. Levi's sweetest words today - 'Jesus is keeping her safe.'
Even though I know these things, it's taking every rational part of my being to fight the 'mommy' urge in me to just get in the car and go to be with her.
And today, when she would have been 5 days old, my body physically longs for her. Aches for her. And there is no relief from it until I return to my pre-pregnant, pre-baby state.
When I close my eyes, I can still feel the weight of her laying on my chest.
I can feel the softness of her hair under my fingers.
And I can hear her trying to breathe.
Her blanket still smells like her.
I miss her so much. And I wonder if my heart will ever feel whole again.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Tomorrow
Tomorrow, I will see my little girl one last time, attend a service in her honor, and bury her. In some ways, I just want the day to be over. But in so many other ways, I don't want tomorrow to come at all.
Through several pregnancies now, my prayer through the first 20 weeks has been that God would let me carry the baby in my womb long enough to hold him or her before I had to say goodbye. And now I wonder if that was a mistake. If I never should have asked for that. Maybe Elliana would have been perfectly healthy if I'd never asked. But I did. And God answered me. Now I think it's more than I can bear.
One full week of my life was just spent in a hospital bed. It feels surreal. It was like a different life. I had no children (outside of the womb) to take care of. I enjoyed visits with friends and had conversations that were completely uninterrupted by kids. All of my meals were brought to me in bed. I watched the entire first season of Downton Abbey. Conversation about Elliana was common - nobody was afraid to bring her up or ask about her. The whole week was about her. Keeping her healthy and safe.
In a matter hours, everything changed. Friday afternoon, I was talking about what life might be like with a NICU baby. Hours later, the NICU doctor was leaning around the curtain that separated Jason and I from the doctor who was closing my incision, telling us that she'd tried as much as she could, but Elliana's heart rate kept dropping.
A week lived almost in another world.
As we drove back into Lexington yesterday, and as we got on the highway this morning to make arrangements at the cemetery, it struck me how 'normal' everything was. People still driving to work. People still going through the McDonald's drive-thru. People still getting ticked off at other drivers.
Pregnant moms still... pregnant.
I feel like I'm moving in slow motion - my entire world has changed. Yet the world around me keeps moving as if nothing has changed. As if everything is the same. But it is so not the same. Not the same at all.
Through several pregnancies now, my prayer through the first 20 weeks has been that God would let me carry the baby in my womb long enough to hold him or her before I had to say goodbye. And now I wonder if that was a mistake. If I never should have asked for that. Maybe Elliana would have been perfectly healthy if I'd never asked. But I did. And God answered me. Now I think it's more than I can bear.
One full week of my life was just spent in a hospital bed. It feels surreal. It was like a different life. I had no children (outside of the womb) to take care of. I enjoyed visits with friends and had conversations that were completely uninterrupted by kids. All of my meals were brought to me in bed. I watched the entire first season of Downton Abbey. Conversation about Elliana was common - nobody was afraid to bring her up or ask about her. The whole week was about her. Keeping her healthy and safe.
In a matter hours, everything changed. Friday afternoon, I was talking about what life might be like with a NICU baby. Hours later, the NICU doctor was leaning around the curtain that separated Jason and I from the doctor who was closing my incision, telling us that she'd tried as much as she could, but Elliana's heart rate kept dropping.
A week lived almost in another world.
As we drove back into Lexington yesterday, and as we got on the highway this morning to make arrangements at the cemetery, it struck me how 'normal' everything was. People still driving to work. People still going through the McDonald's drive-thru. People still getting ticked off at other drivers.
Pregnant moms still... pregnant.
I feel like I'm moving in slow motion - my entire world has changed. Yet the world around me keeps moving as if nothing has changed. As if everything is the same. But it is so not the same. Not the same at all.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Plans
I've GOT to blog/journal soon. Just don't have the energy for it right now. I know it'll help - once I can do it.
We finished planning Elliana's funeral today. This is, by far, the worst thing I've ever had to do.
The 'funeral' (worship service) is this Wednesday, October 10 at 2pm at Meadowview Presbyterian Church in Lexington, NC. Her burial following the service will be private.
We'd love to see friends before the service - we'll be at Meadowview from 12:45-1:45 that day, ready to receive lots of hugs.
All of our children have 4 names. (Poor kids.) We've had 'Elliana ??? Mackenzie Lindegren' for months. We just couldn't decide on that other middle name.
Jason picked it today. 'Belle' means 'beauty'. His daddy's heart has nicknamed her Ella Belle.
We finished planning Elliana's funeral today. This is, by far, the worst thing I've ever had to do.
The 'funeral' (worship service) is this Wednesday, October 10 at 2pm at Meadowview Presbyterian Church in Lexington, NC. Her burial following the service will be private.
We'd love to see friends before the service - we'll be at Meadowview from 12:45-1:45 that day, ready to receive lots of hugs.
All of our children have 4 names. (Poor kids.) We've had 'Elliana ??? Mackenzie Lindegren' for months. We just couldn't decide on that other middle name.
Jason picked it today. 'Belle' means 'beauty'. His daddy's heart has nicknamed her Ella Belle.
Saturday, October 6, 2012
31 weeks, 6 days - Elliana '?' Mackenzie Lindegren
There's an empty space on my chest. It feels heavy, and even a little warm - it's where my sweet Elliana has been laying on me today.
Short story now - longer version may follow later.
With some concern about frequent dips in Elliana's heartrate, my doctors recommendation was to go ahead and deliver her.
She was born by c-section at 10:56pm last night. She tried to breath on her own for a short while. Once she stopped breathing, her heart continued to beat for a while.
She went on into the arms of Jesus about 2:15 this morning. And all I can say right now is... I miss her so terribly. My baby girl, my sweet Elliana - I miss her so much. This feels impossible.
Short story now - longer version may follow later.
With some concern about frequent dips in Elliana's heartrate, my doctors recommendation was to go ahead and deliver her.
She was born by c-section at 10:56pm last night. She tried to breath on her own for a short while. Once she stopped breathing, her heart continued to beat for a while.
She went on into the arms of Jesus about 2:15 this morning. And all I can say right now is... I miss her so terribly. My baby girl, my sweet Elliana - I miss her so much. This feels impossible.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
31 weeks, 4 days - My Babies
*The medical update: Still having contractions. I'll have them for a period of time about 2 minutes apart. Then they stop. Then for a while longer at 5 minutes apart. Enough to keep me within these 4 walls. :-( I don't think I posted that we decided to go ahead with a steroid treatment that will help Elliana's lung development - it was 2 shots, 24 hours apart. As of 6pm this evening, the steroids are doing their best work and will continue to help her for the next couple of weeks. The downside to that - I've experienced a couple side effects from the steroids. Nothing awful, but my cheeks were BEET RED for a while, and I was short of breath for most of the afternoon today. Most of it seems to have subsided.
On to my babies...
I haven't seen my kiddos since Monday night, and I'm really missing them. Levi and Elijah have both had a stomach bug the last couple of days, so they really can't come see me right now. Can't risk bringing the germs near all the mommies and babies here at the hospital. But I miss them. I got to talk to 3 of them on the phone tonight, and by the time I got to Seth, it took everything I had to not sob through our 'conversation'. Both Levi and Elijah asked me when I was coming home. Elijah accepted my 'I really don't know, Honey' pretty well, but Levi actually suggested days that I should come back. 'When are you coming home, Mommy? Friday? Sunday?' I told him maybe he could come see me on Saturday, and now I'm afraid he'll pester Jason to death about Saturday. Missy was already in bed - hoping to hear her sweet little voice tomorrow.
It's so hard to be here, knowing that it's best for me and Elliana, but knowing that my other babies are so far away. And I can't do anything for them. I know they are well taken care of. My mom and hubby are doing great and loving them well. But I miss their smiles, their laughs, even their mischief. And even Seth following me around, begging for 'Up, pees!' as I try to go to the bathroom without him hanging onto my legs. That never works, by the way.
And my other baby - the one here with me. Her heartbeat has been like music in the background most of the day. When she starts squirming around, the monitor makes this weird noise, and that's not quite as musical. :-) But she's had a quiet day - not moving around as much. She was busier yesterday. I think she must have worn herself out.
I realized this evening that all of this time here in the hospital without the 'music' of my other children in the background is giving me more time to focus just on Elliana. My ear tunes into the monitor when I shift positions in bed and 'lose' her heartbeat. I'm aware of how often she kicks these probe thingies on my tummy, and I wish that I could just take them off and feel her with my hand. I have more pictures of her from ultrasounds this week - the tech printed out about ten 3D/4D pics for me, so now I'm getting to study her face. She reminds me so much of Seth.
I'm so torn. I want so much to enjoy her now, but I'm so afraid of getting even more attached to her. I don't want to struggle with that. But I do. The more I know her and enjoy her and feel her, the harder it will be to say goodbye to her... IF we have to say goodbye. Talking with those neonatalogists was wonderful - the best medical conversations we've had in the past 3 months. But dadgum-it, they gave me hope. Hope, because the things they've read in her ultrasound reports don't look immediately life-threatening. Hope that they can help her. Hope that they may just need to keep her for a few weeks, and then maybe we could take her home. Hope that I'll have time to mommy her. They made no guarantees, by any means, but these are the doctors who treat newborns every day. And they seem to think that we can't make any judgments about how she'll do until her body is forced to work on its own, and not depend on me anymore.
A friend asked me if being in this situation made me wish that I could just stay pregnant forever. Yes. If it meant life for Elliana, I think I would stay pregnant forever.
On to my babies...
I haven't seen my kiddos since Monday night, and I'm really missing them. Levi and Elijah have both had a stomach bug the last couple of days, so they really can't come see me right now. Can't risk bringing the germs near all the mommies and babies here at the hospital. But I miss them. I got to talk to 3 of them on the phone tonight, and by the time I got to Seth, it took everything I had to not sob through our 'conversation'. Both Levi and Elijah asked me when I was coming home. Elijah accepted my 'I really don't know, Honey' pretty well, but Levi actually suggested days that I should come back. 'When are you coming home, Mommy? Friday? Sunday?' I told him maybe he could come see me on Saturday, and now I'm afraid he'll pester Jason to death about Saturday. Missy was already in bed - hoping to hear her sweet little voice tomorrow.
It's so hard to be here, knowing that it's best for me and Elliana, but knowing that my other babies are so far away. And I can't do anything for them. I know they are well taken care of. My mom and hubby are doing great and loving them well. But I miss their smiles, their laughs, even their mischief. And even Seth following me around, begging for 'Up, pees!' as I try to go to the bathroom without him hanging onto my legs. That never works, by the way.
And my other baby - the one here with me. Her heartbeat has been like music in the background most of the day. When she starts squirming around, the monitor makes this weird noise, and that's not quite as musical. :-) But she's had a quiet day - not moving around as much. She was busier yesterday. I think she must have worn herself out.
I realized this evening that all of this time here in the hospital without the 'music' of my other children in the background is giving me more time to focus just on Elliana. My ear tunes into the monitor when I shift positions in bed and 'lose' her heartbeat. I'm aware of how often she kicks these probe thingies on my tummy, and I wish that I could just take them off and feel her with my hand. I have more pictures of her from ultrasounds this week - the tech printed out about ten 3D/4D pics for me, so now I'm getting to study her face. She reminds me so much of Seth.
I'm so torn. I want so much to enjoy her now, but I'm so afraid of getting even more attached to her. I don't want to struggle with that. But I do. The more I know her and enjoy her and feel her, the harder it will be to say goodbye to her... IF we have to say goodbye. Talking with those neonatalogists was wonderful - the best medical conversations we've had in the past 3 months. But dadgum-it, they gave me hope. Hope, because the things they've read in her ultrasound reports don't look immediately life-threatening. Hope that they can help her. Hope that they may just need to keep her for a few weeks, and then maybe we could take her home. Hope that I'll have time to mommy her. They made no guarantees, by any means, but these are the doctors who treat newborns every day. And they seem to think that we can't make any judgments about how she'll do until her body is forced to work on its own, and not depend on me anymore.
A friend asked me if being in this situation made me wish that I could just stay pregnant forever. Yes. If it meant life for Elliana, I think I would stay pregnant forever.
Wednesday, October 3, 2012
31 weeks, 3 days
I'm still in the hospital. And as of this moment, there's no light at the end of the tunnel. I'm here until either contractions and leaking stop, or Elliana is born. Every time I make a comment about 'if I'm still here in a couple days', the nurses look at me like, 'Really?' They all seem to believe I'm here for the long haul. Yippee. I miss home - my husband and kids - and sleeping in my own bed. But I think I've finally come to accept that this really is best for Elliana. And me. We don't want to increase the risk of infection to either of us, and the best place for them to keep a close eye on both of us is here. And the best place to watch for the onset of pre-term labor is here. So... here we are.
The nurses - there are a couple who are quickly becoming like friends. Some have walked into my room, asked me how I'm doing, and when I burst into tears, they sit down beside me and get all teary-eyed with me. Even one of the midwives who makes regular rounds for the doctors has been openly moved in talking with us about having as much time with Elliana as we possibly can. A couple of the nurses just try to make me laugh. And one even brought me my favorite Starbucks drink this morning.
I have a distinct memory from September 17, 2009. It was the day our twins were delivered at 12 weeks gestation. I was so angry with God - couldn't speak to Him, couldn't even acknowledge Him. But I knew that I was safe - I knew that my salvation didn't depend on how much I was trusting my Savior at that moment. I knew that His grace was enough when I couldn't speak to Him.
But there came a point in the hospital that day that Jason could not be with me - they wouldn't allow him into the surgery prep area. I panicked - I couldn't bear the thought of being alone right before this awful surgery. I couldn't stop crying. I still knew that I was safe - that Jesus had me, but that wasn't what I wanted. I didn't care about being safe. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted - needed - Jason to be with me, and he couldn't. I was alone. And I was so angry with God that I couldn't ask for or acknowledge His presence.
But...
The last thing I remember before that surgery is this: one nurse putting meds into my IV, one nurse holding my hand, and one nurse wiping my tears.
I couldn't see it at the time - not for days. But those nurses were Jesus to me at that moment. Even when I couldn't ask for His help, He still came.
There's a part of me that does not want to admit this, but I know... even though I haven't asked... He's been here the past few days. He does hurt with me. He is sovereign over all of this. I just can't see how right now.
Enough with the deep thinking. For tonight anyway.
They won't give you a glass of wine in the hospital, but they will give you benedryl. Yay for sleep. :-)
The nurses - there are a couple who are quickly becoming like friends. Some have walked into my room, asked me how I'm doing, and when I burst into tears, they sit down beside me and get all teary-eyed with me. Even one of the midwives who makes regular rounds for the doctors has been openly moved in talking with us about having as much time with Elliana as we possibly can. A couple of the nurses just try to make me laugh. And one even brought me my favorite Starbucks drink this morning.
I have a distinct memory from September 17, 2009. It was the day our twins were delivered at 12 weeks gestation. I was so angry with God - couldn't speak to Him, couldn't even acknowledge Him. But I knew that I was safe - I knew that my salvation didn't depend on how much I was trusting my Savior at that moment. I knew that His grace was enough when I couldn't speak to Him.
But there came a point in the hospital that day that Jason could not be with me - they wouldn't allow him into the surgery prep area. I panicked - I couldn't bear the thought of being alone right before this awful surgery. I couldn't stop crying. I still knew that I was safe - that Jesus had me, but that wasn't what I wanted. I didn't care about being safe. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted - needed - Jason to be with me, and he couldn't. I was alone. And I was so angry with God that I couldn't ask for or acknowledge His presence.
But...
The last thing I remember before that surgery is this: one nurse putting meds into my IV, one nurse holding my hand, and one nurse wiping my tears.
I couldn't see it at the time - not for days. But those nurses were Jesus to me at that moment. Even when I couldn't ask for His help, He still came.
There's a part of me that does not want to admit this, but I know... even though I haven't asked... He's been here the past few days. He does hurt with me. He is sovereign over all of this. I just can't see how right now.
Enough with the deep thinking. For tonight anyway.
They won't give you a glass of wine in the hospital, but they will give you benedryl. Yay for sleep. :-)
Monday, October 1, 2012
31 weeks, 1 day
Quick update - I'm still in the hospital, and it looks like I'll go home tomorrow evening. The goal is to get a full 48 hours of IV antibiotics in me - leaking fluid puts Little Miss and me at risk for infection. Once I get home, I won't be on bedrest, but I'm supposed to limit my activity (umm... right), refrain from picking up anything over 25 lbs (which includes Seth), stop any activity that causes contractions, and watch for signs of infection. We really want Elliana to stay put until at least 34 weeks (which would be October 21), but it's still a little unclear to me what happens once we get to 34 weeks.
At this moment, I'm hooked up to two monitors - one for Elliana's heartbeat, and one for contractions. Elliana likes to kick the probes.:-)
It's been such a long day. I've lost track of how many doctors I've seen. The day is just a one big long string of nurses, doctors, consults, IV's, monitors. The nurses have been so kind - so thoughtful and understanding. They've treated me like I'm their only patient. The doctors have been helpful in making decisions about how to proceed over the next several weeks.
We've spoken with two neonatalogists in the past 24 hours - I so wish that they had been among the first of the physicians we'd consulted with after receiving Elliana's diagnosis. After speaking with them, I feel like I know what to expect in the minutes and hours after her birth. I know what they consider 'normal interventions' for preemies and what they consider 'heroic measures'. And now I know - they're on my side. They want Elliana to live. They want us to be able to take her home. They are for her.
There has been no shortage of tears today. At times just because I was overwhelmed with all of the information. Other times because I'd remember that just around the corner and down another hallway are lots of happy mommies and healthy babies. And other times, because someone was just going about their job, not really thinking about the patient they were speaking to.
I *think* tomorrow will be a quieter day. In some ways, I'm glad for that - I'm not sure my brain could handle much more information. In other ways, it scares me - 'quiet' gives me time to think, and most of the time, thinking leads to tears.
Earlier today, I caught up on reading some blog comments. One comment completely caught me off guard. This sweet girl, who I've never actually met, lost her 2 month old son a little over a year ago. And I commented on her blog. She reminded me of what I wrote to her...
"You are free to feel however you need to feel - angry, sad, confused, livid, questioning everything, struggling with hope or faith. It's ok. Your Father's love for you won't change. Don't feel like you need to put on a face for anyone - it's ok if you don't feel that Christian 'joy' for a while. And Jesus' reputation is not at stake - your struggling and/or grieving is not going to ruin Jesus' reputation - He can handle it. And when you're wondering if you even have any faith at all, just remember that there are lots of people who love you - and they have faith FOR you right now. You will probably never know the answers to the 'whys'. But there is something you can be completely certain of - Matthew was created for a purpose. A specific purpose - God made him for a reason. And that purpose is being fulfilled RIGHT NOW. His life and death were NOT for the sole purpose of teaching you some valuable lesson, although losing him will change you forever. Matthew is doing exactly what he was created to do - at this very moment."
Somewhere in the recesses of my soul, I know this truth is still there. Just can't see it in these circumstances. Yet.
At this moment, I'm hooked up to two monitors - one for Elliana's heartbeat, and one for contractions. Elliana likes to kick the probes.:-)
It's been such a long day. I've lost track of how many doctors I've seen. The day is just a one big long string of nurses, doctors, consults, IV's, monitors. The nurses have been so kind - so thoughtful and understanding. They've treated me like I'm their only patient. The doctors have been helpful in making decisions about how to proceed over the next several weeks.
We've spoken with two neonatalogists in the past 24 hours - I so wish that they had been among the first of the physicians we'd consulted with after receiving Elliana's diagnosis. After speaking with them, I feel like I know what to expect in the minutes and hours after her birth. I know what they consider 'normal interventions' for preemies and what they consider 'heroic measures'. And now I know - they're on my side. They want Elliana to live. They want us to be able to take her home. They are for her.
There has been no shortage of tears today. At times just because I was overwhelmed with all of the information. Other times because I'd remember that just around the corner and down another hallway are lots of happy mommies and healthy babies. And other times, because someone was just going about their job, not really thinking about the patient they were speaking to.
I *think* tomorrow will be a quieter day. In some ways, I'm glad for that - I'm not sure my brain could handle much more information. In other ways, it scares me - 'quiet' gives me time to think, and most of the time, thinking leads to tears.
Earlier today, I caught up on reading some blog comments. One comment completely caught me off guard. This sweet girl, who I've never actually met, lost her 2 month old son a little over a year ago. And I commented on her blog. She reminded me of what I wrote to her...
"You are free to feel however you need to feel - angry, sad, confused, livid, questioning everything, struggling with hope or faith. It's ok. Your Father's love for you won't change. Don't feel like you need to put on a face for anyone - it's ok if you don't feel that Christian 'joy' for a while. And Jesus' reputation is not at stake - your struggling and/or grieving is not going to ruin Jesus' reputation - He can handle it. And when you're wondering if you even have any faith at all, just remember that there are lots of people who love you - and they have faith FOR you right now. You will probably never know the answers to the 'whys'. But there is something you can be completely certain of - Matthew was created for a purpose. A specific purpose - God made him for a reason. And that purpose is being fulfilled RIGHT NOW. His life and death were NOT for the sole purpose of teaching you some valuable lesson, although losing him will change you forever. Matthew is doing exactly what he was created to do - at this very moment."
Somewhere in the recesses of my soul, I know this truth is still there. Just can't see it in these circumstances. Yet.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
31 weeks - The Story, as of September 30
Our story, in as few sentences as I can squeeze it into... :-)
At our 18 week ultrasound on July 3, Jason and I found out that our baby girl had a very poor prognosis. It took several weeks to get an actual diagnosis, but we eventually learned that she has a very rare chromosomal disorder - Tetrasomy 9p. The past 3 months have been really difficult, anticipating the arrival of our daughter in November, and trying to process only having a few hours or days with her after her birth.
Things have gotten a bit more complicated today.
Jason and I have spent the latter half of our day at the Women's Hospital, and my doctor has confirmed that amniotic fluid is very slowly leaking. I'm not currently in labor (although I am having some contractions), and we're under no pressure at this point to go ahead with a c-section. I'm hoping to be able to go home tomorrow, but it sounds like if I do, I'll be on bedrest, and they'll need to be able to monitor both me (for infection) and the baby (for signs of distress).
Tonight, we spoke with a neonatalogist - it was one of the most encouraging conversations we've had in over 12 weeks. He talked about how he and his colleagues support *life*, they want to do what they can, within reason, to give our baby girl her best chance at surviving, and they'll keep us well-informed every step of the way. I liked him. A lot. :-)
Tomorrow, we'll see one of the maternal fetal specialists, take another look at our girl on the tv screen, and then talk (or maybe beg) with the doctor about going home and what that will look like.
I'm typing on Jason's tiny tablet, and it's really irritating. So this post is short and to the point. I'll hold off on my usual emotional journalling until I have my familiar laptop in front of me. Until then, please pray for our family as you think of us - and pray especially for our baby girl, Elliana.
At our 18 week ultrasound on July 3, Jason and I found out that our baby girl had a very poor prognosis. It took several weeks to get an actual diagnosis, but we eventually learned that she has a very rare chromosomal disorder - Tetrasomy 9p. The past 3 months have been really difficult, anticipating the arrival of our daughter in November, and trying to process only having a few hours or days with her after her birth.
Things have gotten a bit more complicated today.
Jason and I have spent the latter half of our day at the Women's Hospital, and my doctor has confirmed that amniotic fluid is very slowly leaking. I'm not currently in labor (although I am having some contractions), and we're under no pressure at this point to go ahead with a c-section. I'm hoping to be able to go home tomorrow, but it sounds like if I do, I'll be on bedrest, and they'll need to be able to monitor both me (for infection) and the baby (for signs of distress).
Tonight, we spoke with a neonatalogist - it was one of the most encouraging conversations we've had in over 12 weeks. He talked about how he and his colleagues support *life*, they want to do what they can, within reason, to give our baby girl her best chance at surviving, and they'll keep us well-informed every step of the way. I liked him. A lot. :-)
Tomorrow, we'll see one of the maternal fetal specialists, take another look at our girl on the tv screen, and then talk (or maybe beg) with the doctor about going home and what that will look like.
I'm typing on Jason's tiny tablet, and it's really irritating. So this post is short and to the point. I'll hold off on my usual emotional journalling until I have my familiar laptop in front of me. Until then, please pray for our family as you think of us - and pray especially for our baby girl, Elliana.
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