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

How I'm feeling

Forgive me for turning away when you announced that you have a brand new baby in your life. I can't help it. Part of me is very happy for you, but a lot of me was hurt by your announcement. You see, I should have been able to announce MY brand new baby last March, but in October something dreadful happened. No one knows why. My baby was born too soon, and so I never got to take her home. All these firsts that you are experiencing, I didn't get to do. I had barely begun to feel her kick inside me before she was gone. I had to leave her at the hospital knowing I would never get to see her again. I kissed her tiny cold head and said goodbye. I will never see her first smile. I will never see her first step. I will never send her off to school for the first time, or help her pack to go to college. I will never see her first communion or her baptism. So, yes I am happy for you. But I'm also very devastated for me.

My Soul Screamed

What happens when a piece of you is ripped away? Last October, this happened to me. My soul screamed. It cried in heavy anguish, "My baby! My baby!" just as in Mathew it says

"In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning, Rachel weeping [for] her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not."

So my soul cries since last October. Sometimes my heart's anguish is tempered. I can laugh on occasion. I can enjoy. BUT a piece of me is missing, and every now and again, the rip on my soul pulls wide open and I cry again "My baby! My baby!"

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.

Week 3

I'm so blessed in the people I know, especially my family and fiance. Ben insisted that we go visit my family. He felt I needed them. It was nice to have a little snuggle time with my niece and nephew. I don't know of anything more healing than unconditional love, and particularly unconditional love from children. I think Ben needed them as much (or more) than I did. Ben has been comfort enough for me.

I know I've scared him a couple times over the last month. It's really hard not to get angry and blame my body for not protecting my little girl. I know I couldn't have done anything to prevent her being born, but I can't help but feel a little defective. My body didn't do what it was supposed to and she's gone. I couldn't keep her safe. I feel helpless and hurt and guilty. There was a day this last week when it took huge effort to do anything. Ben made me get up and go shopping (grr on him for making me go alone). And I worry that this will happen again. I know I could not handle losing another baby and with the odds being so high (1 out of every 3 pregnancies ends because of infection.) it's frightening to think of trying again someday.

And then there's the grief Ben doesn't know about. I can't shower without crying. That was where I sang to baby and shared my dreams for her with her. Every shower brings with it a shower of pain. Every time I lay down, a wave of grief sweeps over me because I can feel that she is not tucked safe away inside mommy. Ben's seen me cry at night, but I doubt he knows what sparks it. Any time alone is questionable. Sometimes I manage just fine, but there are times when all I can do is cry because the only thing besides me in the room is a feeling of loss. It does get easier with time. But the ache for my baby will never entirely disappear.

To Donna Rose

My dear daughter,

It has now been a week since you were born and your father and I held your lifeless body in our arms. I can't tell you how much we miss you. It's hard for your mommy to know that she can never hold you again. But you are with Jesus and he will hold you as much as you need holding. And he will hold your hand when it needs holding.

I looked yesterday for some bible verses to be used at your memorial service next week. You know, Jesus has a special place in his heart for little children. And I know that he prizes your innocence and purity. I know that he weeps for the pain your father and I are in. We are finding comfort in each other, but we miss you. You are a part of both of us and we will never forget what you have meant to us.

Love,

Mommy

“As you do not know the path of the wind, or how the body is formed in a mother’s womb, so you cannot understand the work of God, the Maker of all things.” Ecclesiastes 11:5

“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart. Do not be afraid… for I am with you… declares the Lord.“ Jeremiah 1:5,8

“For thou hast possessed my reins: thou hast covered me in my mother's womb. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully [and] wonderfully made: marvellous [are] thy works; and [that] my soul knoweth right well. My substance was not hid from thee, when I was made in secret, [and] curiously wrought in the lowest parts of the earth. Thine eyes did see my substance, yet being unperfect; and in thy book all [my members] were written, [which] in continuance were fashioned, when [as yet there was] none of them.” Psalms 139: 13-16

“But Jesus called them to him, saying, ‘Let the children come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belongs the kingdom of God.’” Luke18:16

“For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Romans 8:38-39

Keith Green – Psalm 23

Mercy Me – Jesus Bring the Rain

It is well with my soul

Amazing Grace

Jeremy Camp – There will be a day

Day 2

Some how, the second day is harder than the first. I think that it's because yesterday I had the physical pain to deal with. Today I don't have the concrete. All I have are feelings. Yesterday, I had a life moving about inside me, kicking and bobbing. Today, that place is empty and my little girl is with Jesus. I know she is better off there, but that doesn't stop the ache in my heart to grow her and hold her and love her.

Ben and I are so blessed with the outpouring of support from friends and family. The hospital staff have been wonderful to us, seeing to every need and our friends have been kind enough to express their well wishes. They tell us they don't know what to say. I don't think there is anything that can be said. Right now, we need our grief. We need the opportunity to cry and mourn and hold each other.

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.