Ask What . . .

My fists had pounded that table with each anguished why that cried.

Why? Why? Why?

Why! Why! Why!

Those arms that ached with the heaviness of emptiness was a visceral pain.

All that pain gets clinched up, the emotions ball up and then out they come with a pounding of a fist, a guttural cry of why.

My husband so gently took that clinched, pounding fist, covered it with his open hand and said, "I know your need to want to know why. Trust me, I do. But that may be a question that never gets answered. At some point, we need to turn that 'why' into a 'what'. What are we going to do with this? What are we going to make of it?"

Slowly, those why's reduced themselves one by one as the days ticked on.

Slowly, the smiles started out weighing the tears.

Slowly, you start living again not because you have to but because you want to.

And slowly, the 'what' starts unfolding, naturally, just as the moon unfolds itself to the light.

There is a love that reveals itself when you give birth to life. It's a true, organic, all the way through kind of love that never dies.

Love in and of itself is a mystery full round but there is a mystery that lies within, there is a need . . . a longing to care for your baby that you no longer get to hold.

Even when your baby dies you are a mother who aches to mother.

That first Christmas was rough and hard and seared all the way through. The mother in me refused to stop mothering. We continued with traditions. We bought ornaments for all three of our girls and hung them on the tree. Christmas stockings were still stuffed.

The 'what' slowly started revealing itself.

There was a need to fill those two stockings to two little girls. What do you do with material things that the ones they are intended for are not here?

The 'what' slowly started revealing itself.

The second Christmas, we started thinking broader.

The ache to mother two little girls I don't get to hold never dies, it continues to grow.

That ache to love has been stretched right through, pulled tight and over to ache to love others. To care for other mothers and fathers who ache over their babies.

The ache to love revealed the 'what'.

And so, EV's Christmas Stockings, out of cries over death, was breathed into being.

EV's Christmas Stockings provided a stocking to each baby in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit at Riley Children's Hospital.

Some people have said what I have done is "amazing" or "awesome".

I don't deserve those praises.

What I have done was born from pure selfishness for the memories of my daughters to keep on living. I don't want people to forget two little girls who made such an impact on my world.

It's my mother's selfish love that made me do what I did.

It's that desire . . . that longing to care for and love two girls whom I physically can't. So that desire has been placed on others who need to be cared for, loved for and remembered.

I thought I was the one giving. I thought I was the one bestowing the blessings.

There is no way to describe the appreciation and gratitude one has when they receive something completely unexpected.

I received more than I gave. I was blessed more than I blessed.

It was a very emotional day for me. That morning, as I gathered all the Christmas stockings, I cried. After months of working, I was finally still enough to absorb the weight of it and my emotions overcame me.

I called my husband upstairs and had him look at all 65 stockings and through tears I said, "look what they have done! Look what our two little girls have done!" 

I would never have dreamed that Emmerson and Vivienne would be able to touch so many. They were only here for a short while but look at what they have been able to do.

Trust me, if I could, I would change it all to have them here. Nothing will ever take that away. After all, I'm still a mother who longs to mother all four of my children.

But, wow! Look what they have done!

We will probably never have our answer as to why but now, we know, what we can do with what we have been given. And that is simply to love . . .  

I have found the paradox that if I love until it hurts, then there is no hurt, but only more love. 

~ Mother Teresa ~

Stephanie

When Your Baby Dies

When you lose a baby . . .

You don't lose a baby.

You lose your car keys, one sock to complete a pair, a tube of lip gloss. You don't lose a baby.

Your baby dies.

When your baby dies you lose a huge chunk of yourself. A gaping hole lives inside of you.

You don't know if you can smile again or if you even will ever want to.

It feels as if your muscles are suffering from amnesia. It's hard to remember how to smile . . . how to laugh. You forget what its like to move without feeling like you are trying to walk on the bottom of the ocean floor.

When your baby dies, you feel that you have too. You wish it had been you instead and you just can't understand why its wasn't. You have lived, they never really got to and where's the sense and nature in that?

When your baby dies because your body went into pre-term labor, how do you ever trust your body again? It betrayed you in a way it never should. How do you ever trust it again?

When your baby dies, there is a distinct line drawn. A line that separates your life into two parts - a before and an after. A line that has separated you into two - the person who you once were and the person you are now . . . whoever that is.

When your baby dies, you wish you could go back to the before, if just for a day so you could hold onto that lightness, joy and innocence a little bit tighter in the hopes you could remember everything about it for your life in the after.

When your baby dies you wonder how you will go on. You wonder if you will ever again possess the desire to go on at all.

When your baby dies, you are scared that the grief will become you. And you are scared that it won't. Because if it does, that means life is forever colored in shades of black. If it doesn't, you are scared that it means you have forgotten your baby.

When your baby dies and you smile again and not in a forced manner to falsely assure others that you are "fine" but truly smile and it registered that you did, it instantly throws you back and you wonder if that means you have forgotten. And that is the worse because if you forget, everyone else will too.

When your baby dies, you wrestle with everything you believed before. You don't want to believe in a God that allowed you to bury your child. You believe in the hope of heaven so you can't deny the God who created it.

When your baby dies, you wrestle. You struggle. You fear. You grieve.

When your baby dies, your heart still contracts and your lungs still take in air. And you eventually learn that the contractions and the breathing in and breathing out don't betray that your baby lived. It's a way to live . . . to speak . . . to remember . . . to honor them.










Stephanie

Dreams Are Still Memories

There are some memories that never got a chance to be played in real-time . . . only thought up in my head in played in my heart.

There are those memories - real memories - of the morning we found out we were expecting for a second time and the shock and joy that surrounded.

There are those memories - real memories - of seeing two babies on the screen and the smiling and laughing that filled my soul as I watched Emmerson kick Vivienne and Vivi acting as if she could enjoy the rocking caused by her sisters kicks all day.

There are those memories - real memories - of planning the nursery, shopping for everything in twos, and shopping for mini-vans.

There are those memories - real memories - of my husband and I being in shock while basking in the glow of thankfulness.

There are those memories - dream memories - of coordinating outfits for two identical babies, a baby in each arm, and three girls playing together.

There are those memories - dream memories - of birthday parties, halloween costumes, and the first day of school.

There are those memories - dream memories - of first loves, broken hearts, proms, wedding days, and Father-Daughter dances.

There are those memories - dream memories - of my babies expecting life, seeing them hold their babies, witnessing the women they became.

All of these memories to be played while watching in amazement of the unique relationship between identical twins.

You see?

It wasn't just that my babies were born too soon. It wasn't just that there was something wrong.

I loved them with a Mother's Love before I ever got to hold them in my arms.

You see?

My babies died.


There are also those memories - real memories - of the air standing still and hushed, mumbled whispers while staring at a screen.

There are those memories - real memories - of a conference room, highly specialized doctors and words. So. Many. Words. Of shivering, uncontrollably and someone placing a blanket around my shoulders.

There are those memories - real memories - of a pain wanting to split my body in two, worried glances, an ambulance, more worried faces, no one looking me in the eye and me pleading with my God.

There are those memories - real memories - of "I'm so sorry . . . ", tiny fingers and toes, kisses and swaddles and snuggles and me still pleading with my God.

There are those memories - real memories - of flowers that were too beautiful and sweet, cemeteries, funeral homes, a casket and a too-big-hole in the ground.

You see?

It wasn't just that my babies were born too early. It wasn't just that there was something wrong.

I have memories and dreams and all of them are bittersweet. All of them carry the same weight because they all occupy a space in me.

You see?

It wasn't just that our babies were born too early. It wasn't just that there was something wrong.

We lost pieces of our hearts . . . members of our family.

It wasn't just that our babies were born too soon.

Our babies died. While holding them, they died.







Stephanie

I Am Not Hopeless

There is darkness that overcomes and overwhelms.

There is darkness that consumes.

Darkness can descend in many ways.

It can leave hopelessness and despair in its wake.

I have two little girls whom I will never hear giggle as the grass tickles their bare feet.

The despair of their death can cause the darkest of black to consume me.

But I am not hopeless.

I appreciate the death died on that cross and the empty grave like I never did before. I should have but I didn't.

Consuming the bread broken and the blood spilled causes the consuming darkness to flee.

Life can bring new perspectives. And for all the pain that was brought and remains, I wouldn't change what my heart can now see.

The mission. Those who followed. The disbelieving. The accusations. The denial. That kiss.

Darkness prevailed in the days that followed.

Unbelievable darkness.

Unbelievable hopelessness.

Unbelievable reality.

For those who loved and followed and believed, they battled with an overwhelming hopelessness.

But that grave stood empty.

I am not hopeless.

The pain in the persecution didn't persist. The grave couldn't contain. His death didn't define him.

His death didn't say this is the end.

There was more.

I am not hopeless.

That grave is empty. The earth stained offers promise. He suffered a death for life. He rose so Heaven wins.

The enemy who tries to win by threatening me with the death of my girls loses.

Heaven wins!

There is a cross consumed with the fibers of death and a vacant tomb. There are two pierced through hands that offer the promise of Heaven.

I am not hopeless.

He's alive! My girls are alive! Their feet are tickled by the blades of grass. They giggle. They delight in the joys of heaven.

I don't get the privilege of raising them and the joy of delighting in their giggles. I am sad but I am not hopeless. Their death doesn't mean never. It just means wait.

Wait . . . the best is yet to come.







Stephanie

What You Need

I didn't want to be pregnant again. I wasn't ready for it. I don't know if I ever would have been.

I was terrified of being pregnant. It wasn't the bliss it had been. I walked in a cloud of fearful doubt.

Pregnancy didn't mean the beginning of dreams. It meant the end of them. The death of innocent and new.

With my first two pregnancies, I didn't care about the gender of my three babies. I just wanted healthy and whole.

But . . . with the third pregnancy, I desperately wanted a girl. I felt I needed a girl. I selfishly believed God owed me a girl.

I was nervous for that anatomy scan. Nervous for so many things I couldn't put voice to. So, I took all that anxiety and wrapped it up, only focusing on the gender.

Then we learned it was a boy (even though I already knew down deep) and I tried not to cry as my husband smiled. And no matter how hard I looked at the screen with all that gray movement, I only saw one baby, not two.

Even a year later, it still felt like a dream. My babies didn't really die?! If I could just wake up there would be two. Two figures, two heartbeats, four legs kicking me.

It was a boy and I was upset. More upset that he wasn't them and I couldn't even pretend. More upset that the nightmare was real and there was nothing to wake up from, blink and it all goes away. Funny how through it you have all these things to let you know you are awake but it still feels like a dream. Like someone else's life.

The day of the anatomy scan was the last day I stopped believing I dreamt it all.

I felt I deserved a girl. My husband prayed for a boy. Not because of the typical daddy wants a boy so he can throw a ball around with him but because he didn't know if his broken heart could look at a baby girl and not see Emmy and Vivi.

Here's the thing about God: He gives you what you need, not always what you want.

I needed a boy. For reasons I can't explain, I needed him.

I struggle hard somedays has I hold him. I struggled hard with guilt when we brought him home. I rock him and feed him and stare at him as he sleeps in my arms. I get to do all these things with and for him but not them.

I wanted to. I wanted to do all these things for and with them and I didn't get to and somehow, someway, I feel guilty for not being able to.

His little head has caught the pain of missing his sisters as it falls from my eyes. I'm holding him and snuggling him and I can still feel the weight of those empty arms.

I still feel the weight of them. 

I get to hold close and breathe in the weight of him.

I get to love them all, all in a different way. 

I'm trying to navigate being a mother to children in two different worlds. No matter what the differences may be, I am a mommy to all four of them. Nothing changes that.

Not even death.

Source: diamondintherough.com via Megan on Pinterest

Stephanie

An Overflowing Breaking Heart

I have been busy - having a new baby will do that. It's left me with little time to do much else. I'm not complaining. I'm trying to enjoy every second. Even those where I need toothpicks to hold up heavy eyes and those where my body is screaming for sleep.

Property of Julie Davis Photography

I've had a range of emotions since Little Man arrived almost two months ago. Some new, some old, some happy, and some full of grief.  All of them I have wanted to share but have had little time to do so.

Here I am again, sharing the hurt and the questions. To look here, one would think I'm always sad. That is not the case. I smile, I laugh, I celebrate moments but this . . . this has become my safe place. This is my place of safety to come to release those emotions that gnaw at me and cause this ache to hurt so sharp.

My Little Man is here and oh, how I love him! How I delight in him and relish him just a bit more. How I hold him a bit too much . . . a second longer than needed. How I smother him in kisses and then give him just one more. I talk to him - all the time talking. I tell him what I'm doing, what I should be doing and what his silly sister is doing. I watch him all the time. I watch as his baby blues observes and takes in the world around him. I watch him as he smiles and I become excited to see who he will become. I get excited over the opportunity and privilege to watch him grow. And then, in that moment - that moment full of excitement and joy - I am hit all over again with grief. Grief over the loss of my sweet Emmy and Vivi. Grief over the loss of knowing who they would have become. I find that I am lost, not knowing how to feel.

They should be here! Running around. Being loud. Making my days crazy!

But they are not and I realize once again, that I have not accepted that fact. I don't think I ever will. How does a mother ever accept the fact that her babies died? My mind can't make sense of it and my heart can't grasp it.

I miss them! It's so simple and yet so complicated. I miss them and I ache so desperately for them. There are no words to describe it. I have tried. For seventeen months I have tried to describe the chest crushing, breath stealing hurt and I can't. I can't because babies are not supposed to die! There is a word for one who has lost both parents and a word for one who has lost a spouse but there is no word for one who has lost a child.

They should be here! I want them here!

Little Man is here and I am so thankful! He doesn't make any of this easier and he has not helped me heal. He is my baby. He is not an eraser for my pain or a doctor to mend my broken heart. He is my baby . . . my son.

He doesn't negate the death of his older sisters and Emmerson and Vivienne don't negate the life and love of and for him.

But it can still be all so hard and confusing. During those middle of the night feeds, while gazing at him through hazy eyes, I let out a sigh of relief that he is here and I get to hold him. Though bone tired, I say a prayer of thanks that I get to arise in the middle of the night to feed and cuddle him. And during the darkness and sleepy fog of night, I wonder how I would have done it with two babies. I wonder and I try to picture what it would have looked like. And even though my arms are full, they feel so empty.

Some one said to me that had the twins lived, Little Man would not be here. Now when I question and try to picture the life that never was, I feel guilt. So much guilt! Wishing Emmerson and Vivienne were here doesn't mean I wish Little Man wasn't. How do you rectify this? How can I wish for Emmy and Vivi to be here when he is?

I don't know. I get confused. I get lost. I find that it's this delicate balance . . . it's this place, a time that doesn't exist. A place where you can look forward to today . . . to tomorrow, but one where you are also looking back at what might have been. Looking back at those moments that never were and trying to get them into focus.

This is my life. I'm teetering this line of acceptance and regret, this line where I am looking through the same lens at what is and also at what might have been. I am pulled in two different directions, between two different worlds.

They say that time in Heaven is compared to "the blink of an eye" for us on earth. Sometimes it helps me to think of them running ahead of me through a beautiful field of wildflowers and butterflies; so happy and completely caught up in what they are doing that when they look behind them, I'll already be there.

~ Unknown ~

Stephanie

Moments

Life is full of moments.

Moments . . .

. . . So big . . . So full . . . So fleeting.


All precious in their own unique design.

Some of those moments I let slip right through my finger tips when we brought our first born home. I let that upside down feeling of my new life get the best of me to be able to fully embrace all those precious moments.

It was those same moments that I let slip through that I found myself so desperately wanting 16 months ago.  All those sacred moments that I didn't get and that I will live the rest of my life wishing I had . . . those moments that were taken from me. The ones that I wanted the chance to hold on to with white knuckles.

Now? Now I am holding on tight with hands wide open.

I'm clinging to all these seconds . . . minutes . . . hours while I try so hard to keep my hands open so I can receive more.

I want more. It is selfish, I know. But I do, I want more. I want more of those delicious lips formed in an 'O'. I want more of those blue eyes searching for mine when he hears my voice. I want more snuggles. I want more of him forming himself in a ball as he rests on my chest.

It goes so fast. I'm going to blink and it's going to be over. And I just want more moments of him right as he is, right now.

I wanted more moments than the ones I did get with Emmerson and Vivienne. I wanted to bring them home. I wanted both arms occupied with the weight of each of them. I wanted to see their older sister interact with them. I want to see them interact with their baby brother. I want all four of my children here.

I want more.

I wanted more than what I got and because of that, I'm embracing each second. Cherishing it. Relishing it. Loving it.

I just want to live in the now and bask in the glow of the gift that was given.

Bask in the glow of all four gifts . . .









Stephanie

He Is Here!

Nathaniel Stephen

October 5, 2012 @ 2:39 pm

5 pounds 15 onces 

18 inches

He is here! There is no way I could have been prepared for the moment and the emotions.

So much of this pregnancy was consumed with grief and guilt. So much of this pregnancy was spent expecting the worse . . . believing I would come home from the hospital with empty, aching arms.

The last time those contractions brought forth life there was a stillness and a silence in the room. I didn't realize how much those moments affected me . . . haunted me. 

I didn't realize how much those moments caused me to fear the ones to come.

And then he was here. He was here, in that room that was quiet and he filled it with those precious cries of life. 

I fully expected to hear that deafening silence again. Those cries were a gift, a sweet salve to my heart. There was no question of when he entered the world. There was no question if he was alive or not. Those cries were a gift . . . 

He is here! And he is alive!

My heart split open. My heart, the one I thought was closed off to new love, split wide open. I finally let go of that breath I had been holding for 36 weeks and I fell in love.

He cried. He moved after he was placed on my chest. I looked up at my husband, disbelievingly proclaimed, "He's crying! He's alive!" And the tears flowed.

There are two worlds that can and do exist in the same room. I feared ever being able to feel that new love again after Emmy and Vivi. I feared I couldn't or wouldn't be able to. But then he arrived and cried and moved and my heart swelled with newness and love.

He is everything I never knew I wanted again. He hasn't taken their place (no one ever will) but he has shown me it's okay to be open to the new in life and new love. He has shown me that moving forward doesn't mean forgetting, it means living and loving life as you do. He hasn't healed me but he has taught me that there is still hope and beauty in the pain.

Stephanie

My Promise

Emmerson and Vivienne,

Today is a day where you are remembered. October 15th is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. A day where women who have lost pregnancies, have given birth to sleeping babies and/or have had an infant die are acknowledged and remembered. One in four women will experience this kind of tragic hurt. 

I don't care so much if people remember me and my hurt. I don't want people to act as though this hurt isn't carried with me always but it is you . . . you are the ones I don't want people to forget or ignore or pretend never lived. 

It is you. 

It is you I speak for and love.

Because of you, I promise you, you will ALWAYS be remembered. You will be remembered with love and the sweet newness of your skin. I will remember the way you looked exactly the same, but the way that I knew, you were completely different. Completely and distinctly unique. 

I promise you, you will always be acknowledged. Your life, your death and what you meant and still mean to us will ALWAYS be acknowledged.

I promise you, you will always be counted. Because of you two, I now have four children. I have given life to four precious beings. I will always count you. You will always be my babies. You will always have a place in our family. 

I promise you that your sister and brother will know about you. Your sister already does. She has days when she tells me she wants you two to come visit and play with her. She doesn't fully understand . . . one day she will.  

I've already told your baby brother about you and I promise I will continue to do so. There will never not be a time when he doesn't know that he has three older sisters. 

I promise I will always speak your names. I will talk about you to complete strangers. I promise, even in the discomfort, that your names will be on my lips. I will always speak your names. 

I promise you that you are not taboo. You shouldn't be taboo to anyone. I promise that I will try to my dying day to make the life and death of you NOT taboo. 

You were here. You were alive. Your heart beat and your limbs moved. It shouldn't matter how small you both were. You were a person. Deafening silence shouldn't be met when I speak of you.

You were here. You were loved. You were wanted. A life is precious no matter how brief. Eyes refusing to meet shouldn't be met when I speak of the love that was shared.

It is just not today but everyday that I think of you . . . that I love you.

I promise, I will always speak of you. I will always remember you with deep love. 

"There is no footprint too small that cannot leave an imprint on this world."

Unknown

Stephanie

He Matters Too

I saw it. I heard it.

All those hushed questions, how is she doing? is she doing any better?

It hurt me. Why wasn't anyone asking him how he was doing?

Why was everyone so concerned about my mental and emotional state but few were concerned about him?

It hurt me. But I was so consumed by grief and sadness that I never spoke up.

They mattered not only to me but to him as well. He matters too.

Very few people asked him about . . . him. Very few people took the time to spend time with him. Very few people took the time to listen to him.

A lot of people asked him about me.

The day after they were born and then died, before I was even discharged, he was on the phone attempting to make funeral arrangements.

He was fielding many phone calls.

He got out of bed every morning (the same bed I would spend days on end in) and would take care of our daughter, prepare meals, go to the grocery store, do the laundry, all the things that I not only lacked the desire to do but forgot how to do.

He went back to work.

He loved me through it all. All the while juggling his own heartache.

Silently. And alone. 

He held us together. He held me together. He became so incredibly stronger than he ever thought he could become. He became stronger than he realizes. He was my glue.

Carrying his own grief, his own sadness, his own loss of dreams and love, he still pushed forward, living each day, carrying me through hoping I would make it through.

Living each day where his wife had become a zombie and he was left wondering if she would ever get out of that bed and resemble a person again.

He pushed forward and still no one asked him about him. I don't know if that hurt him, all those people asking him about his wife but never once concerning themselves with how he was coping.

Did he ever want to scream, they mattered to me too! I love them too!

I sat one night, sobbing, voicing all those dreams and all that love gone, so consumed with my own sadness that I couldn't think outside of self. I looked up and he was crying . . . sobbing really . . . and that's when I realized that his pain ran just as deep.

He put voice to his lost dreams . . . his lost loves. He would never get to take them on a Daddy-Daughter date. He would never get to walk them down the aisle and give them away. He would never get to dance that Father-Daughter dance at their wedding.

He loves them like only a father can love his little girls. He had dreams for them. He wanted them. They were not only my daughters but his as well.

They mattered to him so he matters too.






Stephanie

Rainbows

I never knew there was a name for a baby that was conceived after the loss or death of the baby that came before them.

There were a lot of things I never knew before my sweet Emmerson and Vivienne lived and died.

A baby after the loss or death of an older sibling is referred to as a Rainbow Baby.

I didn't like it at first. I have rarely referred to Little Man as my Rainbow Baby.

Rainbows. Are they not a beautiful display of creativity that the storm is over? Something beautiful left after the pounding rain and raging winds?

And while I know that this baby is something wonderful and beautiful, I have a hard time believing the storm is over. I ache everyday. I miss them every minute. Every second, I wish things had turned out differently. Rainbows are beautiful. This baby is beautiful. Even though the rain doesn't pound me down everyday, those dark clouds are always looming in the distance.

But there is a rainbow. There is beauty.

Rainbow Baby

A rainbow baby is a miracle baby conceived after the loss of another child. "Rainbow Babies" are the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it does not mean that the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and the clouds. Storm clouds may still loom over but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy, and much needed hope.

~ Unknown ~

Stephanie

Mending Is Never Ending

For five days, those five days between that fateful appointment and the day that held the confirmed diagnosis, were the longest five days of my life.

For five days, I prayed - demanded really - that He fix my daughters.

I didn't say please, I didn't even ask, I told him to just. fix. them.

I didn't plead for healing. I was too scared. I was too much of a coward to pray for that. I know He can heal one of two ways and one of those avenues for healing I didn't want because it would mean goodbye.

Two days after the consultation, one day after the surgery that was supposed to have fixed everything, goodbye was whispered . . . uttered . . . cried out in anguish.

Goodbye.

He healed my girls. He fixed my identical twins, Emmerson and Vivienne.

He didn't do it the way I wanted. The way I had pleaded endlessly that He would.

It hurts.

I am now broken. Shattered. Crushed. Hurting . . . everyday hurting. Heart left open to bleed.

Everyday.

I don't know why He didn't perform the miracle I had asked of Him. Somedays, that angers me.

I don't know why.

I still believe He is a healer. I still believe He restores, repairs, renews . . .

It is me . . . crevices of my life that I never knew existed . . . are being healed.

He is mending me.

It's only been 14 months so I am still in the mending process. And 14 years from now, I will still be in the process of being mended. More progress will have been made but it is still a process. 44 years from now, the mending will still be the present action.

I don't believe I will ever be completely healed this side of heaven. I don't believe my shattered, crushed, aching, bleeding heart will ever be completely mended while I am still trodding this earth.

Heaven is where the complete and whole lie.

However, 14 months later, with a different lens to look at life through, I can see how He has slowly started the mending process.

Because I ache, because I hurt, because I bleed, I ache for others . . . for complete strangers in a way that I never would have been able to before.

I have a passion . . . a fire burning within, to do for others, to make beauty from these ashes. It is slow moving, but it is moving. And I hope the moving causes change.

I can see that the moments I did get with Emmerson and Vivienne and the love that was given to them is far more than some ever receive in 80 years of a life lived. They were loved! I was blessed.

I am blessed.

There will always be this heart of mine that hurts and bleeds. I know this. I am accepting this. I don't want pity because of this. This . . . them . . . they are apart of me and I would never trade that for a sky that rained down diamonds. Because I got to carry them and hold them and love them, I am blessed. What mother would trade moments with their children for anything of this world?

And because of this forever ache, I can see more clearly the hurt in this world. I can see and feel and just be when another is hurting.

I can comfort another.

Is that part of the mending? That the thorn in your flesh or the cross you carry can cause you to extend comfort?

I am weeks away from welcoming our fourth child (our first boy) into this world. The whole pregnancy has been one of hope, fear, and trying so hard to trust The One who seemed to let me down 14 months ago. I feel like a lot of this pregnancy has been one where the wounds have reopened and new ones have appeared. Maybe that's just my perspective. Maybe it has all been apart of the mending process.

Some have told me that this Little Man will help me heal. Little Man will heal me in ways I never could have dreamed.

I don't know about that. I am not hoping for that. As much as I want to be healed, I don't want the weight of that responsibility to be my son's.

There was a Son already born who beared that weight.

I want my son to be born with love and dreams and hopes. I don't want him to be born with the job of fixing his mother.

That's not his job. He can't fix me. He can't heal me and I don't expect him to.

There is only one who can. There is only one who can be called the Mender.

This post was part of a link-up with Angie Smith and supporting the release of her third book, Mended. If you are interested in purchasing it you can do so here or here.

Stephanie

To Miss A Love . . .

Everyday, I think of you.

Even if I don't say your names aloud, the whisper of them lies in my heart.

There's no way anyone can possibly know how much I think of you. How often your names enter my mind and the love I have penetrates deep.

There's no way anyone can possibly know how much I think of you. How many times I wonder what you would being doing now. How many times I wonder what you would look like and how long your hair would be. Would it be long like your older sister's? How many times I wonder if your laughter would be the same or if I would be able to tell the difference between you two by your giggles. Would you even look the same to me? Or would you look completely different to me as you were different in personalities?

I miss you terribly.

There's no way anyone can possibly know just how much I miss you.

There's no way anyone can possibly know just how much my heart hurts because of the forever hole that now exists.

This ache is all too familiar and yet alien at the same time. Will it always be this way?

Will the hurt always surprise me in new ways? It is just so unnatural to lose a child. How do you ever live the same?





Stephanie

Changed

                          Source: vinyldesignsbycj.com via Cheryl on Pinterest

My daughter will never again be that six pound bundle I welcomed into the world.

In the last three years, she has changed. A. LOT.

She went from rolling, to crawling, to pulling up, to walking.

She went from cooing, to babbling, to uttering one word, to forming sentences and then conversations.

She will never again be that six pound bundle. She will never again be what she is today.

She is ever changing.

And so I am.

People have made statements like, you'll start feeling like your old-self again. It will just take some time.

My old-self?

Who was that? How do I find her again? Do I want to?

How can your life completely change but not you?

When you uttered an anguished sob of a goodbye, a goodbye that no mother should ever have to say, how do you not become someone completely different?

My old-self? She's gone.

I have a new-self. I am a new me.

Ever changing just like that six pound bundle I was blessed to welcome into the world.

Linking up today for a Five-Minute Friday with Lisa-Jo.






Stephanie

Surfacing

It's been a busy time. It's that time of year. I have been busy and distracted but still, those memories and wonderings have surfaced. Exposing that raw pain.

I don't know what it is that has caused these emotions, memories and wonderings to rise to the top.

Maybe it's that this time last year, the reality was truly settling in. I stopped believing there was a way to turn back the clock and undo what had been done.

Maybe it's that I have been feeling them near me so much.

Maybe it's that my husband and I shared our story last Sunday at church. All those precious, terrifying moments relived.

Maybe it's that now, Emmerson and Vivienne would be walking and talking. I watch  Alexandria play by herself and I wonder how the three of them would interact together. They would have arguments but they would also keep each other company.

I wonder what my family of five would look like living the daily life.

Maybe it's that I have had a few dreams about Emmerson and Vivienne and in those dreams I got to spend a few more moments with them but they always end with me telling them it's okay to go. That we love them immensely and we will miss them just as much but that it's okay.

And maybe it's just how this grief thing works. Coming and going, never knowing when it is going to sit with me awhile, exposing that raw pain.

I find that I have several moments throughout the day when I feel like I am suffocating. Finding it hard to breathe because the pain is just too heavy. I want to scream that I miss them when I am in public. I find that I am suppressing an overwhelming urge to cry. I want to grab the nearest stranger and inform them that my family is not complete. There are two precious girls not with me.

I. WANT. THEM. BACK!

And I wonder, why do some babies live and some babies die? Why are there arms left heavy and empty? How does God choose which babies get to go home with their parents and which ones will take their last breath in their mommies arms?

How does He choose? Can some one explain this to me?

I miss them! I want them back! I've already missed their first year of life, now I am missing the stage of wonderment and discovery.

I want them back.





Stephanie

It's A Struggle

Source: via Joelle on Pinterest

On June 29, 2012, I woke up and was scared. He wasn't moving! He always moves in the morning. June 29 . . . The year before on June 29 I went into labor with the twins.

He wasn't moving!

Not again!

I got up, moved around, changed position, went downstairs for some water, laid back down . . . nothing!

Not again!

Over an hour later, he started moving in all his crazy glory.

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

Two weeks ago, at almost six and a half months pregnant, I started cramping, feeling a tightness that would come and go in my lower abdomen, intense lower back pain, and pressure. So much pressure.

Even after being in labor three separate times, I still wasn't for sure if this was labor or if it was the changes that occur with pregnancy.

I tried resting, feet up, warm showers, fluid, but nothing was diminishing the pain.

I called my doctor and she got me right in.

She did a thorough examination. Everything was fine. I was to take it easy for a few days.

I kept reminding myself of the age of viability. He was there now. A bigger milestone than that foolish 12 week one where everything is supposedly safe after that mark. When is anything safe? Who decided that after 12 weeks gestation, the baby was safe?

But who wants their baby born too early? Who wants to see them struggle under the weight of all that life-saving medical equipment?

I didn't need to remind myself that babies die. I know that they do.

And that's a fear. A very realistic fear.

It's a struggle. This whole pregnancy. I second guess everything. Every twinge. Every ache.

It's a struggle to prepare. We did go into that room two weeks ago. That room that our sweet identical twin girls would sleep had become a four letter word and then a storage space. We went into that room and started cleaning out. I started with all those girl blankets. I moved them and then I started weeping. We still have a room to clean out. It's a struggle.

I want to reach the end of this pregnancy. For so many reasons. I want the end to be here. I need to know the outcome now. I need to know that I will get to hold this baby. That I will get to feed him. That I will get to secure him in his car seat and take him home. That I will awake in the stillness of the night to his cries and get to comfort him.

The heart automatically guards against a hurt that caused everything to shatter. I shouldn't be judged. No mother who has lost a child should be judged for the way the heart guards.

It's a struggle when all innocence has been lost.







Stephanie

Life Goes On

I haven't been excited. Part of me won't let me and a part of me just . . . can't.

There are pink and purple and frilly, girlie items I need to put away and replace with little boy stuff.

I just haven't. I can't.

I still envision the worse. I still think something tragic is going to happen. That is what I have prepared myself for.

But with each kick I start letting myself think . . . believe . . . that everything will be fine. Tragedy doesn't strike twice.

But I know that is false. And it's dangerous to believe that it doesn't.

My innocence has been stolen. That last thread gone forever.

This little guy makes his presence known. He moves so much more than his three sisters ever did. Alexandria rarely moved. I could always feel her curling herself up in a little ball and resting right under my right rib cage. I believed that she would be a snuggle bug. It wasn't so. She was born and she hasn't stopped moving since. Even in her sleep, she doesn't stop.

I think her sisters would have been the same way . . . constantly busy.

This little guy doesn't stop moving now. He's busy and I have no idea where he thinks he's going. He doesn't curl up, he stretches out.

I feel him move and I think of all that I missed with Emmerson and Vivienne. I feel him move and I am reassured, for the moment, that he is alive. Maybe that is why he moves so much, to reassure me that for the moment . . . he's alive.

I feel him move and I think I need to start preparing for this little guy. I need to go in that room and take care of some things. I need to acknowledge that he is coming and that Emmerson and Vivienne are not.

It's not that I haven't taken care of myself. I have. I have tried to eat as well and healthy as I can (as much as all the nausea and sickness will allow) and follow the restrictions that accompany pregnancy. I have changed my wardrobe from snaps and buttons to material that stretches and is forgiving. But that is where it ends.

I haven't planned, I haven't dreamed. Because what if? What if we don't get to bring this baby home either? I know that lightening can and does strike twice. I know that following all the rules doesn't always equal a happy ending.

And guilt overwhelms. What if the lack of planning and lack of dreaming not only protects but means a lack of love?

It's been hard. It's been different.

I was told, after I lost my twins, that if I ever got pregnant again, it would not be the same. It would be different. How can it be the same when all innocence has been lost? How can it be the same when what you once thought only happened to others has happened to you? You know that tragedy strikes even when you do play by the rules.

It has been hard because this pregnancy has taken place almost exactly a year later as the one with my twins. All those milestones have been hit at the same time, just a year later. The mind automatically goes to the milestones hit a year ago.

The mind automatically goes to my sweet look-a-like babies. My heart automatically feels that it is them.

I was told, after I lost my twins, not to drive for several weeks or do anything else requiring serious attention because I would hallucinate. I would see things . . . hear things . . . believe things that were not there. It happened while I was pushing with each contraction to deliver Vivienne. Emmerson was swaddled in a blanket and placed in a crib. From across the room, I saw her kick those blankets. I saw her move and I believed that she was alive. For weeks after, I awoke in the night when those cries startled me from sleep. See? It was all a nightmare. They were here . . . alive, crying in the next room.

That level of crazy has returned. Especially this past month when their first birthday was approaching. I feel this baby move and my first thought is that it is the twins moving.  Because some days, a year ago doesn't feel like it was a year ago, it feels like it is still the same year . . . like it is still the same moment. And because some days, I still feel like I am living a nightmare. And I still desperately seek an end to it.

I'm not out of touch with reality. I know what happened. I have a forever hole in my heart that weeps every single day. I own a piece of land in a cemetery. I know what happened.

I also know that life goes on. I have a husband that not only loves me but he adores me. I have a three year old daughter who needs me. Her eyes still light up when I walk in the room. For this brief moment, she wants to sit next to me, she will hold my hand in public. I have a little girl I need to raise. I have a little girl that I want to watch grow from that little body of hers into a teenager and then into a young woman.

Life goes on . . .

I know that life goes on. My stomach is swelling tight . . . for a third time . . . with the promise of a fourth life. A precious gift. With each pound gained . . . with each kick from within . . . I know that life goes on.

Life goes on and it is scary yet it is so beautiful.

I feel like God has gently, quietly, tapped me on the shoulder and whispered "you're not done yet. There is still so much more. Embrace it!"

Life goes on. 

Though it may be beautiful, though it may be scary, though it may hurt, I will embrace it.





Stephanie

Jealousy

I wouldn't label myself as a jealous person.

Over the last year, I have heard, They are in a better place, Grandma is holding them and rocking them, They get to play with the angels now, They are safe.

And while I believe that, it doesn't take away the pain. It doesn't take away the fact that I miss them so much.

I wouldn't ask them to return from where they are now. I wouldn't ask but I still wish things had turned out differently. I still wish I could hold them. I still wish I could have watched them grow.

I won't ask them to come back, I know they are in a better place. But I can't help but feel a little jealous of the ones who surround them now.

Stephanie

First Birthday

The days leading up were worse than the actual day.

On the eve of what would have been their first birthday, I spent thinking, "a year ago, they were still alive. A year ago, we were so hopefull."

The days leading up were worse than the actual day.

On June 30, 2012, my husband surprised me by coming home from work a day early.

We had two really good friends come and stay with us.

It was bizarre to know that a whole year had past.

Four seasons had come and gone. The blazing sun of summer turned into the crispness of fall. The crispness turned into the quiet of winter and winter turned over and birthed new life. That newness has once again turned into the blazing summer sun.

Four season had turned into each other . . . a whole year has past and I have survived.

We bought two cupcakes, pink balloons, got in our car and drove to the cemetery. I had not been there since the day we buried them. That day, I saw the hole that had been dug in the earth and I fainted.

This past year, I have wanted to go and at the same time, I have not. The thought of going caused me to stop breathing . . . caused my heart to skip another beat. But the day of their first birthday, I went.

We went and gave them their cupcakes. Their older sister placed two pink hearts on their grave. That was her birthday present to them.

I was shocked to see that some grass had grown. Had that much time really passed for something new to grow?

I sat down on my knees at their grave and looked at their name plates from the funeral home (still no headstone. That's another hurdle. Baby steps . . . ), I noticed the flowers and ceramic angels that others had left. I noticed weeds. WEEDS!!! Their presence made me angry! I started pulling them, ripping them out of the earth. Didn't they know they didn't belong? Didn't they know that this place was sacred? Pure? The evils that accompany life never once touched them so why did they think they had the right?

Ripping and pulling.

Ripping and pulling just like the emotions on my heart.

I told them I loved them. I told them what kind of party I would have thrown for them. I told them how blessed I felt and continue to feel for being able to hold them and feel them the day of their birth. And then I tried to envision the celebration they were partaking in.

My husband and I held each other and we prayed. We thanked the Lord for them and the time we did get with them.

We sang Happy Birthday to them as a family and then we released the balloons. We watched in silence as they easily floated into the heavens.

That sky that I always catch my gaze floating to.

They floated so quitely and effortlessly. Those pink balloons became smaller and smaller until you could not see them anymore. They floated into the sky that I have now become obsessed with. I see them, my babies, in that sky. I see the beauty they paint with each sunset and swirling of the clouds.

The balloons floated to the East and later, in the West we saw a beautiful stretch of pink painted across the sky.

It was them. I smiled.

A whole year. A year has passed. I never thought I would celebrate my children's birthday without them physically present.

I never thought I would have a year to live like the one I just did.

A whole year has passed and I have survived. I have lived everyday with the pain, made it through holidays and special family events. A year ago there was so much uncertaintity laid before me, not knowing if I could survive this. I know now that I can. I don't want to live out the rest of my days with this ache and without them but . . . I know that I can. Joy is returning amid the pain.

Stephanie

A Year Ago . . .

I've been a ball of unraveling, frayed nerves. I lack patience and the ability to cope. I don't know what to do when my daughter falls and bruises her knees. I feel like I have a marathon to run when it comes time to fix a meal.

I've been this way a lot this past year.

A break. You need a break my husband says. 

So much easier said than done. 

I was invited last week by a mommy-friend to spend a kid-free, sun-filled blue sky weekend on a boat on a lake.

The breeze created by a speeding boat and the sun beating down served to refresh and recharge.

But that night, as I lay in a bed three hours away from my own, it found me and I silently cried. 

A year ago . . .

It wasn't so much the mundane of life, my husband's schedule and a defiant three year old that was unraveling and fraying me. It is the anniversary . . . the birthday . . . of my two babies.

It's funny how your head may not realize something is approaching but your heart does. 

Months ago, a mother who had to bury her 18 month old son over twenty years ago told me, "It's a lot like walking on the shore. The grief . . . the hurt . . . it's always there. Sometimes it's the little waves lapping at your toes and feet and other times, the waves crash over."

Those waves have been pounding me down. 

I thought it was just life and the busyness of it that was getting to me.

But after a day spent forgetting where I was, what load needed to be put in the washer next, deciding what that little girl of mine might eat without a fight, and the hour of the day, I realized the unraveling of that ball was something I couldn't run from. I couldn't stop it. 

A year ago . . .

This week has been full of thoughts and sentences that begin with, "A year ago . . ."

A year ago I was anxious for my next doctors visit. Hoping she could tell me why I couldn't eat or sleep, why I was in so much pain. Hoping she had the answers and the solutions. 

A year ago we were in that Ultra Sound room where the air stopped moving and my husband reached for my hand out of fear. 

A year ago I spent the four longest days of my life waiting.

A year ago we left for Cincinnati where I felt hope laid. The city where I hoped answers would be given and life would be saved. 

A year ago I laid in a coffin-like machine for over an hour where answers and precious pictures of my girls laid in each slice of an image. 

A year ago I was the recipient of an UltraSound technicians kindness as jelly and a wand roamed my swollen belly for over two hours. When the pain was too intense, she let me move and reassured me that she could work no matter the position I needed to be in. She smiled with us when Emmerson performed one of her many tumbling acts. She respected the silence when Vivienne barely moved. She reassured us that Vivienne's heart still held life.

A year ago we got to see and hear those two wonderful hearts beating when, once again, we moved to another area of the hospital for the Fetal Echocardiogram. 

A year ago we sat at a long conference table with highly specialized doctors and nurses and a big screen on one side of the room where we got to see every image of our daughters that were taken that day. We were given the devastating diagnosis and the hope in the interventions. So many questions were answered and just as many were left unanswered. The conference room where being an adult and a parent sat heavily on my shoulders. The conference room where I learned that laying down my life for another became a reflex response. 

A year ago I didn't sleep for three days straight. My heart was too heavy and my mind too burdened. 

A year ago when I underwent surgery for the sake of my daughters, I was at the most peace I have ever been before in my life. 

A year ago we all thought everything went beautifully and I would be able to carry my babies to 32 weeks gestation. 

A year ago all our dreams were shattered. 

A year ago life as I knew it had completely changed. 

A year ago there became an old me and the me that I am now. 

A year ago this Saturday I gave birth to two beautiful baby girls. I was blessed to carry them as they grew and I was blessed to hold them as they left my arms and entered the Kingdom of Heaven.

This week has been hard. It has been bittersweet. It has been unbelievable that a whole year has passed.  In some ways it feels like it has been a week instead of a year and in other ways it feels like a lifetime.

I don't know what to do on Saturday. I want to sleep the day away. I want to go to the cemetery. I don't want to go to that place where the last time I was there was the day we buried them. I want to get two cupcakes and sing Happy Birthday. I want to release balloons. I want my husband to be home instead of working. I want to be surrounded by people. I want to be completely alone. I want to sleep the day away. 

I want my babies to be here. 

Stephanie