Prayer. Something that has always come so easy for me, a way to talk to God to tell him about this glorious life and all the goodness I have felt. A way to show my appreciation, my gratitude and my love for Him. A small gesture I am so used to performing to explicitly portray my thankfulness for this life that I have been given.
This plain word and simple little act has changed so much throughout this grieving process. After Harper passed away prayer quickly turned into questions, soulful pleading and misunderstandings. What once was used as a tranquil way to say thank you turned into a catastrophic plea for answers. Why? How? When? ... all of these words started my new attempts of prayer. Is it possible to even be thankful in a time like this? Will I ever find the beauty in this immense sorrow that now overtakes me? Joy, does that word even have a meaning these days? Those were the thoughts that now ran rampant through my mind at the thought of prayer.
After Harper left this world I felt myself searching for a way to find fullness again, a way to bring back the naïve feelings of life before loss. Anything to avoid the pain, I would do anything to avoid the deep ache that tugs at my heart, the tug that some days seems to be so much that it brings me to my knees. Church, the house of God, it has to be there that I will feel re-connected again, it has to be there that my soul will find it's way again, it just has to be. Do I ask for forgiveness? Do I sing his praise? Do I mourn the death of my daughter or do I rejoice knowing she is with our Savior? Where were my answers...
I learned though that the answer is: All of the Above and None of the Above. It doesn't make sense, I know this. But that is the answer. There is no yes and there isn't a no. There is just Faith. There is just God. There is just belief. That is what you cling to, that is what you hope for and that is what you search for. We BELIEVE. It becomes a magical word that we (Parents of Loss) learn to live by. Rooted deep in our Hope. It's not much, but it's enough most days.
I received communion several times while I was on bed rest in the hospital. It was a quiet few minutes, where we would close our eyes and pray to our Lord for the health of Harper. It was a time where I could cherish that little human growing inside of me. It was a time where I was able to recognize the miracle of life and how precious it can be. It was a time that I looked forward to each and every day. So much so, that when I was discharged from the hospital I had this insane pull towards church. I felt that the only way I could feel those feelings again, the only way that I could feel connected to my daughter again was to attend mass. I mean, wouldn't it be in the Lord's house that I would feel the safest? Wouldn't it be in the Lord's house that maybe, just maybe, some of my questions would be answered? Isn't it in the Lord's house that I would see my little girl again? (maybe not physically, but spiritually). I yearned for the strongest connection that I could possibly gain. I needed something to fill me because at that time, my soul was running near empty.
I did not get the answers I was looking for unfortunately. I did not feel like I was fulfilled when I walked through those doors. Instead, when I attended Mass (the Easter season nonetheless) all I could see filling the room was joy, perfection, glory and praise. For the first time in my life, I truly felt alone. Every time I attended mass for the first few months, it took so much strength inside of me to fight the tears back. Why you ask? Because everything surrounding me looked like perfection and appeared so put together; all while I felt so broken inside. There was the lovely family of four sitting in front of us, maybe they too should be a family five, but at that moment, their life looked so ideal. Or how sweet was that little girl sitting four rows and to the right of us all dressed up in her frilly dress and large "Texas sized" bow. When I looked around, all I could feel was sadness inside of me. All I could feel was pain. That sharp, stabbing, aching pain that cuts me deep every time. I knew I had to take a break. Not from God, I needed him more than ever, but I had to take a break from his home. I needed to bring Him into mine, before searching for Him in His.
But...
With time and healing, I was able to see the light again when I returned. With time and healing I could watch that sweet little girl four rows in front of us and smile. With time and healing I didn't have to fight back the tears anymore (or at least, as often). With time and healing I didn't feel so alone anymore. With time and healing my prayers were resembling some normality again. As we approach Harpers First birthday and I begin to relive the beginning of {This Unimaginable Journey} I am feeling more full than I could have ever imagined I would feel. I am feeling more alive. I am full of hope and I am full of peace. Peace in knowing that my daughter still lives within me. Peace in knowing that she is our child and Peace in knowing that she will always be loved and will not be forgotten.
Of course there is still sadness, there will always be sorrow, but those days are becoming less and less. Those days don't define me anymore. The days that define me are the ones spent celebrating her life. The moments that I get to tell Levi he has a baby sister. The moments that I watch him point to a picture of an angel and say "Harper". (I'm pretty sure he's going to think Angels are called "Harper" for quite awhile). I look forward to our prayers at night, the prayers where Levi says her name { God Bless Mommy, Daddy, Harper and Spaten.} I cherish the small little signs that my heart tells me were sent by her. Those are the moments that define me. My two beautiful, amazing, and talented children and my husband who never ceases to amaze me. Moments with them are what I cherish most and for that I am so very very thankful.
So with time and healing and with hope in my heart I will pick up another broken piece on this Unimaginable Journey and place it lovingly where it belongs because in a few short weeks we will be celebrating Harper's First Birthday, a day I wasn't sure I would be able to make it too, let alone, look forward too. This journey has been hard but this journey has been so incredibly rewarding as well. To my beautiful daughter up above "Mommy Loves You!".
Sunday, February 26, 2017
Sunday, January 29, 2017
She was Worth It All
I've shared with everyone the emotional day that we found out that Harper was sick, the day that will forever be engrained in my heart and my soul because it was the day that Harper was given a very poor prognosis. At just 30 weeks, we were forced to soak in so much information regarding our little girl; news that we were not expecting by any means. Several times that first night we heard the phrase "Neonatal Palliative Care" and working in the health industry I knew exactly what this meant. You didn't have to give me a statistic on my daughter's prognosis, I didn't need a "%" because hearing those words to me only meant one thing, these doctors don't expect my little one to live. To say my heart was crushed is by far an understatement. I honestly don't think there are words in this world to describe the feeling parents endure when they find out their growing child is most likely not going to make it.
I was admitted to the hospital that night, and for the first night Harper and I hung out with a monitor for 24 hours to make sure her heart rate was doing well and that she did not appear in distress. My blood pressure was monitored and I was immediately given my first dose of steroids to help with Harper's lung development. That night we met with the neonatologist doctor who also specialized in their "palliative care" department.
At 1 am, we sat with this doctor discussing what we should expect with our diagnosis of Non Immune Hydrops.
She started off by explaining the basics: "Here's what I can tell you to expect with a "typical" hydrops case. Hydrops is defined as unexpected fluid in 2 or more abnormal spaces within your child. Over 50% of these cases don't have a known cause of why the fluid is there, which makes it difficult for us to treat at times. Most hydrops babies come out looking like the Michelin Man due to the amount of fluid formulating in them. Your doctor says Harper's fluid looks to be primarily around the lungs, heart and under her skin. Our main goal will be to insert chest tubes as fast as possible and see how much fluid we can get off of her while attempting to circulate oxygen throughout her lungs and body. One fear is that sometimes you drain the fluid and it comes back. We won't be sure what we are dealing with fully until she is born, and I have to tell you that to me a successful hydrops case is being able to stabilize your child long enough to get her out of the delivery room and into the NICU and even if she makes it to the NICU she will have a very long and scary road ahead of her. This will not be easy for you guys or for her. You will need to think hard about the measures you will want to take when she is born."
I remember listening, just listening to one devastating word after another: chest tubes, NICU, palliative care, small chances, swollen, excess fluid, no known cause. My mind was still just trying to sort through the overload of information. The phrase, "How did this happen?" was circling through my mind and was honestly all that I could focus on at this time. When the doctor left I looked at Adam and I just cried. I had to let it all out, I had to let it all go because I needed to be able to fight. I needed to be able to wipe the tears away and brave this cruel world and what it might have to offer. I looked at Adam after a few minutes and told him that I would try not to let the "unknown" get to be me because I knew the best way to keep Harper happy and healthy inside of me was for me to remain as healthy, happy and calm as possible; even when I felt the darkest I've ever felt in my life.
This darkness was so new to me. Harper had looked so healthy and happy, waving to the US at 20 weeks without complications... until now. This darkness rapidly appeared, in full force, just a few hours before when I heard the words uttered, "I'm sorry this is a very poor prognosis and it's likely your baby won't make it". Such cruel words, but I also remember thinking at that moment though that I refused to give up. I refused to lose hope, I was going to find the light; there had to be some small chance that this could all be wrong. I refused to live in the darkness while I spent the next few weeks in the hospital. Harper and I were going to fight, and we were going to do anything it took to giver her a chance at life even if it meant just a few more weeks spent happily inside her Mommy. I would be lying though if I didn't tell you that at the same time this was all happening, I felt like such a failure. I was suppose to be the one protecting our daughter, I was the one carrying her and responsible for her, what had I done? How had I messed up? How did this happen?
A few weeks ago she was healthy, she was growing. A few weeks ago we were listening to her heart rate, we were counting down the weeks left to go, we were preparing Levi for the new addition and all it took was a few minutes of an ultrasound to change that direction entirely. Now all of a sudden we were talking about "palliative measures" and "she may just need comfort more than care." Devastation. Complete and utter devastation. Our entire world had changed in a matter of seconds and after soaking it all in, we knew exactly where we stood: In Love with our growing family and at the Mercy of the Lord.
The next few days were spent drawing blood and sending my labs off for test, after test, after test in order to try to find a reason for why our daughter developed this condition. In over half of Non- Immune Hydrops cases a reason is never found. Hydrops can be caused by so many variants: Parvo Virus, Genetic Abnormalities, Lymphatic Malformation and so on. After several tests, we fell into the half that would ride out this journey having no idea why Harper was filling with fluid. The specialists had "assumptions" of what they thought might have caused it, but those were exactly it, "assumptions" because nothing was coming out clear. Our little girl was fighting for her life inside of me and we had no idea the cause. (The likelihood of developing non-immune hydrops is said to be less than 1%).
The specialist also came out every day for the remainder of that week to perform an US to check on our little girls development. When he came out the following day after Harper's diagnosis he told us he felt "cautiously optimistic" over what he found. I can't even tell you what these words did to my heart and my soul. I knew we still had a long road ahead of us, but there was indeed Hope. He did not find fluid around her heart as he had suspected the night before, he found her breathing within me, which he had not found the previous night as well and the fluid seemed to not be as "terrible" as he had thought the night before. Those findings were all this Momma needed to keep it together. Those findings were the answers to my prayers while I planned to ride this pregnancy out. The plan was to let Harper develop as much as we possibly could inside of me. She was stable and happy and neither her nor I were showing extreme signs of distress, so the goal was to try to reach 37 weeks if possible in hopes that her lungs were developing under the pressure of all the fluid surrounding them, and there unfortunately, was a lot of fluid surrounding them.
The days went by: Adam and Levi came to visit me every single night, our parents took turns coming down to help assist with Levi (since it was Adam's busy season at work), the specialist began with three visits a week to scan Harper and since the fluid was not changing (thankfully not getting worse) she was bumped down to twice weekly scans. She moved day in and day out. She was feisty, she was sassy, she was most nurses favorite little girl and yet at the same time I was reminded by some that she was the most sick of all the little babies on the floor at that time.
Three times a day for every day that I was in the hospital they would monitor Harper's heart rate to make sure she was not in distress. Boy, did she dislike this time of the day. She would kick, squirm, push and hide to get away from the heart rate monitor. There were times I was hooked up to that machine for 3+ hours for one simple reading because she refused to let them find her. Momma's back dreaded the days she would not cooperate because lying still and being the size of "pregnant with twins|" (how my specialist defined the amount of fluid I was carrying) was most definitely not my idea of fun and my joints agreed. Nevertheless, she was worth every painful joint spent hooked up to that monitor. I cherished every movement I felt because I wasn't sure what was waiting for us on the other side of this world.
About a week in, the scans showed that I was retaining a massive amount of fluid myself. I specifically remember the specialist asking "Do you have trouble breathing? Are you tired all the time?" I laughed and told him "I'm pregnant and have an 18 month old, isn't it normal to be tired?" He laughed back and agreed. Nevertheless, it was recommended that we do an amniocentesis so that we could test for any genetic abnormalities that may have caused this disorder, we could double check the disease panel and they could drain fluid off of me. I was hesitant and so scared. What if this caused me to go into labor? Harper just needs to more time. After many prayers we decided to go for it and everything went well. Harper found the shiny needle they had placed in my belly (and literally was playing with it!) and they were able to drain over a liter of fluid out of me. Harper seemed to be a little upset over the decreased space for movement she now had but she responded really well from the procedure and I miraculously could breathe a little better and sit up a little straighter the next day.
About two weeks later on Monday, March 14, Harper had an abnormal reading on one of the heart strips and they weren't sure if it was because something was happening or because she was being stubborn. The specialist was called in to do an ultrasound. I remember telling Adam when I called him to fill him in "I think they are just over reacting, everything is fine. I feel fine, Harper is moving like crazy, everything is fine." {If you couldn't tell, fine was my new favorite word.} Part of me knows I had to say that to Adam though because I had to believe everything was going to be ok but in reality deep down I was afraid. I was terrified of what an abnormal finding might entail because I couldn't lose Hope. Hope was the only normalcy I was clinging to these days. Hope was my survival. Thankfully, when the specialist arrived that evening, I could take a deep breath because everything looked fairly normal. She informed me though that at this point the cord flow from my placenta to Harper was not as strong as they would like, but it was not "alarming" yet. With this type of finding the cord flow tends to either correct itself within a few days or will continue to deteriorate. Which if that was the case, Harper would be joining us soon. The specialist said she would be back again later that week to monitor Harper and see how everything looked. That night she took a little extra time with me to show me my beautiful fighter. She showed me the breathing movements that Harper was displaying inside of me {She told me she was going to be a strong little girl if she could still breathe with all of that surrounding fluid}. She showed me how much hair she had. I could see all the fuzzy little follicles on her computer screen. She even stated that she thought the swelling under the skin might be resolving a bit and she told me that her movement was still looking good. I remember thinking to myself and whispering to Harper after she left "See, we knew everything was fine."
Unfortunately, everything wasn't fine though; that hiccup was most likely the first sign that our world was about to change forever and Harper was about to have the biggest fight for her life, and unfortunately Mommy was about too as well. But I'll share more about that day later because for today, I'm going to cherish the time that Harper and I spent together. Our time laughing, watching HGTV, visiting with family and friends, snuggling her big brother and rejoicing; because for 3.5 weeks that's what we tried to do each and every day and it was so worth it. She was worth every back aching moment I spent in that hospital bed.
So today I am going to pick up another one of those broken pieces and place it lovingly where it belongs on this journey while I cherish each memory that I have of my beautiful daughter and thank God for the beautiful moments we had together because they were all worth it. She was so incredibly worth it.
I was admitted to the hospital that night, and for the first night Harper and I hung out with a monitor for 24 hours to make sure her heart rate was doing well and that she did not appear in distress. My blood pressure was monitored and I was immediately given my first dose of steroids to help with Harper's lung development. That night we met with the neonatologist doctor who also specialized in their "palliative care" department.
At 1 am, we sat with this doctor discussing what we should expect with our diagnosis of Non Immune Hydrops.
She started off by explaining the basics: "Here's what I can tell you to expect with a "typical" hydrops case. Hydrops is defined as unexpected fluid in 2 or more abnormal spaces within your child. Over 50% of these cases don't have a known cause of why the fluid is there, which makes it difficult for us to treat at times. Most hydrops babies come out looking like the Michelin Man due to the amount of fluid formulating in them. Your doctor says Harper's fluid looks to be primarily around the lungs, heart and under her skin. Our main goal will be to insert chest tubes as fast as possible and see how much fluid we can get off of her while attempting to circulate oxygen throughout her lungs and body. One fear is that sometimes you drain the fluid and it comes back. We won't be sure what we are dealing with fully until she is born, and I have to tell you that to me a successful hydrops case is being able to stabilize your child long enough to get her out of the delivery room and into the NICU and even if she makes it to the NICU she will have a very long and scary road ahead of her. This will not be easy for you guys or for her. You will need to think hard about the measures you will want to take when she is born."
I remember listening, just listening to one devastating word after another: chest tubes, NICU, palliative care, small chances, swollen, excess fluid, no known cause. My mind was still just trying to sort through the overload of information. The phrase, "How did this happen?" was circling through my mind and was honestly all that I could focus on at this time. When the doctor left I looked at Adam and I just cried. I had to let it all out, I had to let it all go because I needed to be able to fight. I needed to be able to wipe the tears away and brave this cruel world and what it might have to offer. I looked at Adam after a few minutes and told him that I would try not to let the "unknown" get to be me because I knew the best way to keep Harper happy and healthy inside of me was for me to remain as healthy, happy and calm as possible; even when I felt the darkest I've ever felt in my life.
This darkness was so new to me. Harper had looked so healthy and happy, waving to the US at 20 weeks without complications... until now. This darkness rapidly appeared, in full force, just a few hours before when I heard the words uttered, "I'm sorry this is a very poor prognosis and it's likely your baby won't make it". Such cruel words, but I also remember thinking at that moment though that I refused to give up. I refused to lose hope, I was going to find the light; there had to be some small chance that this could all be wrong. I refused to live in the darkness while I spent the next few weeks in the hospital. Harper and I were going to fight, and we were going to do anything it took to giver her a chance at life even if it meant just a few more weeks spent happily inside her Mommy. I would be lying though if I didn't tell you that at the same time this was all happening, I felt like such a failure. I was suppose to be the one protecting our daughter, I was the one carrying her and responsible for her, what had I done? How had I messed up? How did this happen?
A few weeks ago she was healthy, she was growing. A few weeks ago we were listening to her heart rate, we were counting down the weeks left to go, we were preparing Levi for the new addition and all it took was a few minutes of an ultrasound to change that direction entirely. Now all of a sudden we were talking about "palliative measures" and "she may just need comfort more than care." Devastation. Complete and utter devastation. Our entire world had changed in a matter of seconds and after soaking it all in, we knew exactly where we stood: In Love with our growing family and at the Mercy of the Lord.
The next few days were spent drawing blood and sending my labs off for test, after test, after test in order to try to find a reason for why our daughter developed this condition. In over half of Non- Immune Hydrops cases a reason is never found. Hydrops can be caused by so many variants: Parvo Virus, Genetic Abnormalities, Lymphatic Malformation and so on. After several tests, we fell into the half that would ride out this journey having no idea why Harper was filling with fluid. The specialists had "assumptions" of what they thought might have caused it, but those were exactly it, "assumptions" because nothing was coming out clear. Our little girl was fighting for her life inside of me and we had no idea the cause. (The likelihood of developing non-immune hydrops is said to be less than 1%).
The specialist also came out every day for the remainder of that week to perform an US to check on our little girls development. When he came out the following day after Harper's diagnosis he told us he felt "cautiously optimistic" over what he found. I can't even tell you what these words did to my heart and my soul. I knew we still had a long road ahead of us, but there was indeed Hope. He did not find fluid around her heart as he had suspected the night before, he found her breathing within me, which he had not found the previous night as well and the fluid seemed to not be as "terrible" as he had thought the night before. Those findings were all this Momma needed to keep it together. Those findings were the answers to my prayers while I planned to ride this pregnancy out. The plan was to let Harper develop as much as we possibly could inside of me. She was stable and happy and neither her nor I were showing extreme signs of distress, so the goal was to try to reach 37 weeks if possible in hopes that her lungs were developing under the pressure of all the fluid surrounding them, and there unfortunately, was a lot of fluid surrounding them.
The days went by: Adam and Levi came to visit me every single night, our parents took turns coming down to help assist with Levi (since it was Adam's busy season at work), the specialist began with three visits a week to scan Harper and since the fluid was not changing (thankfully not getting worse) she was bumped down to twice weekly scans. She moved day in and day out. She was feisty, she was sassy, she was most nurses favorite little girl and yet at the same time I was reminded by some that she was the most sick of all the little babies on the floor at that time.
Three times a day for every day that I was in the hospital they would monitor Harper's heart rate to make sure she was not in distress. Boy, did she dislike this time of the day. She would kick, squirm, push and hide to get away from the heart rate monitor. There were times I was hooked up to that machine for 3+ hours for one simple reading because she refused to let them find her. Momma's back dreaded the days she would not cooperate because lying still and being the size of "pregnant with twins|" (how my specialist defined the amount of fluid I was carrying) was most definitely not my idea of fun and my joints agreed. Nevertheless, she was worth every painful joint spent hooked up to that monitor. I cherished every movement I felt because I wasn't sure what was waiting for us on the other side of this world.
About a week in, the scans showed that I was retaining a massive amount of fluid myself. I specifically remember the specialist asking "Do you have trouble breathing? Are you tired all the time?" I laughed and told him "I'm pregnant and have an 18 month old, isn't it normal to be tired?" He laughed back and agreed. Nevertheless, it was recommended that we do an amniocentesis so that we could test for any genetic abnormalities that may have caused this disorder, we could double check the disease panel and they could drain fluid off of me. I was hesitant and so scared. What if this caused me to go into labor? Harper just needs to more time. After many prayers we decided to go for it and everything went well. Harper found the shiny needle they had placed in my belly (and literally was playing with it!) and they were able to drain over a liter of fluid out of me. Harper seemed to be a little upset over the decreased space for movement she now had but she responded really well from the procedure and I miraculously could breathe a little better and sit up a little straighter the next day.
About two weeks later on Monday, March 14, Harper had an abnormal reading on one of the heart strips and they weren't sure if it was because something was happening or because she was being stubborn. The specialist was called in to do an ultrasound. I remember telling Adam when I called him to fill him in "I think they are just over reacting, everything is fine. I feel fine, Harper is moving like crazy, everything is fine." {If you couldn't tell, fine was my new favorite word.} Part of me knows I had to say that to Adam though because I had to believe everything was going to be ok but in reality deep down I was afraid. I was terrified of what an abnormal finding might entail because I couldn't lose Hope. Hope was the only normalcy I was clinging to these days. Hope was my survival. Thankfully, when the specialist arrived that evening, I could take a deep breath because everything looked fairly normal. She informed me though that at this point the cord flow from my placenta to Harper was not as strong as they would like, but it was not "alarming" yet. With this type of finding the cord flow tends to either correct itself within a few days or will continue to deteriorate. Which if that was the case, Harper would be joining us soon. The specialist said she would be back again later that week to monitor Harper and see how everything looked. That night she took a little extra time with me to show me my beautiful fighter. She showed me the breathing movements that Harper was displaying inside of me {She told me she was going to be a strong little girl if she could still breathe with all of that surrounding fluid}. She showed me how much hair she had. I could see all the fuzzy little follicles on her computer screen. She even stated that she thought the swelling under the skin might be resolving a bit and she told me that her movement was still looking good. I remember thinking to myself and whispering to Harper after she left "See, we knew everything was fine."
Unfortunately, everything wasn't fine though; that hiccup was most likely the first sign that our world was about to change forever and Harper was about to have the biggest fight for her life, and unfortunately Mommy was about too as well. But I'll share more about that day later because for today, I'm going to cherish the time that Harper and I spent together. Our time laughing, watching HGTV, visiting with family and friends, snuggling her big brother and rejoicing; because for 3.5 weeks that's what we tried to do each and every day and it was so worth it. She was worth every back aching moment I spent in that hospital bed.
So today I am going to pick up another one of those broken pieces and place it lovingly where it belongs on this journey while I cherish each memory that I have of my beautiful daughter and thank God for the beautiful moments we had together because they were all worth it. She was so incredibly worth it.
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
* I Did It *
We made it through the holidays. That time of year where you find it becoming harder and harder to tuck those emotions deep inside. That time of year where everyone just wants to celebrate but you find yourself coming up with a reason to pull yourself out of bed. It's a time where it becomes more noticeable that we have lost this past year. So many feelings are swirling through the air: Joyful. Sad. Heavy Hearted. Wishful. Hopeful. Mournful. Happy. {It's a tainted happiness for most, but we rejoice because it is happiness nonetheless.}
There are times when your heart starts to race, when anxiety takes over and all of the questions and thoughts that you have been trying to avoid all year surround you. I mean, How do I tell everyone what I'm thankful for at Thanksgiving? (a word that every mom of loss struggles with). There should be another stocking hung this year, or another pile of presents placed under that tree. I should be buying two Christmas outfits this year, for my two children, but yet I find myself shopping only for a two year old little boy. Pain. It just stabs at you because someone is missing and you pray that they are not forgotten. Celebrate? Come on, I'm not even sure I 100% know what that word means anymore.
But nevertheless, a mother of loss will attempt to slap that smile on her face, tuck those feelings deep inside and face the day (whatever it might bring) with as much strength as she bears. Grief is the feeling that wants to overtake. Which is why for moments like this, it takes so much strength to find the joy. It takes strength to find the smile. It takes strength to find the peace. What once was easy at this time of year is now the hardest. It's so true when I say, the holidays are simply and utterly, exhausting.
This year, I was dreading the thought of ringing in the "New Year". It reminded me that it was no longer "I lost my daughter earlier this year", it was now "I lost my daughter last March." and every year after that will be another. It's hard. Part of me still thinks this past year was all a dream. There are days I still find myself thinking, did this really happen? Will I still wake up and it all be a bad dream? and then I lie in bed and look to my left and see the Urns of my little girl sitting upon her shelf showered with the words "WE SHALL FIND OUR LITTLE ONES AGAIN UP ABOVE" and I remember that it was not a dream by any means. That this was indeed, my reality.
At the beginning of this journey, I just wanted this year to be over, I wanted to forget everything that happened, I wanted to go back to the "old" me. But throughout this year I have changed, I have grown and I would never ask for this year back. I am so incredibly sad to see this year go because it was the year I got to meet an Angel, it was the year I learned more about myself than I ever thought imaginable. With the help of God, family, friends and my sweet Angel, {I Did It}. I overcame this year. I fought hard and I never gave up. Accepting a new year is hard. A New Year means the recovery for 2017 has just begun, a fork in the road for this unimaginable journey has arrived and I must figure out which path to take. How does one start a new year with so much history behind them?
As my heart aches that 2016 has come to a close, I take a deep breathe, I slow down and I remember that this journey has just begun. I open my heart, I open my mind and I open my soul for what 2017 has to offer. I have to remember that just because 2016 is over, my daughters memory is not. It is just the beginning. 2017 will bring her first birthday, it will bring her first angelversary; with that and with each coming year I will hold on to her. I will hold on to those three sweet days that I got to be with her here. I will hold on to those few hours that I got to hold her in my arms. I will FOREVER and always remember every part of her. I am her momma and she is my daughter and that will never change. So the holidays are hard. True. But only because we loved unconditionally. There will never come a day I don't celebrate her with all of my heart, just like I do her older brother. It's a constant reminder that I truly am one lucky Momma.
So I start this new year, picking up some of the broken pieces and placing them back along this unimaginable journey so that I may find myself traveling down the path that will one day lead me back to my beautiful little girl. Happy 2017 Everyone, and to my little Angel Above {Every year will be your year; fly high beautiful girl}
There are times when your heart starts to race, when anxiety takes over and all of the questions and thoughts that you have been trying to avoid all year surround you. I mean, How do I tell everyone what I'm thankful for at Thanksgiving? (a word that every mom of loss struggles with). There should be another stocking hung this year, or another pile of presents placed under that tree. I should be buying two Christmas outfits this year, for my two children, but yet I find myself shopping only for a two year old little boy. Pain. It just stabs at you because someone is missing and you pray that they are not forgotten. Celebrate? Come on, I'm not even sure I 100% know what that word means anymore.
But nevertheless, a mother of loss will attempt to slap that smile on her face, tuck those feelings deep inside and face the day (whatever it might bring) with as much strength as she bears. Grief is the feeling that wants to overtake. Which is why for moments like this, it takes so much strength to find the joy. It takes strength to find the smile. It takes strength to find the peace. What once was easy at this time of year is now the hardest. It's so true when I say, the holidays are simply and utterly, exhausting.
This year, I was dreading the thought of ringing in the "New Year". It reminded me that it was no longer "I lost my daughter earlier this year", it was now "I lost my daughter last March." and every year after that will be another. It's hard. Part of me still thinks this past year was all a dream. There are days I still find myself thinking, did this really happen? Will I still wake up and it all be a bad dream? and then I lie in bed and look to my left and see the Urns of my little girl sitting upon her shelf showered with the words "WE SHALL FIND OUR LITTLE ONES AGAIN UP ABOVE" and I remember that it was not a dream by any means. That this was indeed, my reality.
At the beginning of this journey, I just wanted this year to be over, I wanted to forget everything that happened, I wanted to go back to the "old" me. But throughout this year I have changed, I have grown and I would never ask for this year back. I am so incredibly sad to see this year go because it was the year I got to meet an Angel, it was the year I learned more about myself than I ever thought imaginable. With the help of God, family, friends and my sweet Angel, {I Did It}. I overcame this year. I fought hard and I never gave up. Accepting a new year is hard. A New Year means the recovery for 2017 has just begun, a fork in the road for this unimaginable journey has arrived and I must figure out which path to take. How does one start a new year with so much history behind them?
As my heart aches that 2016 has come to a close, I take a deep breathe, I slow down and I remember that this journey has just begun. I open my heart, I open my mind and I open my soul for what 2017 has to offer. I have to remember that just because 2016 is over, my daughters memory is not. It is just the beginning. 2017 will bring her first birthday, it will bring her first angelversary; with that and with each coming year I will hold on to her. I will hold on to those three sweet days that I got to be with her here. I will hold on to those few hours that I got to hold her in my arms. I will FOREVER and always remember every part of her. I am her momma and she is my daughter and that will never change. So the holidays are hard. True. But only because we loved unconditionally. There will never come a day I don't celebrate her with all of my heart, just like I do her older brother. It's a constant reminder that I truly am one lucky Momma.
So I start this new year, picking up some of the broken pieces and placing them back along this unimaginable journey so that I may find myself traveling down the path that will one day lead me back to my beautiful little girl. Happy 2017 Everyone, and to my little Angel Above {Every year will be your year; fly high beautiful girl}
Friday, December 30, 2016
Remembrance, Honor and HOPE
At the beginning of December we made a quick trip home to partake in the candlelight ceremony at the Angel of Hope to commemorate and remember our sweet daughter, Harper. Every year on December 6th they honor the names of children gone way too soon. It was beautiful. It was cold. It was sad. It was memorable. I can't fully explain how one 30 (ish) minute ceremony had so much impact on my soul and on my heart. There were many tears, there were smiles, there was heartache and there was of course my favorite of all; there was joy.
The president of the non profit organization began the ceremony, speaking eloquently and beautifully; he reminded us all of the meaning of the Angel of Hope: remembrance, honor and of course, Hope. He began to tell a story, a story that each and every person standing there that night, had somehow been affected by. As his voice began to crack we all knew what was coming, he too had lost a child. In 2003 his son was born still. The tears began flowing. I sometimes forget (or block out) the notion that these feelings will never go away. That 13 years from now, I will still be the mother of an angel. I will still ache for her every day until that day 13 years from now. And I will continue to ache for her for countless years after. Love. We can blame love for that ache and I am ok with that.
As the ceremony continued and the names of the children began to be read I looked around at all of the faces. There were hundreds of people there. Some were new to this game (like me) and some had been coming for a very long time. But what I noticed the most was how we all looked the same. We all had joined a "club" that no one wanted to ever be a part of. It's strange but true when I say: when you lose a child and you meet another mother of an angel, you may be a complete stranger and yet at the same time there is such a strong connection. It's a bond that I feel is given to us to help us get through the horrible times; to help lift us up when we need it the most. It's a part of our broken hearts, mending and grieving together. So as I looked around, I could feel that my heart yearned for each mother I saw standing there.
The music began and the tears began to flow, this was my new reality. At times I can hold the tears back, I can numb the pain inside, but this day, there would be no numbing. It was an official reminder: my daughter died. It was a beautiful song, reminding us all of the Angels around us. The names began to be read, for the first time I was thankful that my last name was at the very end of the alphabet. I needed some time before I heard her name. As the letters drew closer to W, I mustered up the strength and I readied myself. "Harper Lynn Wear", it was our turn to go stand in line and to place our flower at the foot of the angel. I was holding back the tears the entire time in line. As Levi, Adam and I finished placing our single white rose for our favorite angel I was stopped by someone I knew. Someone I hold dear in my heart and the tears began to flow and I couldn't stop them this time. We both shared a pain now, one neither one of us ever agreed to bear, but yet here we were, still standing and still breathing. It was a much needed moment for this momma, to be able to let down my guard and to be able to breathe once again.
As the ceremony came to a close, I held Levi tight and I said a prayer. I know Harper is no longer suffering, that instead I am the one suffering for her. But every day that goes by, I can't help but wish she was here, I can't help but wish that I could see her smile, that I could hold her close that I could hear her giggle. So instead, I hug her brother and I blow a kiss towards her ashes each and every night. I know that she is still with us, I know that she is watching over us all and some days I remember that and think "how did I get so lucky?". She is mine and I am hers and for that I will be eternally grateful.
So for today, I will pick up another broken piece that had been shattered when I began this unimaginable journey and place it delicately where it belongs remembering my beautiful daughter and the joy she has brought to this family from afar.
The president of the non profit organization began the ceremony, speaking eloquently and beautifully; he reminded us all of the meaning of the Angel of Hope: remembrance, honor and of course, Hope. He began to tell a story, a story that each and every person standing there that night, had somehow been affected by. As his voice began to crack we all knew what was coming, he too had lost a child. In 2003 his son was born still. The tears began flowing. I sometimes forget (or block out) the notion that these feelings will never go away. That 13 years from now, I will still be the mother of an angel. I will still ache for her every day until that day 13 years from now. And I will continue to ache for her for countless years after. Love. We can blame love for that ache and I am ok with that.
As the ceremony continued and the names of the children began to be read I looked around at all of the faces. There were hundreds of people there. Some were new to this game (like me) and some had been coming for a very long time. But what I noticed the most was how we all looked the same. We all had joined a "club" that no one wanted to ever be a part of. It's strange but true when I say: when you lose a child and you meet another mother of an angel, you may be a complete stranger and yet at the same time there is such a strong connection. It's a bond that I feel is given to us to help us get through the horrible times; to help lift us up when we need it the most. It's a part of our broken hearts, mending and grieving together. So as I looked around, I could feel that my heart yearned for each mother I saw standing there.
The music began and the tears began to flow, this was my new reality. At times I can hold the tears back, I can numb the pain inside, but this day, there would be no numbing. It was an official reminder: my daughter died. It was a beautiful song, reminding us all of the Angels around us. The names began to be read, for the first time I was thankful that my last name was at the very end of the alphabet. I needed some time before I heard her name. As the letters drew closer to W, I mustered up the strength and I readied myself. "Harper Lynn Wear", it was our turn to go stand in line and to place our flower at the foot of the angel. I was holding back the tears the entire time in line. As Levi, Adam and I finished placing our single white rose for our favorite angel I was stopped by someone I knew. Someone I hold dear in my heart and the tears began to flow and I couldn't stop them this time. We both shared a pain now, one neither one of us ever agreed to bear, but yet here we were, still standing and still breathing. It was a much needed moment for this momma, to be able to let down my guard and to be able to breathe once again.
As the ceremony came to a close, I held Levi tight and I said a prayer. I know Harper is no longer suffering, that instead I am the one suffering for her. But every day that goes by, I can't help but wish she was here, I can't help but wish that I could see her smile, that I could hold her close that I could hear her giggle. So instead, I hug her brother and I blow a kiss towards her ashes each and every night. I know that she is still with us, I know that she is watching over us all and some days I remember that and think "how did I get so lucky?". She is mine and I am hers and for that I will be eternally grateful.
So for today, I will pick up another broken piece that had been shattered when I began this unimaginable journey and place it delicately where it belongs remembering my beautiful daughter and the joy she has brought to this family from afar.
Saturday, November 12, 2016
Where there is Joy, there is also Sadness
Joyous Moments. They feel so different these days. They are happy, they are momentous, they are exciting. Yet there is more. There is a deep lingering of sadness that underlies the joy. Something I've never experienced before. How can someone be so incredibly happy and yet so incredibly sad at the same time? I've dreamed of some of these joyous moments my whole life (some of you know exactly that one moment I'm talking about: Yes, the Cubs entering the World Series and WINNING of course) and yet here I am, jumping from the insides and wanting to hide at the same time. I've asked myself "Is this feeling of sadness not really sadness, but rather guilt from feeling happy?" I'm not sure to be honest. These emotions are so raw and so new at times that it can be tiresome to attempt to sort them out. I'm pretty sure my other momma's of loss out there could raise their hands and say "Amen" to that statement.
I remember in those first few days after losing Harper the sense of feeling numb was about all that I could take. I didn't know what to think. I didn't know what to feel. I didn't know what to say. And I knew part of me was afraid to feel. I remember thinking at one point "I can't believe that I will feel this sad for the rest of my life." I knew at that moment how much of a life changer losing Harper would be. My worst nightmare had officially become my reality. It would be an unwelcomed change at first and it would be a change that I knew would never go away. It was what I labeled as my "new norm". There would now be the "before Harper" era and the "after Harper" era and I was going to have to find a way to cope with that and to understand that. It has not always been easy. In fact, it's been really really hard.
I find myself these days, when re-living my past, labeling each memory and each picture as "Before Harper" or "After Harper". My sense of myself and my family has changed drastically. I have grown. Some for the better, and some for the "yet to be determined" column. Mostly because I'm still exploring, I'm still figuring this new life out and I'm still mourning. Heavy mourning. And that's ok. I once thought I was immune to great sorrow. That surely there was no way it would ever find it's way into my life. But I was wrong. That was the "Before" version of myself and sadly that part of me doesn't exist anymore. Sure, I still believe that life is filled with happiness, love, and joy... I haven't lost that, but I know now that life is full of so much more. Life is full of deeper meanings, of understanding this world we live in and living it in the absolute fullest. It's about taking our experiences, growing from them and honoring them. It's about living with no regrets. It's about discovering that life is not black and white. Life is full of gray. So much gray. And if we allow ourselves to open up, to flourish and to nurture this life that we live, it will be the gray that gets us to the other side, that humanizes us. It will be the part that defines who we are.
So don't be afraid of the gray. I was. I was absolutely terrified of the gray. It's full of the unknown. It's full of the unimaginable. It's unorganized. It's rough. And yet, it has been so rewarding. So incredibly healing and I know I have grown immensely from my time there.
Explore. Know that each day is a new day. A day in which we have been given life. A life that is full of so much deeper meaning and understanding. A life that is full of unimaginable moments. A life that is full of love, joy, laughter and cherished moments. A life that experiences sadness, darkness, despair and confusion. A life that challenges us. A life that strengthens us. A life that God has given us. Walk it. Live It. Love It and Learn from It.
That means today I will continue to walk this long and unfamiliar path on this unimaginable journey, I will walk through the gray and smile through the sadness and I will pick up a broken piece and I will place it gently where it belongs knowing that one day I will see my little one again up above. *I Love you Harper Lynn
Tuesday, October 11, 2016
Can I really be "Thankful" at a time like this?!
I've taken a little break from writing lately since my emotions and life have been getting the best of me. It's been crazy. It's been messy. My motto the past few weeks has been "to stay as busy as possible" because when one is busy, one doesn't haven't to stop and reflect as often. And let's just say reflection has not always been my friend these days. As I was going through my fall decorations to start prepping for Pumpkin Spice and Football season I was taken aback by a sign I forgot that I hang every year above the fireplace. A sign that has always been a simple reminder to me, one that I've tried to live my life by fully. A sign that simply reads...
THANKFUL.
It's a sign that I hate to say, I have not had the courage or the strength to hang yet this year. It's a word I've been reflecting an awful lot on... THANKFUL.
Am I thankful? How can I be thankful after everything that has happened? I am blessed and I am grateful, but am I really thankful? Am I really suppose to read this word everyday? Why does this word taking my breath away every single time I see it?
"I just can't", that's what I've been telling myself. I'm not ready, it's too much. I need time.
Oh that ache, that deep ache that tugs at my heart over and over has been working overtime lately. It's making me feel feels that I know I am not ready for at this moment. I'm grieving, I'm trying to move forward and I'm trying to see the good in each deed and each person that comes my way. I'm trying so hard some days, and now I am somehow suppose to be THANKFUL?
I looked at Adam the other night and said "I think I need to buy a new fall sign for the fireplace" and he stared at me puzzled (partially because I'm pretty sure he has no idea what our "fall" sign even says until it's put up, but that's totally ok) He quickly uttered the word "Why?". I told him exactly how I felt, "It's because it reads "Thankful" and I just really don't think I feel Thankful this year."
His response to this is exactly why I love this man. He has always been my clarity when my emotions become too involved. He has always been my strength when I feel weak in my knees and in this moment his words found a way to pick me back up. He looked me straight in the eyes and said.. "Kate, that seems a little harsh. Aren't you thankful for Levi? Aren't you thankful that you are alive? Because I am"
{A part of my story I haven't shared yet is how the day Harper was born, my body began to fail. My placenta began to pull away and my body went into shock, I was bleeding out and my blood pressure was dropping fast. As soon as Harper was whisked away to NICU and as soon as my doctor could get as much of my bleeding stopped my epidural was pulled and I was escorted by my doctor and the rest of the surgical team to ICU where I would spend the next 30 hours. I was immediately started on a blood transfusion and later followed with a platelet transfusion. I didn't realize how serious the situation had turned until my follow up appointment when my doctor told me "You were the last person I thought I'd ever have to worry about losing on the table." My eyes were opened. That day, I lived for a reason. That day I remained here on earth, a wife to the most perfect husband and a mother to two beautiful children on earth.}
When I look back at this moment, I remember. I remember that I was left here for a purpose and I needed Adam to remind me of that, to remind me that I can be THANKFUL this year and that it's a word I shouldn't be ashamed to use. I will never be thankful for what happened to my daughter, I know this. But I can be thankful for so much more.
I am thankful for life.
I am thankful for joy.
I am thankful for Levi's laughs, his hugs and the love he brings.
I am thankful for my amazing husband.
I am thankful for friends and family who have picked me up at the lowest of times.
I am thankful for loving a tiny soul so much that I have a reason to be sad.
I am thankful. I can be thankful.
I've learned and accepted now that "Thankful" no longer has to be a scary word for me and I've discovered how it means something so much more to me. I've stopped looking at the superficial some days and found the deeper meaning to life. I have to open my eyes to my surroundings, I have to live in the moment and I have to treasure each and every day. Harper opened my eyes to this world and for that I am Thankful. She helps me flourish as a mom and a wife each day of my life and for that I am so thankful.
So today I am going to be thankful, thankful that I am able to pick up another broken piece on this unimaginable journey and place it delicately where it belongs enjoying each and every moment with my incredible family and knowing that this journey will bring me one day closer to seeing my little Angel.
THANKFUL.
It's a sign that I hate to say, I have not had the courage or the strength to hang yet this year. It's a word I've been reflecting an awful lot on... THANKFUL.
Am I thankful? How can I be thankful after everything that has happened? I am blessed and I am grateful, but am I really thankful? Am I really suppose to read this word everyday? Why does this word taking my breath away every single time I see it?
"I just can't", that's what I've been telling myself. I'm not ready, it's too much. I need time.
Oh that ache, that deep ache that tugs at my heart over and over has been working overtime lately. It's making me feel feels that I know I am not ready for at this moment. I'm grieving, I'm trying to move forward and I'm trying to see the good in each deed and each person that comes my way. I'm trying so hard some days, and now I am somehow suppose to be THANKFUL?
I looked at Adam the other night and said "I think I need to buy a new fall sign for the fireplace" and he stared at me puzzled (partially because I'm pretty sure he has no idea what our "fall" sign even says until it's put up, but that's totally ok) He quickly uttered the word "Why?". I told him exactly how I felt, "It's because it reads "Thankful" and I just really don't think I feel Thankful this year."
His response to this is exactly why I love this man. He has always been my clarity when my emotions become too involved. He has always been my strength when I feel weak in my knees and in this moment his words found a way to pick me back up. He looked me straight in the eyes and said.. "Kate, that seems a little harsh. Aren't you thankful for Levi? Aren't you thankful that you are alive? Because I am"
{A part of my story I haven't shared yet is how the day Harper was born, my body began to fail. My placenta began to pull away and my body went into shock, I was bleeding out and my blood pressure was dropping fast. As soon as Harper was whisked away to NICU and as soon as my doctor could get as much of my bleeding stopped my epidural was pulled and I was escorted by my doctor and the rest of the surgical team to ICU where I would spend the next 30 hours. I was immediately started on a blood transfusion and later followed with a platelet transfusion. I didn't realize how serious the situation had turned until my follow up appointment when my doctor told me "You were the last person I thought I'd ever have to worry about losing on the table." My eyes were opened. That day, I lived for a reason. That day I remained here on earth, a wife to the most perfect husband and a mother to two beautiful children on earth.}
When I look back at this moment, I remember. I remember that I was left here for a purpose and I needed Adam to remind me of that, to remind me that I can be THANKFUL this year and that it's a word I shouldn't be ashamed to use. I will never be thankful for what happened to my daughter, I know this. But I can be thankful for so much more.
I am thankful for life.
I am thankful for joy.
I am thankful for Levi's laughs, his hugs and the love he brings.
I am thankful for my amazing husband.
I am thankful for friends and family who have picked me up at the lowest of times.
I am thankful for loving a tiny soul so much that I have a reason to be sad.
I am thankful. I can be thankful.
I've learned and accepted now that "Thankful" no longer has to be a scary word for me and I've discovered how it means something so much more to me. I've stopped looking at the superficial some days and found the deeper meaning to life. I have to open my eyes to my surroundings, I have to live in the moment and I have to treasure each and every day. Harper opened my eyes to this world and for that I am Thankful. She helps me flourish as a mom and a wife each day of my life and for that I am so thankful.
So today I am going to be thankful, thankful that I am able to pick up another broken piece on this unimaginable journey and place it delicately where it belongs enjoying each and every moment with my incredible family and knowing that this journey will bring me one day closer to seeing my little Angel.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Harsh Realities
Right when you think you are finally getting a grip on this new life you are living, right when you feel like you have control of your emotions, right when you think the deep sadness and darkness that once surrounded you has began to lessen you feel it again. That ache that is so deep within you it's impossible to escape. It's as if the outside world knows exactly when to throw at you that harsh reminder that your child has left you. As much as you try to escape the feelings, as much as you try to escape the pain and as much as you try to escape the dark memories; you can't.
The other day at work I was walking down the hallway when I saw an adorable little boy who I imagined was pretty close to my son Levi's age. Since I work in a skilled nursing facility a small child under the age of 10 is a rare sighting. In front of him I saw his mom pushing a stroller and walking behind him was what I could only assume his grandmother carrying a beautiful chunky little baby in her arms. As I walked behind these adorable kids I saw what could have been my future flashing before my eyes. But instead of dwelling in the sadness I decided to ask the mom how old her little boy was
"He is so cute, how old is your oldest?"
"2 years and 2 months"
"How perfect, I have an almost 2 year old at home and I thought your little man looked to be about his age."
"Oh man, you must have a pretty big guy if he's about the same size as this one and not quite two."
I responded with, "Yea he's not the smallest of the bunch."
The grandmother then turns to me and says: "But I bet you don't have one this size at home" and held up the cutest little blue eyed, pudgy baby I had seen in quite awhile.
My eyes, just like they have experienced much too often these days started to well up, so I quickly answered "You're right, I don't have one that size."
The daughter turned around at that point and said "See Mom, she was one of the smart ones."
I can't even write these words without tears streaming down my cheeks. The pain I feel when I re-live this conversation is just so real. So incredibly real, that sometimes I wish parents who have lost their children could wear a sign that says "I'm a mother/father to an angel." I wish that mother had known that I would have given anything to have what she had. To hold two perfectly healthy, happy babies in my arms, to have them close in age and to watch them grow up together. I struggle every moment of every day with the fact that I will never get to see Harper grow up, that she wasn't healthy while she lived her earthly life and that I had to witness her take her last breath in my arms.
One thing I've learned for sure in the realm of grieving is that reality is so harsh sometimes. You can't escape it and you can't avoid it, it doesn't stop for you and it doesn't always cater to your needs. When you've lost your child you have to learn to survive within reality. You have to re-learn how to breathe, how to walk, how to function and how to strive without a piece of yourself. It's unfair, it's unthinkable and it's tragic but it's also necessary. Mothers of infant loss most definitely learn very quickly what true strength feels like; not because they want too necessarily but because they have too. My soul has never ached so much in my whole life and yet here I am: still standing, still breathing and still moving forward. Some days I'm not really sure how it is possible. Reality wants to knock me down at times, wants to remind me of the darkness and the sadness that floods my being but strength is knowing that there is light and strength is believing that one day that light will shine through again and that one day we will be reunited for eternity and all will feel complete. So when reality comes knocking at my door, I've learned to take a deep breath, roll with the punches and picture my beautiful baby girl shining down on me from up above.
So with that image on my mind, today I pick up another broken piece on this unimaginable journey and place this particular one where it belongs with the hope that one day this journey will look complete once again and I can hold my beautiful daughter in my arms and tell her how much her mommy misses her and loves her. *Harper Lynn*
The other day at work I was walking down the hallway when I saw an adorable little boy who I imagined was pretty close to my son Levi's age. Since I work in a skilled nursing facility a small child under the age of 10 is a rare sighting. In front of him I saw his mom pushing a stroller and walking behind him was what I could only assume his grandmother carrying a beautiful chunky little baby in her arms. As I walked behind these adorable kids I saw what could have been my future flashing before my eyes. But instead of dwelling in the sadness I decided to ask the mom how old her little boy was
"He is so cute, how old is your oldest?"
"2 years and 2 months"
"How perfect, I have an almost 2 year old at home and I thought your little man looked to be about his age."
"Oh man, you must have a pretty big guy if he's about the same size as this one and not quite two."
I responded with, "Yea he's not the smallest of the bunch."
The grandmother then turns to me and says: "But I bet you don't have one this size at home" and held up the cutest little blue eyed, pudgy baby I had seen in quite awhile.
My eyes, just like they have experienced much too often these days started to well up, so I quickly answered "You're right, I don't have one that size."
The daughter turned around at that point and said "See Mom, she was one of the smart ones."
I can't even write these words without tears streaming down my cheeks. The pain I feel when I re-live this conversation is just so real. So incredibly real, that sometimes I wish parents who have lost their children could wear a sign that says "I'm a mother/father to an angel." I wish that mother had known that I would have given anything to have what she had. To hold two perfectly healthy, happy babies in my arms, to have them close in age and to watch them grow up together. I struggle every moment of every day with the fact that I will never get to see Harper grow up, that she wasn't healthy while she lived her earthly life and that I had to witness her take her last breath in my arms.
One thing I've learned for sure in the realm of grieving is that reality is so harsh sometimes. You can't escape it and you can't avoid it, it doesn't stop for you and it doesn't always cater to your needs. When you've lost your child you have to learn to survive within reality. You have to re-learn how to breathe, how to walk, how to function and how to strive without a piece of yourself. It's unfair, it's unthinkable and it's tragic but it's also necessary. Mothers of infant loss most definitely learn very quickly what true strength feels like; not because they want too necessarily but because they have too. My soul has never ached so much in my whole life and yet here I am: still standing, still breathing and still moving forward. Some days I'm not really sure how it is possible. Reality wants to knock me down at times, wants to remind me of the darkness and the sadness that floods my being but strength is knowing that there is light and strength is believing that one day that light will shine through again and that one day we will be reunited for eternity and all will feel complete. So when reality comes knocking at my door, I've learned to take a deep breath, roll with the punches and picture my beautiful baby girl shining down on me from up above.
So with that image on my mind, today I pick up another broken piece on this unimaginable journey and place this particular one where it belongs with the hope that one day this journey will look complete once again and I can hold my beautiful daughter in my arms and tell her how much her mommy misses her and loves her. *Harper Lynn*
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