Capture Your Grief: Now

 
I almost didn't open this page to write.  It was a long, sleepless night with a baby girl who was more fussy than usual and only wanted to be held.  I didn't crawl out of bed until almost 10:30, grateful for my husband who was entertaining the big kids downstairs so I could sleep but still weary eyed and exhausted. 

Needless to say, I've been tired all day.  And when I'm tired, my mind messes with me, anxious thoughts wreaking havoc on my heart and tears brimming over every little thing.  The dishwasher is broken and the dishes are piled high.  The carpet in the craft room is covered in broken egg shells from a certain toddler who thinks the garbage is a place to discover hidden treasures.  The laundry is spilling out of basket after basket waiting to be folded while piles of folded clothes are still piled high in the living room. I look around and all I see are messes and I kind of want to curl in a corner and hide from it all.  

I muster the energy to wash the dishes while the big kids giggle hysterically over nothing in their rooms and the littlest one coos and squirms around next to me.  Somehow cleaning, when I can zone out the rest of the noise and chaos around me, soothes and quiets my restless mind.  I feel refreshed staring at a clean sink and a pile of drying dishes.  I scoop up the littlest one who is beginning to fuss again and she relaxes in the curve of my shoulder while I quietly walk upstairs to check in on the big kids. 

As I walk upstairs, I smile and remember that all of this - the noise, the mess, the sleepless nights - are exactly what I've always wanted.  Even the hard moments are a gift, the sacred mundane found in embracing my calling and counting my blessings one by one. 

Sometimes I feel guilty when this motherhood journey is hard and I find myself crying over nothing and everything.  I know too many women who want this and I know I shouldn't take this for granted.  I would take sleepless nights over and over just to have our Hope here in my arms.  It's such a precarious balance between acknowledging the hard and embracing the gift of every moment, good and bad. 

Even as I finish writing this, my littlest one is fussing again, just moments after I laid her down after falling asleep nursing.  Part of me is exhausted from the endless demands of motherhood, but I know this is a gift and I really am grateful for this life.  So, I will scoop her up, kiss her cheeks, and hold her close again...and again...and again. 

 

Capture Your Grief: Before

For as long as I can remember, motherhood has been part of my dream.  As the oldest of five, I've always been a mommy at heart.  From the moment I first saw those tiny blue lines, the dream grew as I began to plan and prepare for the long awaited one whose tiny heart was already beating to the tune of her own dance.

I read every book, followed so many do's and don'ts, and counted down the days to my due date.  When the day came and went and two weeks later I was still swollen with child, I began to give up on my carefully laid out plans.  The moment I walked in those revolving hospital doors without even a single contraction just waiting for my doctor to coax our baby into the world is the moment I began to realize that life doesn't always go as planned.

I didn't realize how blindsided I would be for the storms brewing in our future.  After a long and difficult labor, our firstborn entered the world...and was quickly whisked away to the nursery before I even got to hold her in my arms.  I didn't even hear her cry and the only glimpse I caught of her was from a distance as the nurse carried her away.

She had swallowed so much meconium the doctors and nurses first thought she had developed pneumonia from the junk that caught in her tiny little lungs.  But, less than twelve hours after her arrival, when her tiny body began seizing, my world fell apart.  I could hardly breathe as I stared at the nurse and doctor hovering over her and I barely heard their words to us as I rushed back to my hospital room and collapsed on the floor as my already sore and aching body gave way to gut wrenching sobs.

We still don't know what exactly caused her seizures, but, after two weeks in a nearby NICU, she was miraculously healed.  We brought her home and tried to put those scary days behind us...until, just fourteen months later, our second born arrived three weeks early with premature lungs and was rushed to the same NICU.  We took him home one week later and everyone told me that all was now well.  I had two healthy babies and those traumatic experiences were buried deep in the past...

...except...I couldn't forget.  I fell into a depression that gave way to nearly debilitating anxiety after the death of my dear grandfather.  I realized that just like I needed to allow myself to grieve the loss of my grandfather, I needed to grieve the birth experiences I had wanted and process the emotions of their traumatic arrivals.  I spent over a year in counseling and when my youngest turned three, I was finally ready to welcome our third little one.

His birth was empowering and healing in so many ways.  I had thought my body was broken and hated the way I thought it had failed me before.  When the doctor laid him on my chest just moments after my body brought him into the world was a moment I'll never forget.  I held him close, only allowing him to leave my sight when the pediatrician arrived later that day to check him over and declare him healthy as can be.  Taking him home less than 48 hours after his arrival was something I never thought I'd experience.

Traumatic birth experiences and postpartum depression were hard enough, but I never thought I'd add baby loss to my story of motherhood.  While I was pregnant with my third, I watched two friends grieve the loss of babies gone too soon and I prayed with another dear friend whose unborn baby was so very sick.  I knew about baby loss, but I didn't know what it was like to have a child torn from your womb and to feel the ache of empty arms and broken dreams.  

When I stare at the photo of my first tiny baby bump, my firstborn just beginning to grow in my womb, I realize just how much I have also grown along the way.  The person I was before had no fears about pregnancy and birth except the discomfort of morning sickness and the expected pain of childbirth.  I didn't expect to be on this journey, but, then, who does?

I miss the innocence of that first pregnancy and the pure joy that knew nothing of trauma and loss.  There really is no "safe" zone.  Every moment is a gift and I cannot know what the future holds.  All I can do is rest in the security of a God who knows and goes before me.  He has never once left my side and He is always faithful, even in the storms.

 

Capture Your Grief: Heart

My dearest Hope,

I miss you.  Some days that's all there is...because one moment you were here and the next you were gone, but still you hold a place so deeply engraved on my heart.  I can't forget you and I never will.  As long as I walk this earth, I will carry you with me wherever I go. 

I hold your little sister close enough to kiss and I wonder...what would it have been like to hold you close, curled up in my arms, your heart beat matching my own.  I never did hear your heart beat this side of heaven.  All I knew of you were two tiny blue lines that all too soon had faded away to dust and ashes as my heart broke. 

You are as much a part of me as the two sisters and two brothers who walk this earth and yet I have nothing to show for you except dreams that never came true.  I smile as they smile, laugh as they laugh, cry as they cry...and all the while I wonder what it would have been like to hear your voice and watch you grow.  Your little sister coos and smiles and my heart melts at the same time it aches.  It's bittersweet, this remembering the moments long gone while still living and embracing the moments here and now. 

I can't make sense of it and maybe I don't need to try.  Some questions will be left unanswered this side of heaven.  The one thing I can hold onto always and forever is hope, because you remind me that this life is not all there is and that my story will never be complete or perfected here on earth.  I move forward, living and loving and grateful for every morning I wake to new mercies and a life that is still unfolding...carrying close to my heart the memory of you. 

As long as there is breath on my lips and as long as my heart beats, there is good, even in the storms.  One day I will see you for real and oh, what a glorious day that will be. 

Always,
Your mommy

Capture Your Grief: Sunrise

I woke that morning, nearly one year ago, weary from a late night argument with the man I sometimes forget is my friend and not my enemy.  My stomach aches, but I'm not surprised.  Words were spoken that never should have been said and I wish I could turn back time and redo the entire conversation. 

I groan as I roll out of bed and the pain in my belly grows worse.  For a brief moment I wonder if it's more than just carrying the weight of stress and hurt for the road we've been walking for just over a month.  We're both confused and unsteady as we navigate through the fog, trying to find our way to greener pastures and wondering all the while how He can make good out of this. 

I make my way to the bathroom...and there it is...the bright red stain I can't ever forget.  I feel the panic rising and I try to calm myself with reason, hoping against all odds that this is not what it looks like. I shower and try to let the warm water wash over my aches and pains, soothing and calming the fears fighting their way to the surface, but I can't. 

I find him at the kitchen table, just sitting down for breakfast and the tears fall.  His mom notices and she holds me close.  We voice every possible reason we could be wrong...but somehow, I already know. 

She's gone...and my world will never again be the same. 

***

I wake to the early morning squirms and grunts of our littlest one and my alarm goes off before I can tuck myself further under the covers in hopes that she will fall back asleep.  She's slept for a long stretch, but it was still a late night and I am still so tired.  I scoop her into my arms, gently soothing her with my words as I choose to welcome the day with joy instead of regrets.  She nurses quietly and I allow my body to relax and rest for just a few minutes more. 

As soon as her tummy is full, I lay her back in her bed and climb into the shower, letting the warm water wash over my aches and pains, remembering and wondering how to make sense of the long road we've traveled in just one year, but I can't. 

How do you explain the bitter and the sweet, the joy and the sorrow, the good and the bad...and the way one year has both knocked us off our feet and set our feet dancing for joy? 

There are moments that still feel like a gut punch to the soul.  I stare at the sweet smiles and coos of our littlest one, the rainbow after the storm, and I am in awe of the gift she is.  But still I ache, my arms longing for the one gone too soon.  It doesn't matter how brief her life was.  She was still here and she was still ours. 

***

I put on my walking shoes, tuck my littlest one close enough to kiss, and make my way outside to capture the sunrise.  It's brighter than when I first arose, but the sun is nowhere in sight.  All I see are clouds and somehow it seems right.  I turn down the dirt path by the water and think about the times the path before us has seemed so dim and we've been left with more questions than answers. 

I'm disappointed I won't be capturing a pretty sunrise, but then I spot the soft glow of a street light and the "Dead End Ahead" sign.  Somehow this view seems more perfect than a picture perfect sunrise.  The sign warns me of what's ahead, but the soft glow of the street light and the sound of gentle waters urge me forward. 

This journey has been much like that path.  That morning I woke to a bright red stain warning me of what was ahead stopped me dead in my tracks.  The outlook was gloomy and overcast and I didn't want to keep walking.  I wanted to stop and turn around, because who wants to go down a Dead End? 

But even when all hope seemed lost, there was One light that still shined, reminding me that all hope was not lost and that our Hope would always be here with us.  He has both carried and led me forward, one unsteady step at a time.  I've wondered and I've wandered, but still His love remained. 

And so, here I am, one year later, piecing together threads of memories that somehow still make a beautiful tapestry.  It's still hard and I still ache, but He is still good and there is still so much that lies ahead.

***

This month, I'm participating in Carly Marie's Capture Your Grief, in honor of Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month.  I'll be sharing my daily photos on Instagram and Facebook and hopefully using some of the prompts as writing inspiration, because writing is so healing and good for my soul...and, plus, I miss writing here.