I let Eden watch Charlotte's Web several weeks ago. She had handled the drama that is Bambi with oblivious delight and dearly loves farm animals, so I thought, why not Charlotte's Web? The talking and singing barnyard beasts will be right up her alley, and apparently, the significance of death is still far from her radar.
And I was right, she loved it. She still loves it, in fact, despite this conversation that we had at the end:
E: "Mommy, where did that spider go? Why is the pig crying?"
S: [Caught a little off guard because WHERE WERE THESE QUESTIONS DURING BAMBI?? and yet, desperately trying to sound completely casual and nonchalant] "Well, baby, she got old and died."
S: Oh no. That had to be way too blunt. Where is the well-spring of mother-wisdom that is supposed to miraculously appear at these moments??
[Long pause.]
E: ME????
S: Nooooo. She can't be... it's not possible... she doesn't mean....
E: ME AND MOMMY DIE AND GET OLD????
So, to recap.
Parental To-Do List:
1) Scar child for life.
Check.
**********
I went for a walk in a big cemetery recently. I love cemeteries. I think I've mentioned all this before, probably more than once. I know it's weird, but I just think they are utterly fascinating places. When I was a kid I always wanted to live next to a cemetery when I grew up. In fact, I thought for a long time that one of the coolest jobs in the world would be being a groundskeeper at a cemetery, keeping everything beautiful and tidy and well-loved.
The cemetery that I visited a few weeks ago is fairly large. As I walked through the front gates and made my way down the path toward the older section near the back, I noticed how the lifespans recorded on the gravestones progressively shortened. Not so very long ago old age must have seemed a gift, a family unmarked by the death of the young and the seemingly strong must have seemed a marvel.
I stood for a long time at one small family plot in particular. It belonged to a man who over the course of eight years lost a two-year-old son, his thirty-four-year-old wife, and finally, the last remaining person in his immediate family, a five-year-old daughter. He then lived on into his eighties. His grave was next to theirs though, and there were no others. I spent a long time wondering about his life. The Before and the After and the What Came Next of his story. I wonder what he thought of his own personal longevity and what he did with the rest of his life. I wonder what he thought of his story and if there is anyone living who still knows it.
On my walk I saw one phrase repeated again and again and again: gone but not forgotten. And next to more than a few of the gravestones bearing these very words, were other gravestones, so old and weather-beaten that all inscriptions had been completely worn away and only the presence of the rocks themselves bore witness to the fact that someone once had lived and died and been buried there. I kept wondering if there was anyone left alive who might still know those names - who might still say, you are gone but not forgotten. Or, with the eventual death of friends and family, and the power of wind and rain on rock, had their very existence been obliterated from the memory of the world? How many, in that cemetery alone, were both gone and forgotten? How many, in all the ages of this world, have come and gone in a blink?
**********
A friend of ours from college, an extremely talented musician, is on the brink of releasing his second album, The Cymbal Crashing Clouds. One of his songs - "A Last Time For Everything" - keeps circling through my mind over and over. I'll post the lyrics here someday hopefully, once I make sure it's okay. But three miscarriages in four years have left me thinking a lot about last times these days.
On Saturday, I threw a birthday party for my sweet little girl, and despite my utter lack of crafty-supermom-Susie Homemaker-skills, I worked as hard at it as I could to make it beautiful.
She's three. She won't remember.
But this may be the one and only three-year-old birthday party I ever get to throw, and I will remember.
**********
So, that. I'm no longer at all sure that we will have any more children. I've stopped planning it out. And it's not because I'm being melodramatic or depressed. It's because I've been brought face-to-face three times now with a reality that all those people who died a century or two ago probably never had the luxury of forgetting. There is a last time for everything, and by and large, we don't get to decide when that last time is. A last birthday party, a last child, a last breath. Our life is a series of last moments, the vast majority of which slip by without us even noticing, and sooner or later we each experience them all.
But Ben's song reminds me that there are other lasts worth noting. Time is winding down on more than just our lives on this earth. And one day, when we have finally set aside all the temporary things of this mortal life, something else will come to an end. "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." (Revelation 21:4)
Last tears.
Last mourning.
Last pain.
Last death.
There is a last time for these too.
**********
July 30th was my Judah's due date. For awhile, there was a part of his life that had me looking forward. Now it is all looking back. Despite what this long post on death might lead you to believe, I'm actually feeling okay. I think, maybe, the worst of the grief has passed. Those sharp pangs of heartbreak and anger are fairly rare now. The depression seems to be lifting. It's never quite the same though, is it? You recover from an illness, but how do you ever fully recover from the death of someone you loved? I miss Judah, and it makes me sad that he isn't here. And he's never going to be here. So, as long as I live, how can there not be some part of me that remains a little sad? I'm not sure how to recover from the missing him. I'm not sure how to let go of the great big dream of the how and the when and the where of my own children. I had a plan. It's not remotely coming to pass. And I'm coming to terms with that.
**********
One last song, and I'll call it a night. :)
I've mentioned before that I love JJ Heller's album, When I'm With You. In her song, "Olivianna," (which is, of course, about death) there are the lines:
You're going home love
Where you belong
I've heard the song many, many times, but I really heard those words for the first time the other day. I think, so often, that Judah and my other two babies are supposed to be here, with me - that here is where they belong. And it's true - we do belong with those we love. They do belong with me. And that, of course, is why their absence is so painful. But we are all only here temporarily. And soon we are all going home to be with the One we love, and the One who loves us. So, they are now home where they have always belonged. And one day, someday, whenever my last day comes, I will be too.
**********
I'm so very glad that no matter what our gravestones look like a hundred years from now there is Someone who knows us all by name.
Showing posts with label Judah. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Judah. Show all posts
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
From The Middle of While We Were Yet
Pregnant.
One tiny word in one tiny test stick window. We'd given up on the squinting, doubt-filled, is-that-a-second-line-or-isn't-it kinds of tests years ago, even before Eden. The digital tests are more expensive, but they remove the uncertainty, the questions.
Pregnant. That's what I was, not just three months ago, but also a week ago. I'd already had some suspicious symptoms, but it took the test to completely convince me. Pregnant for the fourth time.
And then the next day,
I wasn't.
Again.
Sometimes I wonder why I post the things I do on this blog. Sometimes I wonder if I will look back in several years when I'm older and hopefully wiser and regret what I've put here. Or, if not regret it, at least shake my head at my choices. I wonder if being honest and open in the moment is the right way to go. Maybe the right thing to do is to wait till it's passed, wait till the depression is conquered, the sadness and grief is overcome, the victory is won, to share the experience. Then, with the perfect clarity of hindsight, I can tell the story the way it should be told, with the emphasis on the end, not the middle, on the glory, not the pain. I wonder this often, especially now, when the "middleness" of my story is so very obvious. I don't want to do myself or my family a disservice. And I especially don't want to diminish the power or glory or goodness of God. He deserves all praise. Always.
But I find myself compelled to come here again and again and again. Partially, probably, it's a release to give words to my experience and these posts may very well be stepping stones in the healing process. But I honestly think it's more than that. I come here, and I lay it all out for all eyes to see because I know this is the middle and not the end, and I want everyone to know not only that I have been redeemed but what I have been redeemed from.
Because this, this right here: the anger and the doubt and the sadness and the questioning and the struggle is what the Good News is for. This is it. This is where faith is made real and where all the Sunday school lessons and Bible studies find their purpose. If I can't speak of these experiences in the hour of their agony then my God is not the God of the lepers and the barren, of tears and sweat like drops of blood. But He is! He is exactly that. Time and time again He reveals it. He is the God of the broken and diseased, the outcasts, the confused, the doubters and liars and betrayers and sinners one and all. My God is the One who came not for the healthy, but for the sick. My faith is real and strong not because one day it will be easy and happy. It is real and strong because of this very moment when it is not easy and not happy - it is this moment for which it exists. And, I think, maybe, it is this moment when it is most powerful.
This morning in church we sang Chris Tomlin's The Wonderful Cross, and the words just kept repeating over and over and over again in my mind. Oh the wonderful cross! Oh the wonderful cross! Oh the wonder of a God who created the heavens and commands the angels, but who, even greater and more amazingly, chooses to pour His glory into the darkest moments of agony and pain and shame. The God of the dead and the dying. Oh the wonder of a God who fulfills His glory in the weakest things of this world, in the weakest moments of our lives - not just once they have become strong, but in the very midst of their weakness.
I have now had 3 miscarriages in 4 years. My brokenness is undeniable, my frailty and limitations haunt me. I am weak, and I am full of sin, and I am struggling in so many ways. Sometimes I think, in every way. And I am determined to put this all out there for everyone to see because I want everyone to know the God who is the God of this moment - the ugly middle - and the God of me - the confused, angry, depressed me. He is a God worth knowing. He is a God worth trusting.
One tiny word in one tiny test stick window. We'd given up on the squinting, doubt-filled, is-that-a-second-line-or-isn't-it kinds of tests years ago, even before Eden. The digital tests are more expensive, but they remove the uncertainty, the questions.
Pregnant. That's what I was, not just three months ago, but also a week ago. I'd already had some suspicious symptoms, but it took the test to completely convince me. Pregnant for the fourth time.
And then the next day,
I wasn't.
Again.
Sometimes I wonder why I post the things I do on this blog. Sometimes I wonder if I will look back in several years when I'm older and hopefully wiser and regret what I've put here. Or, if not regret it, at least shake my head at my choices. I wonder if being honest and open in the moment is the right way to go. Maybe the right thing to do is to wait till it's passed, wait till the depression is conquered, the sadness and grief is overcome, the victory is won, to share the experience. Then, with the perfect clarity of hindsight, I can tell the story the way it should be told, with the emphasis on the end, not the middle, on the glory, not the pain. I wonder this often, especially now, when the "middleness" of my story is so very obvious. I don't want to do myself or my family a disservice. And I especially don't want to diminish the power or glory or goodness of God. He deserves all praise. Always.
But I find myself compelled to come here again and again and again. Partially, probably, it's a release to give words to my experience and these posts may very well be stepping stones in the healing process. But I honestly think it's more than that. I come here, and I lay it all out for all eyes to see because I know this is the middle and not the end, and I want everyone to know not only that I have been redeemed but what I have been redeemed from.
Because this, this right here: the anger and the doubt and the sadness and the questioning and the struggle is what the Good News is for. This is it. This is where faith is made real and where all the Sunday school lessons and Bible studies find their purpose. If I can't speak of these experiences in the hour of their agony then my God is not the God of the lepers and the barren, of tears and sweat like drops of blood. But He is! He is exactly that. Time and time again He reveals it. He is the God of the broken and diseased, the outcasts, the confused, the doubters and liars and betrayers and sinners one and all. My God is the One who came not for the healthy, but for the sick. My faith is real and strong not because one day it will be easy and happy. It is real and strong because of this very moment when it is not easy and not happy - it is this moment for which it exists. And, I think, maybe, it is this moment when it is most powerful.
This morning in church we sang Chris Tomlin's The Wonderful Cross, and the words just kept repeating over and over and over again in my mind. Oh the wonderful cross! Oh the wonderful cross! Oh the wonder of a God who created the heavens and commands the angels, but who, even greater and more amazingly, chooses to pour His glory into the darkest moments of agony and pain and shame. The God of the dead and the dying. Oh the wonder of a God who fulfills His glory in the weakest things of this world, in the weakest moments of our lives - not just once they have become strong, but in the very midst of their weakness.
I have now had 3 miscarriages in 4 years. My brokenness is undeniable, my frailty and limitations haunt me. I am weak, and I am full of sin, and I am struggling in so many ways. Sometimes I think, in every way. And I am determined to put this all out there for everyone to see because I want everyone to know the God who is the God of this moment - the ugly middle - and the God of me - the confused, angry, depressed me. He is a God worth knowing. He is a God worth trusting.
"But God demonstrates His own love toward us,
in that while we were yet sinners,
Christ died for us."
(Romans 5:8)
in that while we were yet sinners,
Christ died for us."
(Romans 5:8)
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
The Path Before Me
I should state right now that I found the above images on a blog belonging to a friend of a friend. I haven't yet asked her where she found them or even made sure that it is okay for me to post them on my blog as well. This is a COLOSSAL BLOGGING FAIL. I just want to admit that up front.
I've been thinking a lot about that second image especially lately. It seems like a perfect depiction of my emotional life since February 19th. An excruciating game of king of the hill in which each subsequent emotion is not eradicated, but simply displaced by the tyranny of the next. Disbelief dethroned by yearning, then anger, then depression, then ultimately (I hope) by acceptance. Grief is not linear and every experience is unique, but oh. Twelve months. Please, Lord, don't let it take twelve months.
It has definitely been nice to feel some of the anger dissipating. It is not completely gone by any means, but somehow, somewhere, at sometime, a great deal of it was swept out, and I was able to recognize a moment of peace. But... now the clouds have rolled back together, the sky has closed, and darkness has descended. I've looked at the world around me and I've thought, I know this darkness. I know this darkness. Please, Lord, not again.
I thought - I honestly thought - it would be easier this time. I thought, we've done this before. We're in a better place. It will hurt, but not like before. But I was wrong. It hurts, just like before. And, perhaps not just because of the miscarriage, perhaps because of all the change: the moving and the trying to make new friends and the trying to adapt to new roles in life, in addition to the miscarriage and my hurting family - perhaps because of all of it, the depression seems so much worse this time. It reminds me, not of my experience following the first miscarriage, but of the horrible swamp of sadness** that was my life just a few years previous to that. I feel the weight of it pulling me down, and I know what lies at the bottom of that pit, and I don't want to go back there again.
And, Lord willing, I won't. Because I know what this darkness is, and I've defeated it once before, and I am not alone. Peter and I have had many talks lately about how I'm doing. About how we're doing. He knows too, and he cares, and this time I'm not afraid to be honest from the beginning. I'm not afraid of the options, of the tools available to us, and I'm considering them all. And this time I know what I didn't really know before - what I didn't truly learn until the days immediately following our first miscarriage - how very, very much I am loved.
But I feel broken too. Not brokenness as we pray for in church (although I suppose I feel a measure of that too), but broken as in, Does Not Work. Malfunctioning. Useless. I wake up and I feel no joy and I work with all my might to perform my roles of mother and wife and friend to the best of my ability, and I pray for endurance, and I pray for grace, and I pray for forgiveness. And I just keep mechanically putting one foot in front of the next. Wash this dish, dry that tear, smile, try to pay attention, try to listen, try not to fall apart here, breathe. And in my mind the lies about my value and my worth and my purpose bounce back again and again and again despite my attempts to slap them away. And I feel like I'm playing a game of ping-pong against a brick wall, and every day I feel weaker. Tired. Too tired and so overwhelmed.
And yet... the hope remains. It still endures. I know, I can't stop knowing, how much I am loved. I have not forgotten. And even as I fail more and more, and perhaps fall more and more, I feel His love. I feel His acceptance of me. I feel His gentle encouragement. He is not ashamed of me. He is not ashamed of my grief. He is not anxious or afraid of the present or the future.
I was created for Him, and He holds me, broken, and He is not disappointed.
So, as I struggle through another day, I remember. As I run my emotions dry on the treadmill, I remember. As I stand in front of the mirror and fight back the tears of disgust and dislike, I remember.
I remember my affliction and my wandering,
the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him,
to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly
for the salvation of the LORD.
(Lamentations 3:19-26)
I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him,
to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly
for the salvation of the LORD.
(Lamentations 3:19-26)
I remember, and I won't forget. The spark of hope is in me yet, the light of His love burns in my heart even still, I have seen His miracles, and by His grace I still believe.
Posts that have given me hope this week:
Peter's Easter Sermon
Just Breathe
When Christians Ask Why
**And yes, that is a reference to The NeverEnding Story. Because it's God's grace (and even humor) through the little things that is helping me get through. :)
The path of the righteous is like the morning sun, shining ever brighter till the full light of day. (Proverbs 4:18)
Posts that have given me hope this week:
Peter's Easter Sermon
Just Breathe
When Christians Ask Why
**And yes, that is a reference to The NeverEnding Story. Because it's God's grace (and even humor) through the little things that is helping me get through. :)
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Just Some More Thoughts
So. It is a new day. It is also Day 32 since our miscarriage. We are still okay. In fact, there are times that I would even dare to say we are good. That being said, I have been disappointed to find that the anger and the temptation to bitterness have lingered on, seemingly indefatigable reminders that all is not well in our world. For a long while the anger made me feel guilty and confused. I felt confused because I still couldn't identify the source for my anger (at least not in such a way that I could then rationally talk myself out of it) and guilty because anger is supposed to be such a bad emotion and its presence in my heart felt like a charge against me, a red flag that I am, in fact, a bad person. Worse, I hated (and felt even greater guilt over) the way that it would not stay contained in my heart, but would instead periodically erupt from within, spewing pain all over those around me - often those I love best and care about the most. I mentioned several times to Peter and other close friends that I thought there should be a time of confinement for those who are grieving, just as there used to be for women advanced in pregnancy in previous centuries. I want a safe place where I could hide away and work through my grief honestly but without the constant fear of hurting innocent bystanders in the process.
Despite my wishes, this place of isolation has not materialized. But for the most part I have ceased to feel so guilty and confused. Many mornings I would wake up, feel a sense of being physically unwell, and start running through a mental checklist: do I have a headache? a stomachache? What do these feelings add up to? And I would repeatedly come to the same diagnosis for the lump in my stomach or the vice in my chest or the ache between my shoulder blades: it's anger. I'm just angry. Somehow, in some strange way, this initial recognition of physical symptoms (instead of emotion) helped. After all, when we are recovering from a sprained ankle, do we blame ourselves for the swelling, or the redness, or the pain? Anger remains a frustrating reminder of this wound in my heart, but it has lost much of its power in being reduced to just a symptom. On those mornings when I recognize its presence I have stopped focusing my energy on trying to eradicate the emotion and have instead prayed for grace: that in my anger I would not sin. And instead of guilt and confusion I feel a form of peace and a capacity to endure.
***
The other night, in yet another attempt to delay her bedtime, a pajama-ed Eden curled up in my lap and requested a story. Tired and not particularly wanting to read the same picture book for the thousandth time, I suggested that she ask her dad to tell her a Bible story. She did and he, of course, obliged, choosing the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. He described how the three men refused to worship the god created by King Nebuchadnezzar and as a punishment were bound together and thrown into a fiery furnace. And then he told of the miracle: how King Nebuchadnezzar looked into the furnace and saw not three, but four men walking unbound and unharmed in the midst of the fire - and how the King described the fourth man as looking like "a son of the gods."
Honestly? Sitting, listening to that story, all I could think was: how odd.
How odd that God would choose to demonstrate His deliverance in such a way. Why did He let the men be thrown into the furnace in the first place? Why did He wait so long to demonstrate His power? If He was going to save them from this death, why did He do it in the middle of the fire? Why didn't He stop it from ever getting that far?
***
Then later in the week I found myself reflecting on the season of Lent in which we now find ourselves. I was thinking about how it is supposed to be a time of sorrow and repentance. And my mind wandered to the fact that it also in a small way supposed to be a time of knowing Christ through "the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings."
And suddenly, I wanted to laugh.
What sufferings? What suffering does the God of the universe endure? What suffering can be experienced by the One who is, and is surrounded by, Love, Truth, Beauty, Joy, Peace: everything I long for and am drawn to? What sufferings?
Mine. All mine.
***
So. It is a new day. I wake up and I recognize that though things are better they are not yet well. I pick up the burden of my sorrow, of my grief. I say a prayer that I would not succumb to the anger and bitterness that day or even just that moment. I look out the window at a Spring that is not what it was supposed to be, and I shoulder my suffering and I look for my deliverance.
And I don't know why He waits. I don't know why He doesn't step in to set things right sooner. I don't understand.
But if I'm going to trust someone, anyone, how can I help but trust Him? The One who gave up Heaven, gave up everything that I wish I had, to come down and share in my suffering. The One who sat with me, just me, in an apartment bathroom and grieved. The One who over and over again, for our sake, exchanges not sadness for joy, but the other way around. The One who made deliverance possible when He gave up immortality for a mortal body and then suffered poverty, racism, oppression, rejection, betrayal, and death.
It doesn't make any sense to me. I do not understand. But He is present with me in the fire. And I am free.
Despite my wishes, this place of isolation has not materialized. But for the most part I have ceased to feel so guilty and confused. Many mornings I would wake up, feel a sense of being physically unwell, and start running through a mental checklist: do I have a headache? a stomachache? What do these feelings add up to? And I would repeatedly come to the same diagnosis for the lump in my stomach or the vice in my chest or the ache between my shoulder blades: it's anger. I'm just angry. Somehow, in some strange way, this initial recognition of physical symptoms (instead of emotion) helped. After all, when we are recovering from a sprained ankle, do we blame ourselves for the swelling, or the redness, or the pain? Anger remains a frustrating reminder of this wound in my heart, but it has lost much of its power in being reduced to just a symptom. On those mornings when I recognize its presence I have stopped focusing my energy on trying to eradicate the emotion and have instead prayed for grace: that in my anger I would not sin. And instead of guilt and confusion I feel a form of peace and a capacity to endure.
***
The other night, in yet another attempt to delay her bedtime, a pajama-ed Eden curled up in my lap and requested a story. Tired and not particularly wanting to read the same picture book for the thousandth time, I suggested that she ask her dad to tell her a Bible story. She did and he, of course, obliged, choosing the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. He described how the three men refused to worship the god created by King Nebuchadnezzar and as a punishment were bound together and thrown into a fiery furnace. And then he told of the miracle: how King Nebuchadnezzar looked into the furnace and saw not three, but four men walking unbound and unharmed in the midst of the fire - and how the King described the fourth man as looking like "a son of the gods."
Honestly? Sitting, listening to that story, all I could think was: how odd.
How odd that God would choose to demonstrate His deliverance in such a way. Why did He let the men be thrown into the furnace in the first place? Why did He wait so long to demonstrate His power? If He was going to save them from this death, why did He do it in the middle of the fire? Why didn't He stop it from ever getting that far?
***
Then later in the week I found myself reflecting on the season of Lent in which we now find ourselves. I was thinking about how it is supposed to be a time of sorrow and repentance. And my mind wandered to the fact that it also in a small way supposed to be a time of knowing Christ through "the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings."
And suddenly, I wanted to laugh.
What sufferings? What suffering does the God of the universe endure? What suffering can be experienced by the One who is, and is surrounded by, Love, Truth, Beauty, Joy, Peace: everything I long for and am drawn to? What sufferings?
Mine. All mine.
***
So. It is a new day. I wake up and I recognize that though things are better they are not yet well. I pick up the burden of my sorrow, of my grief. I say a prayer that I would not succumb to the anger and bitterness that day or even just that moment. I look out the window at a Spring that is not what it was supposed to be, and I shoulder my suffering and I look for my deliverance.
And I don't know why He waits. I don't know why He doesn't step in to set things right sooner. I don't understand.
But if I'm going to trust someone, anyone, how can I help but trust Him? The One who gave up Heaven, gave up everything that I wish I had, to come down and share in my suffering. The One who sat with me, just me, in an apartment bathroom and grieved. The One who over and over again, for our sake, exchanges not sadness for joy, but the other way around. The One who made deliverance possible when He gave up immortality for a mortal body and then suffered poverty, racism, oppression, rejection, betrayal, and death.
It doesn't make any sense to me. I do not understand. But He is present with me in the fire. And I am free.
Friday, March 11, 2011
I Should Be Washing Dishes
I'm sitting on my living room couch right now in the middle of a house that is basically a giant mess. It has been a mess for a long time. It will probably remain a mess for quite a while yet.
As I mentioned before, we got a little carried away on the planned improvements before we moved into our new home - which resulted in a house that wasn't quite ready for us when the official moving date arrived (and passed, and then arrived again - at which point the moving date really meant it). The major work is all finished - it's just little things, most of which involve paint, and most of which are keeping us from fully unpacking. Well, there are other things keeping us from unpacking too, like a packed calendar, and habitual laziness, and a particularly cute and sassy three-foot urchin with fairly demanding expectations for attention/entertainment/meals/nose-wiping/etc., but those are posts for another time.
The point is, we're not exactly ready for an open-house. Which we keep telling people we're having. (Perhaps just in time for Christmas!)
We're also a bit behind on other things. As in, I still need to send my grandparents a thank-you card for last Christmas. As in, Eden's California Memories photobook - you know, from when we lived in California almost 9 months ago. As in, laundry. As in, a hundred zillion e-mails, facebook messages, phone calls (I hereby guarantee that this last one will never happen people), cards, smoke signals, and other assorted means of communication all of which I am. horrible. at keeping up with.
My doctor told me to make a follow-up appointment for three weeks after Judah's delivery date. It will be three weeks tomorrow. I made the appointment... yesterday. (I also made it begrudgingly, but that is perhaps another post for another time.) The nurse was merciful and found a spot to squeeze us in on Monday afternoon. (In case you haven't picked up on it, I kind of don't really want to go.)
On Wednesday I sat down and tried to make a list of everything I needed to do. Using one line for every item I easily filled a page and a half. Some things aren't too scary: facebook so-and-so, add an event to my google calendar. Most things, unfortunately, are: unpack house, organize house, decorate house. Get a gym membership and stop trying to smother your sadness with junk food.
My sister-in-law was appropriately worried about the creation of this list - concerned that seeing it all in black-and-white would be too overwhelming and do more harm than good. She has a point. But I was just so sick of the constant mental post-it-notes to do this or that, each and every one of which would be forgotten and remembered and forgotten again in an unending upward spiral of stress and frustration and guilt and remorse, that I had to try something. And, I do think it was helpful - I'm still stressed but at least that extra little stress of "don't forget..." has been removed.
However, looking at the list absolutely emphasizes how impossible it all actually is. I'm trying to accomplish a month's worth of full-time work in 30 minutes a day, and hoping to be done in a week or so. It's not going to happen. And, honestly? My biggest fear is probably just how many people are going to be mad at me (or hurt, or offended, or disappointed) before it's all through.
Am I being melodramatic if I say that I just really don't want another thing to feel sad about?
This house, in its unpacked state, makes me feel sad. The fact that so many people who were and are so kind to us, and who deserve at least some kind of acknowledgment of their kindness, have so far gone without, makes me feel sad. My inability to be the person I was 10 years ago, the person who got things done, makes me feel sad.
Possible or not, healthy or not, it makes me feel good to think about knocking everything off this list. And, I think? There are worse ways of trying to cope.
And that's me. Praying for God's mercy as I fumble my way through the impossible.
(Write blog post. Check.)
As I mentioned before, we got a little carried away on the planned improvements before we moved into our new home - which resulted in a house that wasn't quite ready for us when the official moving date arrived (and passed, and then arrived again - at which point the moving date really meant it). The major work is all finished - it's just little things, most of which involve paint, and most of which are keeping us from fully unpacking. Well, there are other things keeping us from unpacking too, like a packed calendar, and habitual laziness, and a particularly cute and sassy three-foot urchin with fairly demanding expectations for attention/entertainment/meals/nose-wiping/etc., but those are posts for another time.
The point is, we're not exactly ready for an open-house. Which we keep telling people we're having. (Perhaps just in time for Christmas!)
We're also a bit behind on other things. As in, I still need to send my grandparents a thank-you card for last Christmas. As in, Eden's California Memories photobook - you know, from when we lived in California almost 9 months ago. As in, laundry. As in, a hundred zillion e-mails, facebook messages, phone calls (I hereby guarantee that this last one will never happen people), cards, smoke signals, and other assorted means of communication all of which I am. horrible. at keeping up with.
My doctor told me to make a follow-up appointment for three weeks after Judah's delivery date. It will be three weeks tomorrow. I made the appointment... yesterday. (I also made it begrudgingly, but that is perhaps another post for another time.) The nurse was merciful and found a spot to squeeze us in on Monday afternoon. (In case you haven't picked up on it, I kind of don't really want to go.)
On Wednesday I sat down and tried to make a list of everything I needed to do. Using one line for every item I easily filled a page and a half. Some things aren't too scary: facebook so-and-so, add an event to my google calendar. Most things, unfortunately, are: unpack house, organize house, decorate house. Get a gym membership and stop trying to smother your sadness with junk food.
My sister-in-law was appropriately worried about the creation of this list - concerned that seeing it all in black-and-white would be too overwhelming and do more harm than good. She has a point. But I was just so sick of the constant mental post-it-notes to do this or that, each and every one of which would be forgotten and remembered and forgotten again in an unending upward spiral of stress and frustration and guilt and remorse, that I had to try something. And, I do think it was helpful - I'm still stressed but at least that extra little stress of "don't forget..." has been removed.
However, looking at the list absolutely emphasizes how impossible it all actually is. I'm trying to accomplish a month's worth of full-time work in 30 minutes a day, and hoping to be done in a week or so. It's not going to happen. And, honestly? My biggest fear is probably just how many people are going to be mad at me (or hurt, or offended, or disappointed) before it's all through.
Am I being melodramatic if I say that I just really don't want another thing to feel sad about?
This house, in its unpacked state, makes me feel sad. The fact that so many people who were and are so kind to us, and who deserve at least some kind of acknowledgment of their kindness, have so far gone without, makes me feel sad. My inability to be the person I was 10 years ago, the person who got things done, makes me feel sad.
Possible or not, healthy or not, it makes me feel good to think about knocking everything off this list. And, I think? There are worse ways of trying to cope.
And that's me. Praying for God's mercy as I fumble my way through the impossible.
(Write blog post. Check.)
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Checking In
I realize that the last post was a bit of a downer in a way, and even though I really don't have much to write tonight, I wanted to check in just to say that we are doing okay. And I mean okay in the best sense. Okay is quite good enough right now.
The last few days have been rough on my family. I'm not ready to get into the details at the moment, but as I mentioned before, our miscarriage has not been the only thing to grieve in the last two weeks. Right now, it is my brother who is really hurting, and of course, in whatever way we can, we are all hurting with him. Yesterday was an especially significant and difficult day. I thought I was prepared for it, but I was caught off guard by how hard it was to see my oldest brother, in many ways my childhood idol, suffering his own huge loss. I want to take his pain away, make his tomorrows easy and carefree, but I can't. And suddenly, with the burden that these last few days have brought, I feel myself bottoming out: the mental and emotional reserves nearing empty, my physical reserves following close behind. I had hoped to avoid this - I was trying to muster enough strength/energy/positive thoughts/I-don't-even-know-what everyday to keep my brokenness as neat and managed as possible. Yet now I feel my control slipping, and I worry that I am about to come all unraveled. I wonder what coming unraveled will mean in my life as it is to date - as a mother and a pastor's wife, as a new and old friend, and as a daughter and sister in a family that has really had quite enough lately, thank-you-very-much.
Strangely, (or perhaps not-so-strangely considering my Eeyore tendencies) one of my favorite books when I was a child was a rather slow-moving and depressing novel called Izzy, Willy-Nilly by Cynthia Voigt. (Cynthia Voigt is the Newberry Award-winning author of the more well-known Dicey's Song, which I also read as a child but didn't like at all.) In this story, a young girl by the name of Izzy (Isobel) is badly injured in a car accident and is forced to reform her understanding of self and others as she heals from her injuries and adapts to a new and vastly different life. Isobel often pictures a miniature version of herself in her head - and this miniature Izzy acts as an interpreter, both to the reader and perhaps to the main character herself, of Isobel's true emotions. I've always thought this was a very unique and interesting device on the part of the author for communicating information about how her character was feeling/developing without stating it overtly. And anyway, it has always stuck with me.
If there were a miniature Stephanie (ha! a mini-me!) in my head, I'm not sure that she would be doing too well right now. While spiritually I think I'm still holding strong for the most part, as I've stated already, mentally, emotionally, and physically I feel like I'm reaching the bottom of the barrel. Tonight, on the drive home from the city where my brother is still hospitalized, I had a sudden flashback to that story of the miniature Izzy. And in my mind I saw my own little miniature self - the one who I like to think has been shakily standing for the last couple of weeks - now lying bent over on the floor, too tired to even raise her head.
We are doing okay. We really are. And I still believe that one day, perhaps even not so far off, we all will be doing better than okay. I think we will be doing good.
I think we will be good.
But for now, we are okay.
The last few days have been rough on my family. I'm not ready to get into the details at the moment, but as I mentioned before, our miscarriage has not been the only thing to grieve in the last two weeks. Right now, it is my brother who is really hurting, and of course, in whatever way we can, we are all hurting with him. Yesterday was an especially significant and difficult day. I thought I was prepared for it, but I was caught off guard by how hard it was to see my oldest brother, in many ways my childhood idol, suffering his own huge loss. I want to take his pain away, make his tomorrows easy and carefree, but I can't. And suddenly, with the burden that these last few days have brought, I feel myself bottoming out: the mental and emotional reserves nearing empty, my physical reserves following close behind. I had hoped to avoid this - I was trying to muster enough strength/energy/positive thoughts/I-don't-even-know-what everyday to keep my brokenness as neat and managed as possible. Yet now I feel my control slipping, and I worry that I am about to come all unraveled. I wonder what coming unraveled will mean in my life as it is to date - as a mother and a pastor's wife, as a new and old friend, and as a daughter and sister in a family that has really had quite enough lately, thank-you-very-much.
Strangely, (or perhaps not-so-strangely considering my Eeyore tendencies) one of my favorite books when I was a child was a rather slow-moving and depressing novel called Izzy, Willy-Nilly by Cynthia Voigt. (Cynthia Voigt is the Newberry Award-winning author of the more well-known Dicey's Song, which I also read as a child but didn't like at all.) In this story, a young girl by the name of Izzy (Isobel) is badly injured in a car accident and is forced to reform her understanding of self and others as she heals from her injuries and adapts to a new and vastly different life. Isobel often pictures a miniature version of herself in her head - and this miniature Izzy acts as an interpreter, both to the reader and perhaps to the main character herself, of Isobel's true emotions. I've always thought this was a very unique and interesting device on the part of the author for communicating information about how her character was feeling/developing without stating it overtly. And anyway, it has always stuck with me.
If there were a miniature Stephanie (ha! a mini-me!) in my head, I'm not sure that she would be doing too well right now. While spiritually I think I'm still holding strong for the most part, as I've stated already, mentally, emotionally, and physically I feel like I'm reaching the bottom of the barrel. Tonight, on the drive home from the city where my brother is still hospitalized, I had a sudden flashback to that story of the miniature Izzy. And in my mind I saw my own little miniature self - the one who I like to think has been shakily standing for the last couple of weeks - now lying bent over on the floor, too tired to even raise her head.
We are doing okay. We really are. And I still believe that one day, perhaps even not so far off, we all will be doing better than okay. I think we will be doing good.
I think we will be good.
But for now, we are okay.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Because All This World Is Just A Stage
In the folder of information that the hospital gave us to take home are several different pamphlets and booklets that describe the grieving process. The traditional "five stages of grief" are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. One provided pamphlet notes, "People often think of grieving as going through stages that progress in a linear fashion. However... know that it is very unlikely that you will experience these feelings on a certain timetable or as 'stages.'"
If only it were that easy.
On Friday we found out our baby had died. Cliche it may be, but I couldn't shake the feeling of a bad dream that just wouldn't end. Surely soon I would wake up? I asked the doctor if he was sure, made him show me proof. Later, in the hospital's labor and delivery ward, I asked again. The world felt off-kilter, reality seemed indistinct.
Early Saturday my baby was born. I cried during the delivery, and then, empty and tired, I slept.
On Sunday I put on a brave face and at times actually felt brave. Sunday was a day of many people, many hugs, much love and support. I spent most of the morning trying to hide the shaking of my hands, the trembling of my chin. And I cried on that day too, sometimes with great uncontrollable sobs, sometimes silently. At some point I wondered, if I can just manage to stay calm will others recognize grief?
Monday was the worst. Monday found me doubled-over in the shower, gasping from a sadness that felt like a sword through my chest. It is startling, how physically painful sadness can be. That, in and of itself, is a shock.
Tuesday was a good day. I don't remember Tuesday.
On Wednesday the depression arrived. Just sadness in another form really, like a heavy wool blanket thrown over my shoulders, weighing me down, draining my energy. On Wednesday I accidentally drove by the grocery store I had been heading to, realized it several blocks later, kept driving. At Target I forced myself to read and reread my shopping list to try to fend off a peculiar propensity to wander aimlessly through the aisles, looking at everything and nothing. I discovered that smiling at strangers, even polite or kind ones, required more than I had to give. So I kept moving and prayed that I wouldn't see anyone I knew.
On Thursday the depression blanket was heavier and seemingly woven with sharp metal wire - anger making its first real appearance since the short burst of fury I had felt in the ultrasound room right after the doctor had left us alone with The News. I recognized the anger, an old tormentor in many ways, and kept questioning myself, who am I angry at? God? The doctor or hospital? Anyone and everyone? I never could successfully identify a rational target. But I realized that I felt cheated, robbed, and, unable to pinpoint The Robber, I directed my anger at the universe in general. I felt the first temptation to bitterness, the feeling that I had been wronged and had earned the right to take out my pain on others. After what had been taken from me, who could dare to hold me accountable?
Yesterday, another Friday, I got up (again! again and again and again) and went to a different hospital to be with my brother. I wore myself out with thinking other thoughts and grieving other griefs.
And now it has been a full week. A full week of being without child. A full week of emptiness. Everyone keeps asking me, "How are you doing?" At times, I have dreaded that question. I recognize that I have asked that same question to others many times before. I know there is really no other question to ask, and I know that it is motivated by love and concern. But I feel so at loss as how to answer. What does "good" or "bad" mean in this situation? It has been a full week of emptiness, and I have denied and raged and sunk low in depression, and I have even in some small ways (is there any small way?) accepted. Which parts are the good and which are the bad? Toward the questioner I sometimes find myself thinking, well, I'm here aren't I? I'm dressed, I'm standing, I'm looking you in the eye. I'm not somewhere curled up in the fetal position, lost in some mental oblivion. That's good right? That might not be the normal measuring stick for good, but what measuring stick do I qualify for right now?
How do I answer that question? Does the other person (often just a casual acquaintance) really want to know? Do I really want to tell them? Can I even figure it out for myself? Can I put it into words?
On Monday I forced myself to put on non-maternity pants even though they didn't fit. I couldn't bear to put on a lie. On Friday, almost without realizing it, I pulled on another pair and snapped them without trouble. I can't stop looking in mirrors, hypnotized. The belly is already almost entirely gone. And yet, sometimes I still think I feel the baby move.
On one day this past week, I can't remember which, Peter and I had a good talk. And I confessed. I would rather relive the delivery over and over and over than wake up to a new day each and every morning that does not contain some last connection to my son. I don't want to say goodbye. I don't want to be separated from him. I would rather live in pain and hold him than heal and be alone.
And that, all of that, is the grieving process. And it is not linear.
If only it were that easy.
On Friday we found out our baby had died. Cliche it may be, but I couldn't shake the feeling of a bad dream that just wouldn't end. Surely soon I would wake up? I asked the doctor if he was sure, made him show me proof. Later, in the hospital's labor and delivery ward, I asked again. The world felt off-kilter, reality seemed indistinct.
Early Saturday my baby was born. I cried during the delivery, and then, empty and tired, I slept.
On Sunday I put on a brave face and at times actually felt brave. Sunday was a day of many people, many hugs, much love and support. I spent most of the morning trying to hide the shaking of my hands, the trembling of my chin. And I cried on that day too, sometimes with great uncontrollable sobs, sometimes silently. At some point I wondered, if I can just manage to stay calm will others recognize grief?
Monday was the worst. Monday found me doubled-over in the shower, gasping from a sadness that felt like a sword through my chest. It is startling, how physically painful sadness can be. That, in and of itself, is a shock.
Tuesday was a good day. I don't remember Tuesday.
On Wednesday the depression arrived. Just sadness in another form really, like a heavy wool blanket thrown over my shoulders, weighing me down, draining my energy. On Wednesday I accidentally drove by the grocery store I had been heading to, realized it several blocks later, kept driving. At Target I forced myself to read and reread my shopping list to try to fend off a peculiar propensity to wander aimlessly through the aisles, looking at everything and nothing. I discovered that smiling at strangers, even polite or kind ones, required more than I had to give. So I kept moving and prayed that I wouldn't see anyone I knew.
On Thursday the depression blanket was heavier and seemingly woven with sharp metal wire - anger making its first real appearance since the short burst of fury I had felt in the ultrasound room right after the doctor had left us alone with The News. I recognized the anger, an old tormentor in many ways, and kept questioning myself, who am I angry at? God? The doctor or hospital? Anyone and everyone? I never could successfully identify a rational target. But I realized that I felt cheated, robbed, and, unable to pinpoint The Robber, I directed my anger at the universe in general. I felt the first temptation to bitterness, the feeling that I had been wronged and had earned the right to take out my pain on others. After what had been taken from me, who could dare to hold me accountable?
Yesterday, another Friday, I got up (again! again and again and again) and went to a different hospital to be with my brother. I wore myself out with thinking other thoughts and grieving other griefs.
And now it has been a full week. A full week of being without child. A full week of emptiness. Everyone keeps asking me, "How are you doing?" At times, I have dreaded that question. I recognize that I have asked that same question to others many times before. I know there is really no other question to ask, and I know that it is motivated by love and concern. But I feel so at loss as how to answer. What does "good" or "bad" mean in this situation? It has been a full week of emptiness, and I have denied and raged and sunk low in depression, and I have even in some small ways (is there any small way?) accepted. Which parts are the good and which are the bad? Toward the questioner I sometimes find myself thinking, well, I'm here aren't I? I'm dressed, I'm standing, I'm looking you in the eye. I'm not somewhere curled up in the fetal position, lost in some mental oblivion. That's good right? That might not be the normal measuring stick for good, but what measuring stick do I qualify for right now?
How do I answer that question? Does the other person (often just a casual acquaintance) really want to know? Do I really want to tell them? Can I even figure it out for myself? Can I put it into words?
On Monday I forced myself to put on non-maternity pants even though they didn't fit. I couldn't bear to put on a lie. On Friday, almost without realizing it, I pulled on another pair and snapped them without trouble. I can't stop looking in mirrors, hypnotized. The belly is already almost entirely gone. And yet, sometimes I still think I feel the baby move.
On one day this past week, I can't remember which, Peter and I had a good talk. And I confessed. I would rather relive the delivery over and over and over than wake up to a new day each and every morning that does not contain some last connection to my son. I don't want to say goodbye. I don't want to be separated from him. I would rather live in pain and hold him than heal and be alone.
And that, all of that, is the grieving process. And it is not linear.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Take Two
Well, this is not the photo post that I intended to put here.
Some very big life news had not made it on this blog yet. We found out right before Thanksgiving that we were going to have another baby! We held off announcing anything until we could tell my family in person at Christmas, and then we waited a little longer until we had passed the 12 week mark and were solidly into the second trimester. A few weeks ago we had the joy of announcing our good news at church and to our farther-flung friends over facebook. Since pretty much everyone who reads this blog is a friend of mine on facebook (as far as I know) it actually didn't immediately occur to me to post the news here - and when it did, I thought maybe I would just wait a few more weeks until we had the Big Ultrasound where you find out gender and then roll all the news into one big happy post.
Unfortunately, this past Friday at my routine appointment we found out that our baby's heart had stopped beating. I thought we had passed all the worry-points: the first trimester when the vast majority of miscarriages happen and the 14/15 week mark when our first miscarriage occurred. I had even thought I'd started feeling movement in the previous week and was in fact, sure that I'd felt the baby move just a day or two before. Friday morning I saw a few faint drops of blood after using the restroom first thing in the morning. (So sorry for what is almost certainly too much information.) It caused me some anxiety as my first miscarriage began the same way and as I've had no other bleeding of any kind in this or any other pregnancy. However, some spotting is supposedly not uncommon throughout pregnancy, and as all other trips to the restroom that morning resulted in no additional spotting (which was not true during my first miscarriage), I was able to keep my worry in check. I mentioned it to Peter and he was mildly concerned but not really worried and we headed off to my OB appointment.
We knew this should just be a quick, routine appointment: get in to see the doctor, hear the heartbeat, ask any questions we might have, and go on our way. The only real question I had was about the spotting I had seen earlier that morning, so I mentioned it to the doctor right off the bat as he was pulling over the Doppler device to listen for the heartbeat. He asked a few follow-up questions but didn't seem overly concerned, just as I had expected. I laid back and prepared to hear the heartbeat that would be the real reassurance I needed.
It didn't come. He patiently moved the device back and forth over my stomach and once caught the sound of my own pulse but even I could tell the difference. I remember at one point that he said he thought he heard movement. He asked if it had been hard to find the heartbeat before. It hadn't. He said that sometimes they can just be tricky to find and that he would go start the ultrasound machine so that we could see the baby and the heart. At the very end he caught my eye and quickly stated that he wasn't worried.
I didn't really believe him. I was pretty sure he was just saying that to try to make me feel better, but I tried to accept it and tried to believe it. Maybe there wasn't a reason to worry. Maybe this was just all going to be a good story - a little scary bleeding in the morning, followed by an appointment where it was hard to hear the heartbeat - just a good story for demonstrating the certain orneriness of any child of ours. I even tried to quickly cheer myself up with the thought that maybe this would be a chance to find out the gender 3 weeks early. It didn't really work. When the doctor left the room I tried to choke back some sobs as Peter patted me on the back. We didn't talk, just waited for the ultrasound.
Almost as soon as our baby was on the screen I knew something was wrong. He looked beautiful - we could clearly see so many features that had developed since our first ultrasound. But he was completely still, not a finger moved. And I knew that wasn't right. We silently watched the screen as the doctor tried different methods for checking the heart and bloodflow. I'm not sure exactly what the first thing he said was or when he said it, but I heard his, "I'm sorry," loud and clear and immediately put my hand over my face and sobbed. Peter held my other hand. I managed to pull it together and listened as the doctor discussed the next possible steps. I remember I asked him if he was absolutely sure. He said he was and then very carefully walked me through everything he could see with the ultrasound that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that our baby was no longer alive.
The next hour or so was the roughest. We made plans to drop Eden off at my brother's house in St. Louis and then head back to check into the hospital for the induction. We had the choice of waiting, but Peter didn't want to, and considering our last experience, I certainly couldn't blame him. The doctor left the ultrasound room to give us some privacy, and I sobbed some more. Eden asked why mommy was sad, and Peter told her that we were sad because we found out the baby was gone and that we weren't going to get to see it or hold it soon. We had a family hug and she patted my head and kept asking me if I was sad. She asked this a few more times in the van on the way to St. Louis with a few more questions about the baby being gone. At one point she told me not to be sad - that I could have another baby soon. She was so surprisingly gentle and sweet for a toddler who couldn't possibly really understand what was going on, and her presence was a great comfort to me.
We dropped Eden off with my sister-in-law and were in the process of trying to figure out how to break the news to my mom when she called to inform us that my older brother had been involved in an accident and was in the hospital having surgery on his foot which had been badly damaged. As terrible as it might sound, this additional bad news had one good effect in that it snapped me out of a world that had rapidly shrunk down in the previous hour to the size of my own individual pain. I felt overwhelmed but also as if I could breathe and think again. I guess it gave me some needed perspective.
I don't want to drag this story on forever. We checked into the hospital. Everyone was very kind. At around 5 pm they started the induction process. Our baby boy was born at 1:44 am Saturday morning. Peter and I got to spend a few minutes holding him for which I was very grateful. Our doctor arrived to assist with the end of delivery and then we got a couple hours of sleep. We checked out of the hospital at around 10:30 am that morning, went home to shower, and then headed to St. Louis to see my mom and Eden. Today we are all home together again in our new house.
Just as before, except for those first few horrible hours, the real pain is only now slowly beginning. There's something about the initial activity that helps keep the pain back. You're distracted, focused on the needs at hand. But now I'm home and there's not a single thing to do that involves my baby. It's life as usual except for the huge gaping wound that is me in the midst of it.
We named him Judah St. John. That has been his name all along so it wasn't a hard decision. Back in the fall as another month passed in which we didn't get pregnant (we had been trying, yet again, for over a year), I had stood at the bathroom mirror and wondered almost absently to myself if we would ever have another baby. And it was almost as if I heard another voice in my head reply, "Yes. You will have a son, and you will name him Judah." I wondered if it was just me talking myself, a sort of internal pep talk. Judah seemed like kind of a strange name though, a bit out of the blue. I had always loved the story of the naming of Judah in the Bible, but he was also a bit of a notorious character - not necessarily someone you would want to name your child for. I mentioned it to Peter, and we both kind of thought, well, we'll see if it's even a boy... But over the course of my pregnancy we both started to think of the baby as a boy and as Judah, and every time someone made a guess as to gender, they also always guessed boy.
Judah means praise. In Genesis 29:31-35, you can find the beginning of his story. Leah, a woman whose husband does not love her, gives birth to four sons in a row. The first three she gives names that all have meanings connected to her hope that her husband will now love her for what she has given him. But on the birth of her fourth son, she states, “This time I will praise the LORD.” So she named him Judah. For some reason, even as a child I loved this story. I loved that Leah stopped trying to earn her husband's love and just decided to praise God for what he had given to her. I loved that it was out of the line of Judah that Jesus was born. Out of praise came Redemption. Out of praise came Love.
We had tossed around ideas for middle names, but had trouble coming up with anything that seemed to fit with Judah. At one point, I suggested we choose the name of someone we admired. Peter suggested St. John, which I thought was kind of neat, since the Apostle John (who refers to himself as the "disciple Jesus loved" in his own Gospel and who wrote some of the greatest words on Love in his epistles) is one of my favorite New Testament characters. But Peter was actually thinking of the famous Christian mystic, St. John of the Cross, who wrote the poem, Dark Night of the Soul. We kind of liked the way the two names sounded together although we knew they were both pretty unusual and together might just be a bit too much. Now they both just seem perfect to me - perfect to the situation, perfect to our son.
I don't really know what else to write at this point. Peter is home from work, I need to wake Eden up from her nap. We need to get dinner ready, wash dishes, do laundry. At some point I really need to get some more unpacking done.
We won't be putting together a nursery now. I have no idea what the future holds but can't imagine a situation in which a nursery would be of any use for well over a year at the very least. I don't say this out of some sort of gloomy negativity, but it is always possible that we may never have another need for a nursery. That's something that my heart, for its own protection, needs to remain open to.
Overall, we are in a better place that we were the last time this happened. We know what to expect. As much as anyone can, I know the road that lies before me. I hate it. I do. I so hate to be here again, to keep waking up to this same nightmare, this same grief, this same weight. But, I also have a tired, battered confidence that we will make it through. We will take one step after the next. We will bear it. And there will be a day when I will wake up and my first thought, my first very sensation, won't be of what I have lost.
I don't want to go on too long. I know people who have suffered much more than me and who have been and are so beautifully graceful in their grief. That is not me. I don't have any great or profound thoughts. I just want to get up and do the best I can with this moment. And the moment after that. And the moment after that. I know I am not alone. I know my Savior is with me. Sometimes He feels very close. More often right now, honestly, He feels a bit remote. But we've been down this road before together, and I trust Him. I know who He is. I know He loves me. He has not left me now. I know it is His mercies that get me through every moment. And I'm so thankful for that and thankful for what He will yet do.
Some very big life news had not made it on this blog yet. We found out right before Thanksgiving that we were going to have another baby! We held off announcing anything until we could tell my family in person at Christmas, and then we waited a little longer until we had passed the 12 week mark and were solidly into the second trimester. A few weeks ago we had the joy of announcing our good news at church and to our farther-flung friends over facebook. Since pretty much everyone who reads this blog is a friend of mine on facebook (as far as I know) it actually didn't immediately occur to me to post the news here - and when it did, I thought maybe I would just wait a few more weeks until we had the Big Ultrasound where you find out gender and then roll all the news into one big happy post.
Unfortunately, this past Friday at my routine appointment we found out that our baby's heart had stopped beating. I thought we had passed all the worry-points: the first trimester when the vast majority of miscarriages happen and the 14/15 week mark when our first miscarriage occurred. I had even thought I'd started feeling movement in the previous week and was in fact, sure that I'd felt the baby move just a day or two before. Friday morning I saw a few faint drops of blood after using the restroom first thing in the morning. (So sorry for what is almost certainly too much information.) It caused me some anxiety as my first miscarriage began the same way and as I've had no other bleeding of any kind in this or any other pregnancy. However, some spotting is supposedly not uncommon throughout pregnancy, and as all other trips to the restroom that morning resulted in no additional spotting (which was not true during my first miscarriage), I was able to keep my worry in check. I mentioned it to Peter and he was mildly concerned but not really worried and we headed off to my OB appointment.
We knew this should just be a quick, routine appointment: get in to see the doctor, hear the heartbeat, ask any questions we might have, and go on our way. The only real question I had was about the spotting I had seen earlier that morning, so I mentioned it to the doctor right off the bat as he was pulling over the Doppler device to listen for the heartbeat. He asked a few follow-up questions but didn't seem overly concerned, just as I had expected. I laid back and prepared to hear the heartbeat that would be the real reassurance I needed.
It didn't come. He patiently moved the device back and forth over my stomach and once caught the sound of my own pulse but even I could tell the difference. I remember at one point that he said he thought he heard movement. He asked if it had been hard to find the heartbeat before. It hadn't. He said that sometimes they can just be tricky to find and that he would go start the ultrasound machine so that we could see the baby and the heart. At the very end he caught my eye and quickly stated that he wasn't worried.
I didn't really believe him. I was pretty sure he was just saying that to try to make me feel better, but I tried to accept it and tried to believe it. Maybe there wasn't a reason to worry. Maybe this was just all going to be a good story - a little scary bleeding in the morning, followed by an appointment where it was hard to hear the heartbeat - just a good story for demonstrating the certain orneriness of any child of ours. I even tried to quickly cheer myself up with the thought that maybe this would be a chance to find out the gender 3 weeks early. It didn't really work. When the doctor left the room I tried to choke back some sobs as Peter patted me on the back. We didn't talk, just waited for the ultrasound.
Almost as soon as our baby was on the screen I knew something was wrong. He looked beautiful - we could clearly see so many features that had developed since our first ultrasound. But he was completely still, not a finger moved. And I knew that wasn't right. We silently watched the screen as the doctor tried different methods for checking the heart and bloodflow. I'm not sure exactly what the first thing he said was or when he said it, but I heard his, "I'm sorry," loud and clear and immediately put my hand over my face and sobbed. Peter held my other hand. I managed to pull it together and listened as the doctor discussed the next possible steps. I remember I asked him if he was absolutely sure. He said he was and then very carefully walked me through everything he could see with the ultrasound that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that our baby was no longer alive.
The next hour or so was the roughest. We made plans to drop Eden off at my brother's house in St. Louis and then head back to check into the hospital for the induction. We had the choice of waiting, but Peter didn't want to, and considering our last experience, I certainly couldn't blame him. The doctor left the ultrasound room to give us some privacy, and I sobbed some more. Eden asked why mommy was sad, and Peter told her that we were sad because we found out the baby was gone and that we weren't going to get to see it or hold it soon. We had a family hug and she patted my head and kept asking me if I was sad. She asked this a few more times in the van on the way to St. Louis with a few more questions about the baby being gone. At one point she told me not to be sad - that I could have another baby soon. She was so surprisingly gentle and sweet for a toddler who couldn't possibly really understand what was going on, and her presence was a great comfort to me.
We dropped Eden off with my sister-in-law and were in the process of trying to figure out how to break the news to my mom when she called to inform us that my older brother had been involved in an accident and was in the hospital having surgery on his foot which had been badly damaged. As terrible as it might sound, this additional bad news had one good effect in that it snapped me out of a world that had rapidly shrunk down in the previous hour to the size of my own individual pain. I felt overwhelmed but also as if I could breathe and think again. I guess it gave me some needed perspective.
I don't want to drag this story on forever. We checked into the hospital. Everyone was very kind. At around 5 pm they started the induction process. Our baby boy was born at 1:44 am Saturday morning. Peter and I got to spend a few minutes holding him for which I was very grateful. Our doctor arrived to assist with the end of delivery and then we got a couple hours of sleep. We checked out of the hospital at around 10:30 am that morning, went home to shower, and then headed to St. Louis to see my mom and Eden. Today we are all home together again in our new house.
Just as before, except for those first few horrible hours, the real pain is only now slowly beginning. There's something about the initial activity that helps keep the pain back. You're distracted, focused on the needs at hand. But now I'm home and there's not a single thing to do that involves my baby. It's life as usual except for the huge gaping wound that is me in the midst of it.
We named him Judah St. John. That has been his name all along so it wasn't a hard decision. Back in the fall as another month passed in which we didn't get pregnant (we had been trying, yet again, for over a year), I had stood at the bathroom mirror and wondered almost absently to myself if we would ever have another baby. And it was almost as if I heard another voice in my head reply, "Yes. You will have a son, and you will name him Judah." I wondered if it was just me talking myself, a sort of internal pep talk. Judah seemed like kind of a strange name though, a bit out of the blue. I had always loved the story of the naming of Judah in the Bible, but he was also a bit of a notorious character - not necessarily someone you would want to name your child for. I mentioned it to Peter, and we both kind of thought, well, we'll see if it's even a boy... But over the course of my pregnancy we both started to think of the baby as a boy and as Judah, and every time someone made a guess as to gender, they also always guessed boy.
Judah means praise. In Genesis 29:31-35, you can find the beginning of his story. Leah, a woman whose husband does not love her, gives birth to four sons in a row. The first three she gives names that all have meanings connected to her hope that her husband will now love her for what she has given him. But on the birth of her fourth son, she states, “This time I will praise the LORD.” So she named him Judah. For some reason, even as a child I loved this story. I loved that Leah stopped trying to earn her husband's love and just decided to praise God for what he had given to her. I loved that it was out of the line of Judah that Jesus was born. Out of praise came Redemption. Out of praise came Love.
We had tossed around ideas for middle names, but had trouble coming up with anything that seemed to fit with Judah. At one point, I suggested we choose the name of someone we admired. Peter suggested St. John, which I thought was kind of neat, since the Apostle John (who refers to himself as the "disciple Jesus loved" in his own Gospel and who wrote some of the greatest words on Love in his epistles) is one of my favorite New Testament characters. But Peter was actually thinking of the famous Christian mystic, St. John of the Cross, who wrote the poem, Dark Night of the Soul. We kind of liked the way the two names sounded together although we knew they were both pretty unusual and together might just be a bit too much. Now they both just seem perfect to me - perfect to the situation, perfect to our son.
I don't really know what else to write at this point. Peter is home from work, I need to wake Eden up from her nap. We need to get dinner ready, wash dishes, do laundry. At some point I really need to get some more unpacking done.
We won't be putting together a nursery now. I have no idea what the future holds but can't imagine a situation in which a nursery would be of any use for well over a year at the very least. I don't say this out of some sort of gloomy negativity, but it is always possible that we may never have another need for a nursery. That's something that my heart, for its own protection, needs to remain open to.
Overall, we are in a better place that we were the last time this happened. We know what to expect. As much as anyone can, I know the road that lies before me. I hate it. I do. I so hate to be here again, to keep waking up to this same nightmare, this same grief, this same weight. But, I also have a tired, battered confidence that we will make it through. We will take one step after the next. We will bear it. And there will be a day when I will wake up and my first thought, my first very sensation, won't be of what I have lost.
I don't want to go on too long. I know people who have suffered much more than me and who have been and are so beautifully graceful in their grief. That is not me. I don't have any great or profound thoughts. I just want to get up and do the best I can with this moment. And the moment after that. And the moment after that. I know I am not alone. I know my Savior is with me. Sometimes He feels very close. More often right now, honestly, He feels a bit remote. But we've been down this road before together, and I trust Him. I know who He is. I know He loves me. He has not left me now. I know it is His mercies that get me through every moment. And I'm so thankful for that and thankful for what He will yet do.
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