I *Might* Be a Little Competitive

First, corrections to my last post:

*The race benefits the Second Harvest Food Bank.  I'm all for that.  :-)

*The course didn't include Elam St.  :-(  I was kinda bummed.  But I took Elam street heading back to my car after the race, and I ran it then.  Mostly because I was so cold - and running warms me up!

K.  Glad I got those things cleared up.  Now, about the race...

The Running of the Balls was a 5K for runners and a walk.  Between both events, over 2500 people were registered.  That's important.  I'll tell you why later.  :-)

And I should say - I had to keep reminding myself that this was mostly 'just for fun'.  I'm SO competitive.  Even if I'm only really competing against my own time.  So throughout the evening, I had to keep telling myself to 'just have a good time', 'and enjoy the neighborhood lights', and 'quit thinking about what your time is going to be', and 'think about having fun'.  It was a bit of a battle - to stay relaxed about it.

I had a little trouble with packet pick-up - wound up in 3 different lines, and it took F O R E V E R.  So by the time I got to the starting line, it was almost 6pm, and there was a really big crowd already there.  My competitive self pushed me to try to get as close to the start line as I could - because I didn't want to be slowed down by all those people in front of me.  My rational self kept saying 'just have fun, Shannon - it doesn't matter how fast you run this one'.

The race started late, and I didn't even hear the official 'GO!'.  The crowd just started moving.  So I moved with them.

At a snail's pace.  It was torture.

I spent the first mile (which, thanks to MapMyRun, I know took me at least 2 full minutes longer than my typical 'first mile') trying to get past all the slow people (and I mean that in the kindest way possible) AND arguing with my competitive self to *just.calm.down* and have fun.

Pass a few people.  'Just have fun, Shannon.'  Get stuck behind more slow people.  'It's just about having a good time, Shannon.'  'WOULD YOU PEOPLE GET OUT OF MY WAY ALREADY?!?!'  'Shannon, you've GOT to get a grip.'  Pass a few more slow people.

This lasted about a mile.  The argument between competitive me and rational me.  And then, the crowd thinned out a little, I was able to run a little faster and freer, and I thought this:

You know what?  I might be doing this race just for fun because I love my Ella Belle.  BUT... *this mama* (Elliana's, Seth's, Missy's, Levi's and Elijah's mama) is competitive.  I'm done 'just having fun'.  I haven't changed THAT much!

So I ran.  And (I don't *think* I'm saying this arrogantly.  Just... well, it was just so fun!)... do you KNOW how many people I passed??  A LOT.

This is where the 2500 registered participants part is important.  :-)

Not all 2500 were runners - a bunch of those were walkers.  I'm not sure how many were actually running.  And of all the ones running, less than 150 were 'chip-timed' runners.  I was one of the 150.  Cuz... umm... *competitive*.)

Anyway, like I said, I'm not sure how many people ran.  A bunch.  But.. I know where I placed among all those runners.  :-)

I'm kinda proud of this.  It's not specTACular or anything, but... I was happy with it.

You ready for this?

I placed 45th overall.  I was the 45th person to cross the finish line.  And that made me happy.  Kinda feel like I kicked butt in that race.  And that girl... *the competitive, get-outta-my-way, I'm-gonna-KICK-YOUR-BUTT girl*... THAT girl - is Elliana's mama.  :-)

That Beautiful Street

Hey there, Diary.  It's been a while.  :-)

So many things to write about.  A counselor observed several weeks ago that I (and I'm probably not going to say this like he did) tend to keep a lid on my anger - and I'm still *pretty angry* about losing my daughter.  Every once in a while when this counselor and I are talking, he'll say something that stirs up that anger. And with him, I know it's 'safe' to go ahead and say the angry things.  So I'll (usually politely) interrupt him something like, 'You know, when you said ------, it made me think...

!!!asdoiruuonmbvnm,z.reywauieljdfkjnmz,vhueyriusadkbmvhuiysuielafjldksbvkjcyuairyeuiadfsjkalvmcsladfhuieyaiuroehwkdnl!!!!  AND &^%#@@$$%^&**&^^%$$$%.'

And the angry words just kind of spill out.  For a brief moment, I feel better.  Then I put the lid back on, and my reserved self is back in control.  Counselor-man has suggested that I might actually move somewhere in this whole grief thing if I'd go ahead and just say the angry things more often.  Which I have been able to do.  Some.  A little.  Ok, twice.  Not enough.

Anyway, the point of all of that - writing helps.  If I can't actually say the angry things, maybe writing about them would be a reasonable alternative?  Writing helps me think through things - I can think of several times that I've started blogging, not really knowing why in the world I felt the way I did.  But by the time I finished, I was able to see the 'what's going on behind it' stuff.  Helpful.

So, Diary - you may be seeing more of me.  But that's not why I'm talking to you today.

Later on today, I'm running my 3rd 5k.  I started running at the very beginning of September, and I'm still running.  Which is rather amazing, since I have never been athletic.  Ever.  Ask my parents.  They would wholeheartedly agree.  :-)

This 5k is taking place at night.  The nature of this particular race isn't really 'competitive'.  It's just fun.  *I'll* be competitive.  :-)  I'll have the little running chip, and I'll want to know my time, and I'll have the MapMyRun app running on my phone during the race.  But from what I hear, there are going to be 2500+ participants, and most of them are there for the fun.  Here's the fun part.  :-)

It's called 'The Running of the Balls' (yeah, it is).  Part of the race takes place on a street that is beautifully decorated at Christmas time - Elam Street.  It's gorgeous at night.  I think it'll be kinda fun to run down that street.  :-)

But this time - running this 5k - isn't really so much about the competitiveness.  It's not really about beating my last 5k time.  And it's not really about how pretty the street is at Christmas.

It's about my baby girl.

Throughout my pregnancy with her, I drove Elam St dozens of times.  It was the way I took to get to my doctor's office.  And Elam St is a pretty street anytime - not just at Christmas.  Big beautiful old houses, huge trees, porches - it's just a pretty street.  And I drove that street so many times last summer and early fall.  Before 18 weeks, I remember driving down that street smiling, having just left my doctor's office, and having heard her little heartbeat - which made me so happy.  :-)  After 18 weeks, I remember sitting at a stoplight or two on that street, on my way to an appointment, being anxious about what I was about to hear from the doctor.  I remember leaving appointments, driving down that street, just sobbing - because I'd heard that same beautiful heartbeat, and my heart was just broken that I was going to have to say goodbye to her FAR too soon.

I have memories on that street.  I remember driving down that street with a friend or two who came to an appointment with me.  I remember driving down that street with my mom after my last pre-hospitalization ultrasound.  I remember feeling her kick and squirm.  I have 'Elliana memories' on that street.

So tonight, I'm going to run that street.  Sort of my Christmas thing to do 'with/for/because of her'.  Which sort of doesn't make sense, but... *I* get it.  This race doesn't benefit anything, it's not raising money for a cause - it's just... fun.  And beautiful.  I hope it'll be beautiful not only because of the Christmas lights, but in other ways, too.  It helps to see the beautiful things that have come from her life.  And I think 'me', Ella Belle's mama, now a runner, the person I'm becoming, *might* be one of those things?

Might be.

The Concert

So I've been rather quiet lately, due in part to just being Way. Too. Busy.  But if I'm being honest (and I will be), I've been ignoring my blog.  Don't think I've been ignoring grief - I've been in several situations where I've just had to talk, and think, and work through 'stuff'.  Writing about it seems like more work.  Good work, but difficult.  Therapeutic.  But draining.

My last couple posts have been mostly about fears and anticipation surrounding upcoming 'events'.  I wanted to write about how those events unfolded.

The first event - the concert at our church fall festival about a month ago - almost exactly a month ago, actually.  It was so much fun.  :-)  SO MUCH FUN.  It was also pretty cold since it was outdoors, but it didn't really matter.  It was just fun.  And overall, I thought it went well.  I did *butcher* one Crowder song because the piano keys were kinda sticky (from being outside in the cold), and my fingers were cold and not moving as fast as I was trying to make them.  And I'm always afraid that maybe I just shouldn't sing - especially by myself.  But, other than my usual being-critical-of-myself kinds of things, it really did go well.  I LOVED IT.  And want more of it.  :-)

One of the things I was more keenly aware of that night was my tendency to feel 'reserved'.  Us reformed people can be pretty 'stiff'.  And... reserved.  ;-)  I'm not thinking that I'd like for that to change drastically or anything, but I think my face and posture ought to reflect what's going on in my head and heart.  Something to think on, I guess.

Yes, overall it went really well.  And I loved it.  :-)

I'm not sure how to 'transition' into where I want to go next.  Doesn't feel right to say 'However...'.  Or 'There was only one thing that...'.  Because where I want to go next is not just a 'However' kind of paragraph.  It's so much bigger than that.  So much bigger than just 'There was only one thing...'.  It was a cold splash of reality.  A wave of grief - someone else's as well as my own - that caught me way off guard.

That day, I left Levi's soccer game early so that I could go home and get ready for the concert.  I stopped on the way to pick up a pizza for the kids and our sitter to have for dinner.

When I parked, I read a text from my friend, Maria.  She told me that her Jaxson had died that day.  I think he was born on September 23, and he lived almost a month.

Heart. Broken.

Reading that text - hearing that another sweet baby's life had been entirely to short, and that another mom's deeply aching grief was beginning - it did a number of things.

It made me cry.  Weep.

It pissed me off.

It made me want to throw things.

It made me wonder how in the world I was going to go play and sing that night.

It made me wonder why in the world I was going to go play and sing that night.

It made me not nervous (about the concert) anymore.

It made me play and sing with a little different perspective.

It made me want to play and sing - with Maria in mind.

And then it made me cry some more.  And get angry some more.  *sigh*  It's a vicious cycle.

Maria, I love you.  I wish I could hug you and cry *with* you.


I started writing this morning intending to write about this concert as well as that Saturday morning choir rehearsal.  But I think I need to stop here.

Need To, Want To, But...

It's been almost 2 months since our church transition from GF to MPC.  It's gone really well for the kids - they seem to be enjoying the new routine and new friends.  And Jason has been Super-Daddying every Sunday and Wednesday for 8 solid weeks, taking the kids to their Sunday School classes and the worship service and dinner on Wednesday nights.  He's a pretty good guy.  Think I'll keep him.  ;-)

I, however, am having a really hard time.  MPC is where Elliana's funeral was held, and I have such vivid memories of that day.  I have vivid memories of a lot of things - doctor's appointments, conversations, the pool, walmart, band, my phone, the hospital - so many things.  Going back to some of those places has been ok - after a little while.  All of my doctor's appointments, as well as the hospital, were in another city.  I don't go there often.  I'm at MPC regularly, usually more than once a week.  And when I'm there, the memories just kind of 'happen' all over again.

So at MPC, there's a door I can't walk through (all the front doors, actually), a spot in the parking lot where the hearse was parked, there's the room where the service was held, there's an aisle I can't walk down when anyone else is in that room with me, there's the spot where her casket sat, there's the row of chairs where Jason and I sat with my family, there's the area on the stage where the band played and the spot on the floor where a keyboard was set up for me to play.  It's like an image or series of events that is burned into my memory.

This is what I can do at MPC.  I can go to choir practice on Wednesday nights.  And for a while, I was going to band practices in that room on Wednesday nights.  I can walk into the main building through the side doors or the kitchen door.  I can sit on the bench outside of the adult wing a look at the door I can't walk through and the spot in the parking lot where the hearse was parked.  I can walk down other aisles in that room to get to the front.  I can play the piano in there.  I can stand up at the front of that room and talk with other people about how to arrange the choir and orchestra for the cantata.  I can go to the offices and 'talk business' or 'visit'.  

But I can not go into that room, the one where Elliana's funeral was, the one where weekly Sunday morning worship services are, during an actual service.  Or when there are more than, like, 10-15 people in the room.  I'm good with the band people and the sound guys.  And there are a few other people I'm 'ok' with in that room.  

I don't think it's the people.  Well, it is - but it's not that I don't like the people at MPC, or that I think badly of them at all.  I love them, and I'm pretty sure they love our family.  

I think it's... lots of physical bodies in the room.  During a worship service, lots of people in the room feels a lot like the funeral service.  And on a Sunday morning, there are more people in that room than there were at the funeral - it just feels like too much - too overwhelming.  Any other time when there are lots of people in the room, I think the atmosphere would feel too 'relaxed'.  Too loud.  Too 'fun'.  I think that if I were in that room with a whole bunch of people, it would sort of feel like my heart is screaming, but nobody would be able to hear it.

DOES THAT MAKE SENSE TO ANYONE BUT ME??

I want to be able to go to MPC on a Sunday morning.  I really do.  And I'm trying.  I've taken a couple of steps.  (By the way, my blog usually feels like 'insight into the crazy lady's mind'.  And this post is definitely par for the course.)  One Sunday, I rode in the van with Jason and the kids to MPC.  I never got out, but I made it to the parking lot.  Another Sunday, I drove over to MPC after the worship service had already begun.  I knew that it was unlikely anyone would be wandering around outside, so I went and sat on the bench outside the adult wing for a little while.  I was ok on the bench.  And then I went in through the kitchen door and up to the sound booth during a little bit of the sermon.  I was not ok in the sound booth.  I really thought I was ready to do that - to be in the room for a short time during a service.  But it was significantly harder than I thought it would be.

This past Wednesday night, I had to go into that room to talk through stage arrangements for the cantata.  And I remember thinking, 'Why does everybody seem to feel like this is... urgent?  Why do we need to decide this tonight?'

And then it dawned on me.  

'Because the cantata is only a little over a month away.'

My sense of time is a little whacked sometimes.

The realization that in one month, I need to be able to stand in that room, during a service, with a whole bunch of people in it, and direct a whole bunch of musicians made me almost panic.  I still can't go on a Sunday morning, and being able to do that feels like a long way off.  I'm going to try to play one song on the 10th (I think) during a service, and I really want to be able to do that, but it is work - it takes energy - and it is emotionally draining - to think about being able to do that.

There's a choir rehearsal in that room on Saturday morning.  I'm not sure what that's going to be like. Maybe it will be fine.  Maybe it won't.  Maybe I'll be in my bossy music zone (I do like to be in charge. (-:  ).  Or maybe I'll fall apart at some point.  And if I do, I know it'll be ok - the choir is a sweet group of people.  I just don't want to fall apart.  Not in front of a crowd.

I need to be able to do this - to get through rehearsal tomorrow, and to participate in the cantata services in December.  And I want to.  I hesitate to admit this in such a public place - I have no idea how many of the people involved in this Christmas thing read my blog, and I'm afraid for them to... ???

What am I afraid of?  It's taking me a minute to figure this out.

I think I'm afraid for them to see my weakness. 

But here it is...

I need to be able to do this Christmas cantata, and I want to.  But right now, I don't see how in the world that's going to happen. 

A Song

This is the most excited I've been in a loooooong time.

MPC's fall festival is tomorrow, and there is a post-event concert (and bonfire? - I don't even know.  I should, but all I've been thinking about is the concert.) at 5:30.

And I get to play.  :-)  :-)  :-)  :-)  :-) 

So tomorrow evening is the fall festival concert.  (I'm about to ramble.  Don't think I've ever 'rambled' on my blog.)  It'll be on a stage outside, and the sound system is supposed to be really good, and we've been practicing an awesome line-up of music, and we have acoustic, electric, bass, drums, piano :-), a little banjo here and there, and... I could go on and on.

I am so excited.  Almost embarrassed at how excited I am.

I've been thinking this morning about my life's purpose.  I know (and believe) from the Westminster Shorter Catechism the answer to the question 'What is the chief end of man?' Answer: To glorify God and enjoy Him forever.

So what's my purpose?  Me - wife to Jason, mom to Elijah, Levi, Missy, Seth, Elliana, and 4 little glories I've never held.  Me - this girl who now runs at least a couple miles at least every other day, has a part-time job, likes jewelry & pretty purses, and spends time at a cemetery.

I think I have a few purposes.  Wife and mom are 'givens' - I'm here to love and take care of my family.  Happy to do those things, by the way.  :-)

But I think - and I don't know why I'm so hesitant to say this with certainty - that doing what I'm doing tomorrow night at 5:30 might be one of my 'this is why I'm a human being on this planet' purposes.  Playing, singing, communicating through music and song.

I think that this is what I was made to do.

I think I was made to help lead worship.  As Louie Giglio puts it, 'leading people to an encounter with Jesus'.  I think I was born for this.

I absolutely love it.

It feels somewhat contradictory - hypocritical, even - that what I absolutely love to do is to help lead people in worshiping the very God that numbered my daughter's days.  The God that I'm still pretty angry with.  How is it possible to enjoy leading worship so much and at the same time want to take a sledgehammer to the communion table that sometimes sits in the same spot as her casket did?

(Did I just say that out loud?)

I am not thankful that Elliana had such a broken little body or that she died.  Those things are not good. They are awful.  They're a result of the curse, and I SHOULDN'T like them, and I SHOULD grieve the fact that she's not here with me.  This ISN'T the way it's supposed to be.

But I do know that my Father will take the horribleness and the awfulness, and somehow, He will redeem it (tears).  What has happened is not beautiful.  But I think that today, I can see a little bit of beauty somewhere.  Can't describe it very well.  The concert tomorrow night might describe it better.

A song can rise from the ashes of a broken life.  Even if I don't actively, wholehearted, enthusiastically believe all the truth in the song, at least for today, there is a song.  A whole bunch of them actually.  And I can't wait to sing them.  :-)

I've read through this several times, and I still don't feel great about hitting 'publish'.  But I'm gonna.  Because this INSANE worship leader/grieving mom is so excited about tomorrow night.

The Day She Died, The Last Time I Held Her

I'd had c-sections with both Levi and Seth (only times in my life I wished that I had bigger hips), and my experience had been that 12-24 hours after the surgery, the nurses want you to get out of bed, start moving around, and take a trip to the bathroom.  It's miserable and hard and painful.  But... you hear the sweet little squeaks and cries of the newborn behind you in his daddy's arms, and it's totally worth the misery and pain.  :-)

The day she died, I hadn't been out of a bed since about 9 or 9:30pm on her birthday - the last time I threw the monitor cords over my shoulder and waddled to the bathroom.  And that day, October 6, nobody was making me get out of bed.  My nurse didn't say anything about it.  I remember her using the phrase 'special circumstances' in reference to how long they were waiting to get me to move around.

So I laid in the bed with Elliana on my chest the first half of the day, into the early hours of the afternoon.  Jason held her some.  I tried to share.  :-)  

I couldn't see her face well when she was laying on me.  I could see her little blond head, and I could pick up her hand with my finger and look at her tiny little fingers, but I couldn't see her face.  I don't think I realized that until I moved her as we got ready to put her in the bassinet and let the nurses keep her when Elijah came.  I remember that Jason left the room to go get the bassinet.  That's when I pushed the button to raise the head of my bed.  I moved her from my chest to my lap.

She was so cold.  And so limp.

I remember that as I moved her to my lap and could see her face, the ache just got deeper, and there were more tears.  Aching because I never got to see her eyes open.  Aching because I wanted to see her eyes open.  I wanted the nightmare to stop and for my little girl to just wake up.

And aching because I knew that she wasn't going to wake up.  I remember seeing how her color had changed even more.  Her skin was darker.  The extra fold of skin on her upper lip looked different.  

I remember seeing Elliana and whispering to her, and bringing her close to my face so I could kiss her forehead.  And wishing that I could just make her warm again.  Longing to do something to make her warm again.

Seeing her and seeing how her appearance had changed - I felt like I could finally decide on a time for Funeral Home Man to come.  

6:30pm.  Jason and I decided that he could come at 6:30.

After family left that afternoon, we had a couple more hours with her.  We just held her.  I stroked her hair with my finger - a lot.  

Why didn't I think to ask them to cut a lock of it for me?

**BASEBALL BATS AND WINE BOTTLES**

I remember looking at the clock several times.  Dreading 6:30.

Funeral Home Man arrived at 6:37 carrying a basket lined with blankets.

I don't think there's any way to describe that last moment holding her, and then handing her to Jason.  And I don't think I can describe what it was like watching Jason put her in the basket, making sure she was snuggled carefully and tucked in.

Pain.  It was just pain.  

It's still pain. 

I remember asking if I could see her one more time.  I just wanted to look at her once more, and touch her one more time. 

And then she was gone.  

And I was stuck in a hospital bed, sobbing, not being able to comprehend what had just happened or imagine how I was going to survive.

One more time.  I just wanted to hold her again.

I know I will hold her again.  And it won't just be once more.  It'll be for eternity.  

But I miss holding her now.

The Day She Died, Part 2

Soon after 2:15am, the nurse who'd been with me all night washed Elliana's hair and put her in one of the infant gowns we'd brought to the hospital.  We wrapped her up in the blanket Beth had given her on the day we got the 'it's a girl' news.  And we put the hat on her that Beth's 8-year-old daughter had knitted, just for Elliana.

Everyone talked so quietly.  Everyone whispered.  After 2:15, everyone whispered.

One of my sisters arrived shortly after 2:15.  She got to hold Elliana for a little while.  And cry with me.

Then everyone left, and it was dark and quiet.

They told us that we could keep Elliana with us as long as we wanted to.  They said that even if we sent her to the morgue, we could get her back if we wanted to.

Was this really happening? 

Jason and I tried to sleep.  Elliana laid on my chest.

I kept dozing off, but I couldn't fall into a deep sleep.  I kept waking up, startled.  It felt like I couldn't breathe.  I wanted to sleep so badly.  I was so tired.  But it almost felt like every time I fell asleep, I stopped breathing.

I called the nurse once - sometime in the very early hours of the morning - to tell her that I couldn't sleep, and I was so tired.  I don't remember what she said.  But it didn't help, anyway.

I do remember that a couple hours later, the nurse came in and put an oxygen mask on my face.  I remember her saying that every time I fell asleep, my oxygen was dropping.

Part of me wanted to scream, 'WASN'T I JUST TELLING YOU THAT?'  And part of me just didn't care.  I wore the oxygen mask.

Maybe I was just waiting for Elliana to move?  When you have a newborn sleeping on or beside you, you just 'know' that the baby is there - even when you're asleep.  And when they move or squirm, it's like a signal that they're ready to nurse.  I knew she was gone.  But maybe having her there with me - feeling her weight on my chest - maybe I just couldn't fall asleep, or even breathe, because I was 'waiting' for her to move?

Sometime on that Saturday morning, some friends came to see us.  I remember that the room was so dark.  It was dark outside - so cloudy.  I remember S coming and sitting beside me.  I remember K talking with Jason.

Then more quiet.  More silence.  No baby crying.

Every time the nurse came in, she spoke so quietly.

Jason and I tried to talk about when to have Funeral Home Man come.  But I couldn't pick a time.  I couldn't decide when to hand my baby over to a strange man and never hold her again.

I think sometime later in the morning, I knew that more family was coming.  We knew that they were going to bring Elijah.  We weren't sure if it was a good idea for Elijah to see Elliana or not.  Her color was so... not alive.  We didn't know if it would 'help' Elijah to see his little sister like that.  So we thought we'd let him decide.

Shortly before family arrived, the nurse took Elliana in her bassinet (which she may have only laid in that one time) out to the nurse's station - just for the period of time that Elijah and other family members came.

We just weren't sure.  Would it be 'good' for Elijah to see and have the opportunity to hold his dead sister?  Would family members want to see and/or hold a dead baby?  It was so awful, and so morbid, to think about.

But... it was awful.  And it was morbid.  And we had to think about it.

Elijah came in first by himself.  He brought several of Elliana's things - things that had been gifts for her.  A blanket, a little elephant with a purple ribbon on its ear.  He asked where Elliana was and we explained.  We asked if he'd like to see her or hold her.  He said he'd rather not.  And that was ok - I did NOT want to pressure my 10-year-old to do something he wasn't comfortable with.

My brother and sister-in-law came in.  They did want to see her and hold her.  I was glad for that.  :-)  And I was so comforted by their tears - which just sounds weird.

And then my sisters came in.  And they wanted to see her and hold her.  And they cried with me.  I think they started asking me about what we wanted her to be buried in.  Or maybe that was Sunday.  I can't remember which day.  They did go shopping - it must have been Saturday when they tried to find an outfit for her.

We were talking about what to bury her in.  New mommies and daddies don't do that.  Aunties don't do that.

Think this post will have to be in three parts.

The Day She Died

I've been hesitant to write about this day.  Publicly, anyway.  It was a dark day - emotionally, mentally, physically - even outside, it was a dark, cloudy day.

Not that 'dark' is really anything new here on my blog.  ;-)  But that day, October 6, 2012, was particularly dark.

She was born at 10:56pm Friday night, October 5.  All efforts to revive her stopped around 11:20pm.  I didn't know it at the time, but as soon as the 'cease efforts' decision was made, my doctor sent someone to get our photographer, Beth.  We'd been told that no one would be allowed in the OR.  But my doctor gave us a beautiful gift - pictures of our first few minutes with Elliana.

I don't know exactly what time surgery was over.  I do know that the end of that surgery was really hard - physically.  I think we left the OR sometime around midnight.  As I was being wheeled out into recovery, Jason carried Elliana.  I couldn't see them for a minute, and I panicked.  Everyone was quick to reassure me that Jason was holding her, and that they were right behind me.

I don't think I got to see my mom hold Elliana for the first time.  But I have pictures of that moment.

I am so thankful for the pictures.

**I don't like telling this like a 'story'.  I don't know why.  I just don't.  So... I think I just need to write what I remember.

I remember what she felt like laying on my chest.

I remember Beth taking pictures - she was so discreet.  But I knew she was there.

I remember Jeremy and Gina standing beside the bed.

I remember wanting Gina and Beth to hold her.  It was so important to me that other people got to hold her.  See her.  Feel her weight.  Because up until that night, I had been the only one who had ever 'held' her, so to speak, in utero.

I remember such heaviness - in my heart, on my chest, on Jason's face.

I remember my mom asking Jeremy if he would pray as Elliana went from her brief life here into eternity.

And I remember Jeremy praying.

I remember the nurse coming over and listening to Elliana's heart - checking to see if she still had a heartbeat.

I remember that my dad and one of my sisters were on their way.  I remember that my dad was going to get to the hospital around 2am.

Around 1:30am, the nurse came over to me, indicating that she wanted to listen to Elliana's heart again. I asked if she would please wait until after my dad got there - because I wanted him to hold her before she was gone.

I don't remember getting from recovery to my room.  I don't remember where Elliana was - if she was still with me, or if Jason carried her.

I do remember that when we got to the room, I thought:  This is not where the new mommies go.  This isn't right.  This isn't the hall for new mommies. 

I remember nurses trying to get me settled.  And all I wanted to do was just be with my baby.

I remember my dad arriving.  He held Elliana.  And I have sweet pictures of that, too.

This is my favorite one of my parents - 'Mimi' and 'Granddaddy' - with their 14th grandchild.  :-)

And after my dad held her for a few minutes, I remember him giving her back to us.  

And I remember looking at the nurse with tears in my eyes, and telling her that if she needed to listen to Elliana's heart again, it was ok for her to do it.

She listened.  Then she looked at me.  Then she looked at the clock.  It was 2:15am. 

Think I might need to finish this post tomorrow.  Can't do anymore tonight.

The Day She was Born

The first half of that day had been somewhat normal.  Well, the 'normal-while-I'm-in-the-hospital' kind of normal.  Drop-ins from the nurses, Elliana's heartbeat in the background, visiting with friends.  All was well.  I had finally resigned myself to being in the hospital until 34 weeks, which was only 2 weeks and 2 days away.  I wasn't excited about it, but I knew it was necessary.  And I was OK with it.

I hadn't slept well the night before.  I'd been awake for at least a couple hours.  I remember giving up on trying to go back to sleep and just watching the last couple episodes of Downton Abbey, Season 1.  So after a morning full of visitors, nurses, and vitals, I think I fell asleep.  Around lunchtime - I fell asleep for a little while.

The day before (Thursday, October 4) one of my new friends (my favorite ultrasound tech, 'A'), came up to ask me when I'd like to have my ultrasound on Friday.  She gave me two options - first thing in the morning with some other tech, or 2:00 in the afternoon with her and the leftovers from their Breast Cancer Awareness bake sale.  It was kind of a no-brainer.  I picked 2:00 with her and the goodies.  :-)

Shortly before 2 on Friday, my nurse came and unplugged me from the monitors, put me in a wheelchair, and wheeled me to what would be my final ultrasound.  Had I known what would happen later in the day, I would have asked my morning visitors to stay and watch Elliana's last 'dance recital' - a phrase coined by my dad.

The ultrasound showed increased amniotic fluid - she had quite the swimming pool in there.  A friend came during the ultrasound, and she ooh'ed and aah'ed over my little girl, making me quite the proud mama.  When the doctor came in, I asked her one of my most difficult questions - would she please help me be able to picture what her lip was going to look like?  I didn't want to be shocked when I saw her for the first time.  The doctor explained as best she could.

My friend had brought chips, salsa and cheese dip to share with me.  Once back in my room, I asked my nurse if I could be free from the chains of the monitors for just a little longer so I could enjoy my chips from the couch instead of the bed.  She agreed. 

Now I wonder if... well, there are so many 'maybe I should have's.' 

The nurse finally 'nudged' me back into bed and hooked me up to the monitors.  I remember hearing Elliana's heartbeat in the background.  I can't remember at what point my friend left, but I do remember that once things got scary, I was alone.  I think it was around 4:30.  I remember the nurses coming in with their all-business faces on and studying the screen carefully.  I remember them telling me to roll over to one side to see if that made Elliana happier. 

After her heart rate dropped 4 or 5 times within a 45-minute period, they called the doctor.  The doctor came rather quickly (which, in itself, was scary), and started talking about how we may need to go ahead and deliver her.  I remember her saying that there was really not much they could do for her while she was still 'in', but there was a lot they could do for her once she was 'out'.  And if she was struggling, she would be better off being delivered. 

By that point, I was an absolute mess.  The nurses made phone calls for me - I was afraid if I tried to talk to Jason on the phone, I would cry through the entire conversation and really freak him out.  But I might as well have called him - he was so panicked when he arrived, afraid they were taking me to surgery at that very moment and that he was going to miss her birth. 

But things had calmed down by the time he and my mom arrived.  Elliana's heart rate had been steady for a good while - probably an hour.  I began to think... Things might be ok now.  Maybe we just had a little scare.  She's going to be fine.

Jeremy and Gina came by.  Beth came with her camera, since we'd had the scare a little earlier.  We spent the next couple of hours together, watching the monitor and trying to distract each other with conversation.  I think Jeremy and Gina left for a little while - they were celebrating their anniversary.  The nursing shift changed, and I was NOT happy about that.  My two favorite nurse/friends were going to be off for the weekend, and I didn't know the nurse who was taking over. 

Alarm bells went off sort of subconsciously in my head when my nurse/friend handed the baton to the night shift nurse and said to me, 'You are her only patient tonight.  Her only job tonight is watching you and the baby.'  That brought me comfort.  But it scared the hell out of me, too.

I can't remember exact times, and as vivid as so many of my memories are, I'm afraid that I remember things wrong.  But as best I recall...

At about 9 or 9:30, these were the people in my room:  Jason, my mom, Jeremy & Gina, and Beth.  The night-shift nurse had been in a couple times to check on me and Elliana.  But the last time I remember her walking into the room, she *walked* into the room.  She went straight for the oxygen mask above my head, tore the plastic off, and put it on my face.  She said Elliana's heart rate had dipped and stayed down for about 90 seconds.

They paged the on-call doctor.  The on-call doctor came and talked with us about going ahead with a delivery.  Elliana was in distress, and she needed help.

I wasn't ready.  I. Was. Not. Ready.  Yes, we'd known for months that she probably wouldn't survive.  Yes, I'd spent hours in front of an ultrasound screen looking at a 'broken' baby, hearing the same 'poor prognosis' over and over again.  But I wasn't ready.  I wasn't ready for her to come that night.

I remember saying a temporary goodbye to my mom, Beth, Jeremy, and Gina.  I knew I'd see them after my surgery - and I hoped it would be under very hopeful circumstances - with a baby in the NICU.

I remember the nurses wheeling my bed down the hall.  I remember going down the Labor & Delivery hallway, hearing another mom in labor.

I remember the big double doors swinging open.  It was quiet.  It was late on a Friday night, so there weren't many people around.  I remember Jason not being with me.  He was getting 'gowned up'.  I remember seeing compassionate looks on everyone's faces.

I remember being wheeled into the OR.  I *think* it was the same OR that Seth had been delivered in.  :-)

I remember the anesthesiologist talking to me.  She was so friendly.  So kind.  So reassuring.

I remember the flurry of activity.  The movement around the room.

I remember the anesthesiologist telling me about the drugs she was going to give me.  I remember telling her that I wanted to be completely alert the entire time.  I remember telling her that I didn't want her to give me anything that would make me drowsy.

I *don't* remember the spinal.  Or maybe I remember bits and pieces.  It's strange.

I remember Jason coming into the room in his cap and gown.  I remember him sitting beside me.  Close to my head.

I remember the drape in front of me - I couldn't see my tummy anymore.

I remember the doctor coming in.  And one of the nurse-midwives who was there to assist.  I remember the doctor doing lots of 'testing' on my tummy.  Poking in different places, asking if I could feel pain or pressure.  I remember it taking a while before I didn't feel pain anymore.

I remember shivering.  I couldn't stop.  I think I remember that it had to do with the anesthesia.  I couldn't stop shivering.  And I really wanted to stop shivering.

I remember the doctor starting the surgery.  I could feel a lot.  A whole lot more than I had during my 2 previous c-sections.  I didn't feel pain, but I felt a lot.  I'm not sure if that was because I'd asked for 'less' drugs, or if it was just this particular experience.  Or maybe I was just more acutely aware.  I don't know.

I remember the moment she was born.  10:56pm on October 5, 2012.  I remember the anesthesiologist telling me (rather excitedly) that she had SO MUCH blond hair.

I remember Jason saying something like, 'Did you hear that?  I heard her cry.'

I remember that I didn't hear her cry.

I remember Jason walking over to where she was.  He didn't stay there long.  I think the doctor asked him to step away for a little while so they could work on her.

I remember Jason coming back over to where I was and showing me a picture that he had taken of her. That picture of her - that one - is the only memory I have of her looking strong.

I remember waiting.  And waiting.

And then, I remember the NICU doctor coming over to us and telling us what she'd tried.  And how it wasn't working.

I remember asking her to please try one more time.  I remember starting to panic.  I remember crying.  I remember praying.

And then, I remember a brief moment of relief - when the doctor told us that she'd been able to intubate Elliana.  But the relief only lasted a second.  I remember the doctor telling us that even after getting the tube down, Elliana's heart rate kept dropping.

I remember her saying that she felt like she'd done everything she could.  She said that the next step would be CPR, and she really believed that Elliana's suffering would only be prolonged if she continued her efforts.

I remember crying and nodding my head to indicate that it was ok for the doctor to cease her efforts to revive Elliana.

I remember the doctor asking us if we'd like to hold Elliana.

I remember Jason bringing her over to me.  Seeing her face for the first time.  Seeing all of her beautiful hair.  I fell more deeply in love with her.

I remember them unwrapping her and laying her, skin to skin, on my chest.  It wasn't until a couple of days later that a nurse told me this:  as soon as they laid her down on me, she pinked up.

But I couldn't see her.  I wanted to see her.  So I tried to move her so that she was more on my shoulder.  And now I wonder... I hate wondering... should I have let her stay on my chest longer?  Would she have been warmer for longer?

I remember hearing her try to take a breath.

I am so thankful to have heard her take a few breaths.

And I am so thankful that I got to kiss that sweet little head, and feel her hair under my fingers, and gaze upon her little face - 'broken' lip and all.

Maria and Jaxon

My friend had her baby.  And, 10 days later, he’s still breathing.  :-)

My friend, Maria, has so sweetly given me permission to write about her and her baby boy, Jaxon.

I’ve written about how Jaxon was given a poor prognosis before he was born.  What I haven’t said is that he was diagnosed with Tetrasomy 9p.  The same genetic disorder that my Elliana had.

Maria had her c-section on Monday, September 23.  And Jaxon was born alive.  Breathing on his own.  Not in distress.

He lived.

I’m not sure how long they were in the hospital, but I know that they’re home now.  I think the doctors sent him home expecting that he won’t live for very long.  So my friend, Maria, is mommying him for as long as she has him.

And I hope that that’s very long time. 

Maria and I talked on the phone for a little while last night.  I wish we lived closer.  I wish I could meet this new mom and this little boy.  I wish I could hug them both.

But oh, this just hurts so much.  I do love this little boy, Jaxon, so dearly.  I’ve never met him, but he has a connection to my little girl.  And I want him to survive.  I want him to live. 

And at the same time, I miss my little girl so much.  SO. MUCH.

Please pray for this little boy as you think of him.  I don't want his mom to have to say goodbye to him.

Tomorrow is Elliana's first birthday.  I’ve been trying to think of what to do on her birthday.  I’ve wanted to do something special with the kids.  Levi, in particular, is excited about Elliana’s birthday.  He wants to send her some balloons.  He also wants to send some cake with the balloons.  Not sure how we’re going to manage that one, but we’re definitely gonna try.  :-)

I’ve also wanted to do something meaningful on her birthday.  Something significant.  And I think I finally know what I want to do.

Elliana was born with a broken body.  She died because we live in a fallen world.  A world where there is sickness and brokenness… and death.  I’d like to do something tomorrow to love someone else who is suffering and hurting because of this broken and fallen world.

I think of parents of NICU babies – babies who are sick or ‘broken’.  Babies who may not survive.  And I really want to do something to love one or two of those parents.

So tomorrow, I think Jason and I will do a little shopping.  We’ll put together one or two gift bags for parents of NICU babies in honor of our baby girl’s birthday.  And then we’ll take them to one of the hospitals.  Maybe we'll offer to go and pick up some lunch for these parents.  Not sure if I can do the hospital that Elliana was born in.  Maybe.  If I can’t, we can go to a neighboring town’s NICU.

I know that what these parents really want is for their baby to be healthy.  To live.  I wish I could give them that.  But since I can't, maybe we can meet some of their physical needs?  And love them at the same time?  

That's what I hope to do, anyway.

If you have any suggestions for things to put into a gift bag for parents of NICU babies, feel free to comment below.

I know several people out there love my little girl.  If you’d like to do something to celebrate my baby girl’s first birthday, just go love someone who’s hurting.  Widows, orphans, the poor, the suffering.  Just go and love someone.

At this time one year ago, she was still alive.  She was kicking, and hiccupping, and objecting to monitors.  She and I were together in a hospital bed, entertaining visitors, watching Downton Abbey, and making frequent trips to the bathroom, thanks to all of her dance moves on my bladder.    Her heartbeat was strong.  She was squirming and… living.

October 3

I'm confused.  My memories are so vivid - so specific to days of the week.  Today is Thursday.  *This* Thursday, one year ago, was the night before she was born.  But today is October 3 - which was Wednesday last year.  I still had 48 more hours with her on October 3, 2012.  

You'd think this wouldn't really be a big deal.  But it is.

I think I'll focus on October 3.  Or try to, anyway.

I had an ultrasound on October 3 last year.  It was the first time we got really good 3D pics of Elliana's face.  I can't remember who did my ultrasound that day.  I remember who did it on Monday, October 1 - some girl I'd never met, who didn't know anything about us, who kept asking questions as if we had no clue that there was something wrong with our little girl.  

And I remember who did my ultrasound on Friday, October 5 - the day she was born.  My favorite tech, 'A'.  :-)

But I don't remember who did the ultrasound on Wednesday, October 3.  

I do remember getting lots of ultrasound pictures that day.  :-)

I remember that I finally discovered a sandwich that I liked from the hospital cafeteria.  And I remember the tree outside my window.  I remember watching an episode from season 1 of Downton Abbey.  I remember the nighttime nurse not being nearly as friendly as the daytime nurse (except Ruthe).  I remember chocolate chip pumpkin muffins and peppermint mochas.

I remember what her heartbeat sounded like.

I remember the routine - unplugging 3 monitor cords so I could go to the bathroom.  Throwing the cords over my shoulder, walking to the bathroom (well, waddling to the bathroom), having contractions, walking back to bed, plugging all the cords back in.  Hearing her heartbeat.  Hearing her move.  

She was an active little thing.

And she hated the monitors.  :-)

I remember the visitors I had that night, October 3. 

I remember them taking me on a 'walk' (in a wheelchair) just outside the hospital.  Because I hadn't been outside the hospital in a couple days.

Did I sleep much that night?  I don't remember.

This girl.  This baby girl.  My Elliana.  A friend reminded me recently that she lived.  She breathed.  She thrived when she was connected to me.  Right up until the end.  Which came all too quickly.  

Thanks to some very sweet friends, I have some beautiful yellow flowers sitting on my kitchen counter.  

She had the most beautiful golden hair I have ever seen on a newborn baby. 

Elliana Belle.  Belle means beauty.  She was so beautiful.