Three Years

Today marks the three year anniversary of Donna Rose's death and birth. Some of the details fade, but some remain so clear in my mind. I remember walking down the stairs the evening before and telling Ben that our plans for the evening were changing, that I needed to go to the hospital rather than bible study. I remember how worried the ultrasound tech seemed, even though I wasn't shown the ultrasound until after the doctor arrived. I remember how truly AWFUL it seemed to me that the hospital would offer to "terminate" my baby. And that was a decision I was given, not once but twice. I remember how difficult it was for me when I had been flown down to Denver and Ben was still on the road, how the doctors wanted me to make life and death decisions and I wanted to talk to Ben, but couldn't reach him because I didn't know his phone number and he had MY phone and wasn't answering it. I remember picking the option with the best mathematical odds. I remember the doctor telling me that if I went into labor, they wouldn't do anything to stop it. I remember calling my parents and hearing my mother's voice for the first time since I told my dad that I was pregnant. I remember the awful peace I had when I knew that I was having contractions and that my baby was not going to live beyond the day. I remember feeling so helpless and being so grateful for the pain because it was easier to deal with the physical hurt than the emotional hurt of losing my little girl. I remember someone telling me they could see my little girl kick as she was being born (she was breach) though I don't remember who. I remember being told she was stillborn because her heart wasn't beating and I would never get to hold her in my arms while she was alive. I remember the wonderful nurse (I wish I knew her name) who took pictures of Donna Rose for Ben and me so that we would always have precious memories.  She posed Donna Rose so that she looked like she was sleeping. I remember getting a call from Medicaid telling me that I had finally been approved, and having to tell them that I was losing the baby. I remember holding Donna Rose for the last time, how cold she was. I remember going to the funeral home and how compassionate the gentleman was when we explained our situation. I remember Ben making the decision to have our daughter cremated. I hated the idea of having my daughter burnt and knowing that I could never hold her again, but we couldn't stand the thought of leaving her behind if we moved. There are so many other memories, but I will save them for another time. Happy Angelversary, my dear daughter! Daddy and I miss you very much.

Once more

My Dear Daughter,

Here we are coming up on the second anniversary of your birth and death. It's still very painful for your daddy and me. Two years ago today, I went into the ER in Greeley, a little bit worried because of spotting, but never dreaming that it could mean your death. I remember the worried looks from the nurses and doctors. I remember the cold helicopter ride to Denver. And I remember the pain of everything that happened the next day there. In a couple of years, we will have to explain to your little brother why October 28 is such a special day. I remember so many things about that day clearly. I remember talking to your Grandma Donna on the phone. I remember the sheer exhaustion from being up all night. I remember the pain and the mental numbness of that night. I remember the sense of dread, knowing that I wouldn't get to take my baby home with me. I remember holding you for the first time and how very tiny you were. I remember marveling over how perfectly formed you were. I remember your body heaving in my hands as though you were trying to breathe, but the doctors said your heart had stopped before you were born. I remember dressing you in the little clothes they gave us and wrapping you in the blanket someone had made for you. What a blessing to us was the care that someone took to make clothes and blankets for an angel they would never meet. I remember crying with your daddy. I remember talking to your Aunt Miranda on the phone and the heartbreak in her voice when I told her you wouldn't make it. I remember feeling like I had to comfort her because she sounded so much sadder than I did, but the finality of your death hadn't hit yet. And I remember talking to your Aunt Beth, though I don't remember what she had to say.

I think your daddy and I are learning to live around our grief pretty well. Fewer things make us sad and we can rejoice in the miracle of your short life now. However, we miss you deeply and your absence causes us both a deep pain. As long as we live, you will never be forgotten.

Love always,

Mommy

You Made Death Beautiful

I saw an evil looking hag,
Cackling over what she brewed.
Poison, I felt so sure, she made.
Evil was in all she strewed
But when you crossed the dark threshold
You softened my harshest view
The crone looked more like dear grandma
Lovely and inviting too.
The once dark doorway now holds light
A candle flame burning bright

I saw a reaper, dark and grim
Striding down the avenue
Spreading dark shadows in his wake
Fear and panic were his crew
But when you took him by the hand
You softened my harshest view
For he appeared a wizened man
With love, care, and hope to strew 
The once dark doorway now holds light
A candle flame burning bright

I saw Death to be the ending
Of the life I thought I knew
A precipice, a deep ravine
Terrifying to go through
But when you set out on that path
You softened my harshest view
For Death became the door that lead
To a reunion with you
The once dark doorway now holds light
A candle flame burning bright

Dear Donna Rose

My dearest Donna Rose,

Oh how I miss you. It hardly seems possible that it has been more than a year since I carried you inside me. Now, with your little brother or sister living there, I am reminded of what it was like to have you inside me, to feel you move.

I picked up my copy of "Oh Baby, the places you'll go!" yesterday to read to your sibling. I remember reading it to you with so much love. I had no idea the place you would go included heaven and that the wonderful friends you would meet would not include your daddy and me. I wept through the last pages.

I find that I can't sing to your sibling without a tremor in my voice because I remember the songs I sang to you. Your song was "Lida Rose" from The Music Man, but I always sang it as Donna Rose. That used to be one of my favorite movies, but now I can't watch it without crying.

My life is very different from what it was before you came. There are some very good changes, but also some things that I wish weren't so. I'm so glad I have your daddy. He's the very best part of my life. Your grandpa and grandma (my mommy and daddy) are so good to us too and you have lots of loving aunts and uncles who are sad they never got to meet you.

I'm a lot more fearful than I used to be. When I carried you, I didn't worry very much about the aches and pains. My body was changing for the first time. It was stretching to fit you inside. I worried about school, I worried about the future, but I never worried about you until the day we lost you. With your brother/sister, every ache scares me. Every pain screams "you could lose this baby too!" I am not so innocent anymore. It bothers me to see clueless, happy pregnant women. I want to warn them that you're never safe from losing your baby. Sometimes I really have to bite my tongue. I'm getting better at that, though. People get very offended if you suggest that pregnancy isn't just a walk in the park and a joyful thing.

I am hoping that I continue to grow this year. I hope it gets easier to be joyful and less easy to be terrified. I am hoping that your brother/sister will grow to full term and have a chance to live outside my womb. I still have so much growing to do.

I love you, Donna Rose. I wish I could watch you grow and live.

Love,

Mommy

Poems for Donna Rose

For Her

She tosses through the night in broken sleep

No comfort does she find, no sweet repose

There is no help for her in counting sheep

For she can only dream of Donna Rose

The emptiness consumes her as she weeps

Her troubled mind is full of all her woes

Her broken heart a steady rhythm keeps

In honor of her darling Donna Rose

No sound she makes, no whisper, not a peep

Her silent tears she struggles to compose

Her memory, a jumbled, painful heap

And full of only thoughts of Donna Rose

She's overwhelmed for she did not suppose

That she could ever lose her Donna Rose.

December 12, 2010

Death reared his ugly head and looked me in the eye.

"The thing you cherish most is mine. It is no use to try.

I've come to steal your joy. I've come to dim your light.

I've come to magnify your pain and fill your soul with fright."

He took from me what I regarded as most dear

He pierced my soul clear through with his most cruel spear

He bruised my weakened heel and battered me about

He grasped my faith candle and tried to blow it out.

But with each breath he spent, the flame grew ever higher

In trying to dim my faith, he wrestled my messiah

Though I had little strength, he could not overcome

For God became my rock, my shelter and my home.

And Height and depth and death are powerless when faced

With God, his all surpassing love, his mercy and his grace

Donna Rose

Darling child, my precious little rose

Once I held you close within my womb

Now, my Lord has drawn you ever close

Never once were you allowed to bloom

Always to be claimed by death's repose

Restless here, I long to see my babe

Observe your life as you mature and grow

See your tiny hands, your precious face

Embrace you, love you, never let you go

Grief

Grief is a strange creature. It comes and goes as it pleases, seemingly more heightened in the face of friends' joy. It pricks you when you want to be happy for someone else, reminding you of all that could have been.

A friend who is expecting a baby at about the time that Donna Rose should have been born posted ultrasound pictures of his little girl and I just bawled. I would be doubly sad if he and his wife lost their little girl the way I lost mine. So, why does it pain me to hear his marvelous news? Why can I not share in the joy that new life brings?

Maybe it's because my little girl would have been three weeks old today if she had lived. Three weeks ago, I was asking them to give me an epidural because the physical pain was so great. I was tired, I was dizzy from the other medication they'd given to dull the pain, and I was grieving, knowing that my beautiful baby wasn't going to make it.

There is no epidural for grief.

Goldilocks and the Three Bears

In my hometown, there is a free theme park for kids called Storybook Land. Storybook Land has all sorts of things for kids to do. It’s a wonderful place. Everything there is based off of nursery rhymes, fables, and fairy tales. One of the exhibits illustrates the story of Goldilocks and the three bears. There’s something funny about the exhibit though. Laying in a small bed is a little blond girl. Standing over her in shock are Mama Bear and Papa Bear, but Baby Bear is nowhere to be seen.

Perhaps the bear family is like my own. When I learned I was pregnant, Ben was extremely delighted, immediately calling friends to tell them he was going to be a daddy. I was a little more nervous, knowing that my parents would be disappointed that I’d chosen to start my family outside the bans of marriage. Ben immediately decided that we were the three bears. He was Papa Bear, I was Mama Bear, and our little one was our little cub, our little baby bear. “Cubby” became our nickname for our little one.

My pregnancy seemed very normal. For the first three months, I felt ill every day. I had to adjust my diet both for nutritional reasons and to keep food down. Month four hit, and the illness magically stopped. We were thrilled, we’d hit the golden period of pregnancy and we would soon be able to see our beautiful baby. We entered week 19 and I went in for my ultrasound. They told us she was a girl and we were thrilled. She was beautiful and everything was perfect.

And then in week 21, for unknown reasons, I gave birth and delivered our daughter. She was beautiful and tiny, and the doctors said, when I went into labor, that she could not live outside my womb. Ben and I held our lifeless little girl as long as we could. So now, the bear house is a lot like the one in Storybook land. Papa Bear and Mama Bear stand over Baby Bear’s bed in shock and Baby Bear is nowhere to be seen. But someday, a little stranger will fill that bed. And if the stranger just happens to be a little blond haired girl, this Mama Bear and Papa Bear won’t complain.

Losing Her

She is a piece of me, a long dreamt dream so close to fruition. And she is perfect in every way. She has teeny tiny fingers and toes, perfectly formed and beautiful. But her lungs are not yet developed and the chances of her living are none. Oh how I love her. and how sad it makes me that I will not get to hold her longer, that I will not get to nurture her beyond a few more days. Her father is devastated. She a piece of him too.

As I sit here, feeling contractions that make it more and more evident that God has a different calling for our little angel, I can't help but feel that the physical pain is so much easier to bear than the heartbreak. God has made me strong, and I am grateful that he has given me the ability to get through this. But I so wish that his will would allow me to know my daughter, to love my daughter into adulthood.

The test I failed last week pales in comparison. The emotional pain I felt in the dissolution of what I had hoped were promising relationships can't even come close to the measure of the grief my Ben and I feel. We are stricken to the core.

But we both believe that God would not allow this for no reason. And our only grasp on sanity right now is a belief that he knows what is best and that his will is perfect. We do not know all the what ifs.