Moments of Grief

I am still working on writing William's birth story.  It is a difficult story to tell and I'm writing about it as I feel led.

In the meanwhile, I am working through my grief on a moment by moment basis.  I knew it would be difficult, but I didn't anticipate how exhausting it would be.

My sadness is amplified at unexpected times and triggered by unexpected things.

I sit at the kitchen table and stare at the petals that have fallen from the vase of flowers.  I realize that the flowers are dying and begin to cry.

The flowers are dying.  My baby died.  Why do beautiful things die?

I stand in front of the dishwasher and look at the green light that tells me the dishes are clean and need to be put away.  I see the clothes piled in the hamper.  I hear the garbage truck beeping as it drives around our neighborhood to pick up the trash.

How do these ordinary things keep happening when I'm in such extraordinary pain? 

My Mom takes me to the grocery store to help me get a couple things we need.  I stand in the produce department and look at all the people rushing around buying fruit and vegetables.  I want to stop them and tell them that I had a baby.

I know you can't tell, I imagine myself saying, but I gave birth to a baby boy two weeks ago.

It really happened.

He used to be alive...and now he isn't.

I realize it would be irrational to say these things to strangers, so I quietly shop for my food.

But I do find myself longing to talk about William.
To say his name out loud.
To affirm that he existed.

Sometimes I open my eyes in the morning and think, How has this happened?

Sometimes I stop what I'm doing and say, He died...our baby died.

I say the words aloud because it's a way for me to process and accept that it happened.  The words are hard to say and I'm sure they are hard to read or hear, but they are true.

I think that these moments of grief are necessary.
They are painful.
They are uncomfortable.
But they are still necessary.

Sometimes I have to fight feelings of failure.

Pull yourself together, Ali.

Stop crying.

Where's your faith in God?

But then I stop myself.

Because it's ok for me to grieve.  If I need to cry, I can cry.  I'm allowed to miss my baby.

Having faith in God does not mean that I won't or shouldn't feel pain.  God doesn't require me to pretend that I'm not devastated by the loss of William.

So instead of putting unrealistic expectations on myself, I will accept my need to grieve.

I will allow myself to validate the sad things that have happened by saying them aloud.  But even in my moments of grief, there are other truths that need to be remembered. 

They need to spoken aloud, as well.

God is good, even when life feels bad

Hope endures, even when pain is all I see

God is near, even when I feel so very alone

My moments of grief will lessen over time...I will feel happiness again...

I will feel happiness again.

No, Honey, He Has Passed

I lay back on the table and lift my shirt, exposing my stomach.  This particular nurse has checked William's heartbeat several times and knows to start on my right side.  I know where William is and I know that she is placing the doppler exactly over his body.

Instead of the familiar whooshing sound of his heartbeat, I hear nothing but white noise.

I cover my face with my hand and start gasping.  She is moving the doppler around my stomach.

Searching.

My gasping turns to wailing.  I'm pressing my hands against my mouth to stifle the screams.  My husband is holding me.  He is crying.

The nurse's eyes are red and filling with tears.  She says something I cannot hear because I'm crying in agony.  She walks out of the room and comes back with another nurse.

I grab her hand as the new nurse moves the doppler around with urgency.  The new nurse stops for a moment and listens to a faint slow heartbeat.  The two nurses begin talking to one another.  They are trying to figure out if it's William's heartbeat or mine.

I know that it's mine.  I know his heartbeat and I know it has stopped.

They leave to get the doctor.  I'm sobbing in my husband's arms.  The doctor comes in and tells me that we are moving rooms so she can do an ultrasound.

I can barely walk as we emerge from the room and begin crossing the hallway.  There are four or five nurses standing in the hallway watching us.  Some of them are crying.

I know there are patients waiting only a few footsteps away for their appointments.  I know their babies are alive and mine is dead.  I am biting my arm to keep from screaming.

I lay on the table and lift my shirt a second time.  I tell the doctor to turn the screen away from us.  My husband has draped his body over mine.  We are crying.

I look at the doctor as she stares at the screen, shaking her head.

Is he alive? I ask in desperation.  I already know the answer.

No, honey, he has passed.

A nurse walks in.

My baby died, I tell her through the sobs.

Another nurse walks in.

My baby has died, I say again.

The doctor shudders and looks away.  When she faces me, I can see she is beginning to cry and trying to gain composure.

Each time someone new comes in the room, I tell them that my baby has died.  I'm saying it again and again so that I can believe it to be true.

My screaming turns to moaning.

God, please help us.  Please help us.

William...William...my baby...I whisper.  I'm wrapping my arms around my stomach, trying to hold him through the barrier of my skin.   

We love you...Mommy loves you.  Mommy's here.

My sister-in-law has been waiting for us and comes in after the doctor tells her what has happened.  She is crying.  We place our hands on my stomach.

I suddenly realize that we must go to CHOP now.  I begin telling the doctor what to say when she calls.  I'm frantic.  She gently tells me that she knows what to tell them.  I begin saying goodbye to the nurses.  Some of them hug me.  Most of them are still crying.

They let us leave through a back exit so that we don't have to walk through the waiting room.  I stop crying as the elevator slowly descends.  We walk to the car.  I'm numb.

In the car, my husband hands me William's clothes and blanket.  As we drive to CHOP, I begin removing the tags and stickers.

Silent tears are streaming down my face as I prepare for my baby.  I stroke the sleeper we've chosen for him with my fingers.  I hold the matching hat to my lips and begin kissing the fabric.  I gently rub the beautiful blue blanket against my neck.  I do the same with each piece of his outfit.  I use his clothing and blanket to wipe away my tears.  I do all of this slowly, as if performing a sacred ritual.  I want William to be surrounded by my scent when he's born.

It's the only way I can care for him right now...and it calms me.

I look out of the car window.  The sun is shining.  It's a beautiful day to meet our son.

My stomach is cramping as we park the car.  We walk to the elevator and I wonder if I'm just nervous or having contractions. 

The elevator opens at the fifth floor and we begin walking to the special delivery unit.  As we approach the waiting room, I see my doctor.  There are many doctors at CHOP, and they are all wonderful, but this doctor is our special doctor.  She has worked with us the most and has talked to us and cared for us.  We love and trust her.

She sees us.  We are walking toward one another and I open my arms.

As she embraces me, I whisper, Do you know?

She nods sadly and tightens her embrace.

She leaves briefly to prepare for my admission.  While she is gone, our genetic councilor arrives.  She has been so dedicated to us and we love and trust her, as well. 

Do you know? I whisper.

Yes, she says quietly as she hugs me.

Our doctor comes back and we walk quietly into the delivery unit.  My body is shaking violently as we walk into the room that has been chosen for me to deliver our son.

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Realizing that William's heart had stopped beating was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.  At first, I wondered if I should try to forget this part of his birth story.  But I feel an urging to remember...even though it's so painful.

William's heart stopped beating.

It's so hard to accept, but it happened.  It's part of his story. 

I have come to understand that part of my love and commitment to William is acknowledging every part of his story, even the most devastating.

My prayer is that God will help me process the traumatic moments of William's story.  As time passes, I pray that He will ease the pain and brokenness I feel while allowing all the memories of William's story to remain.

Keep Calm and Carry On

Perhaps you've seen this poster before.  I saw it a year or two ago and always thought it was rather clever and inspiring.  It was created by the British government at the very beginning of World War II.  It was intended to be distributed in order to strengthen morale in the event of a wartime disaster.

I always thought the origin of this poster was very interesting, but I find it particularly poignant right now.  I don't have first hand experience with the horror of war.  I've never faced a military attack or been forced to flee during an invasion.  However, I'm going to guess that nothing fully prepares you for what you face during times of battle.

Likewise, I find myself in the midst of an unforeseen crisis and I often feel incredibly unprepared. 

What prepares you for the news that your baby is dying? 
What prepares you to deliver a baby who has passed away or will die shortly after birth? 

Nothing.

Not books.  Not websites.  Not long talks with others who have walked this journey.

There are some battles in this life that you must face moment-to-moment.  Carrying a baby with a fatal diagnosis is one of those battles.  I have certainly read some excerpts of books, visited websites, and talked with a few very strong women who have experienced similar loss.  We are doing what we can to be as prepared as possible for what may come, but there is only so much we can do.   

My thoughts take me back to last Sunday.  On Saturday night, I went to bed after a lovely evening of full of family, good food, and pumpkin carving in honor of my birthday.  William kicked away as I drifted off to sleep.  He often moves the most throughout the night.  I find myself looking forward to his precious movements when I wake early in the morning.

On Sunday, I opened my eyes before the sun came up and lay waiting to feel him move. 

Stillness.

I tried not to panic, feeling sure that he would start squirming soon.  The morning wore on as I drifted in and out of sleep.  I became more and more aware of his lack of movement, but refused to dwell on it.

Surely he'll move after I eat breakfast and drink some juice.

The hours passed and I didn't feel anything.  My anxiety began to increase.

It is time, God?

Please, no.  

I'm not ready!  Please, please...

I need more time

I don't want to say goodbye

As the afternoon turned to evening, I began to feel frantic.  I grabbed the computer and searched the Babies R Us website, my hands shaking.  I have had my heart set on picking out an outfit and a blanket for him.  There's so little I may be able to buy for him.  I so wanted him to have something that was chosen specifically for him by his Mama.

I searched for preemie sized clothing and blankets for baby boys, thinking someone could go to the store and pick them up for us if today was the day.  But it became too painful to look through the items on the screen.  I pushed aside the computer, tears streaming down my face. 

I wanted so much more, God.

I'm trying so hard to accept the time we've been given,

but I ache for so much more

If I felt no movement after 24 hours, I knew we were supposed to call CHOP.

I don't want to call CHOP

Please kick, William

Please move for Mommy

My husband tried to stay calm, but every so often he would ask me if the baby moved yet.  We were both waiting...waiting to find out if it was time to face something we could hardly imagine.

As we prepared for bed, my thoughts were all over the place. 

I felt angry.  Why do we have to be in this place of uncertainty?

I felt fear.  But I don't know how to deliver a baby. 

I felt panic.  What if I never feel him kick again?  What if he's...gone 

I felt a deep sadness for which there are no words.  At this point it had been about 24 hours since I'd felt him move and I began preparing to call CHOP first thing in the morning.

As I lay in bed, trying to fall asleep, I felt a small thump. 

I froze, hardly able to breath.  Is that you, baby boy?  Move some more for me, William. 

Two more thumps. 

The relief poured over me like warm water.  His movements increased throughout the night and by morning, he was practically dancing.

Although I was relieved beyond words that William was still with us, I found myself feeling very traumatized on Monday.  His lack of movement and the possibility that his life could be over gave me a glimpse into the unspeakable pain we could experience if that is the outcome that awaits us.  Yet again, I realized how one cannot fully prepare for loss of a loved one.

Since I do not know exactly what's ahead and can only walk through this battle moment-by-moment, there are some things I will commit to doing in the meanwhile.

I will cling to God, trusting that He will carry me through the moments of unimaginable grief that may come in my life.

I will pray that He guides me through all the moments for which I cannot prepare.  

I will carry my precious son and give him all the comfort, warmth, and love I can possibly give him.

I will cry, because I love my baby and the threat to his life warrants sadness and heartache.

I will laugh, because I want William's life to include so much more than my tears and brokenness.  I want him to hear and feel the joy of laughter every day of his life. 

I will sing, because I want to share the gift of music with him.

I will hope, because each day his heart beats is a miracle.

I will honor his life, because he is a precious gift from God.

I will love him.  I will love God.  I will love others.

And amidst the battles, the storms, and the moments for which no one could ever prepare...I will do my best to keep calm and carry on.   

The Morn Shall Tearless Be

I have days when joy and hope help to cushion my pain, but I also have days when the sadness and heartache feel insurmountable.  It's a sadness that I've never felt before.  It seeps into my body and I ache, inside and out.  

And then there are the nights.  I find myself staring out into the darkness, wondering if the morning will ever appear.

How can this be, God?

How can this be...

A few nights ago, I woke in the middle of the night.  William was moving as I placed my hand onto my stomach.  The joy and the pain mingled together.  I smiled as silent tears ran down my cheeks. 

My husband slept soundly beside me as I reached for my cell phone.  I opened up the calendar screen and scrolled to William's due date.  I pressed the screen to my face as my silent tears turned into muffled sobs.  I let my phone drop down to my chest and I held it over my heart.  As I held his due date close, I longed for my baby to be born alive and well while simultaneously preparing for a different and devastating outcome.   

Help me, God

If it's your will for me to let go,

Help me let go

I find that moments like these are part of an important process of surrendering my own plans and expectations to God's will. 

It's a painful process.  In fact, sometimes it's excruciating.

I recently purchased an album of classic hymns sung by Chris Rice.  His voice calms me and the long-treasured lyrics of each hymn soothe my heart.  A verse from the hymn, "O Love That Will Not Let me Go" has really resonated with me.

O Joy that seekest me through pain,
I cannot close my heart to thee;
I trace the rainbow through the rain,
And feel the promise is not vain,
That morn shall tearless be. 

I accept the days of sadness and the nights of pain as part of this journey I'm walking.  I accept them because I know that it is normal to grieve when the circumstances in your life take a painful and unexpected turn.  It's normal to grieve when you are forced to alter your hopes and dreams and adjust to a new and unfamiliar reality.  Surrendering your plans and expectations is so very hard.

But I will continue to seek joy, despite my circumstances.
I will believe that God is good, even when life feels bad
I will allow the beauty of William's life to soak into my heart

God, please help me endure the nights of weeping

And believe that joy will come in the morning

Who Will Carry Me?

For many, it's a very painful and difficult choice to make.  For us, it seemed there was no other choice possible.

I was going to carry William, no matter what the diagnosis.

When your baby is given a fatal diagnosis during pregnancy, the conversation tends to immediately go to termination.  Not only are you processing truly devastating news, but then you are faced with a life or death decision.  If you don't walk into the situation with a firm understanding of your feelings on terminating a pregnancy, it can be overwhelming and confusing.  Even though my husband and I knew that termination was not an option for us, I am truly sensitive to the struggle people have in this situation.

No one is prepared to face this type of news.  The world you were in before walking into that office feels unrecognizable when you walk out of that office.  Nothing is the same.  You are in shock and battling hopelessness and confusion. 

At the beginning of my pregnancy, I remember looking at the screen through eyes filled with tears.  There was our baby.  There was a little black circle with a small white light blinking right in the center of it.  The heartbeat.  I was mesmerized.  I remember so clearly how I felt.  In a voice softer than a whisper I said, I will love you forever.  I knew in that moment that I was willing to do anything for this precious baby.

As our story unfolded I was faced with doing the most difficult thing I could ever imagine.  Even though I feel absolutely privileged and grateful to carry William, the pain of my role in this situation is excruciating. 

The reality is that I am carrying a baby that is believed to be dying.  We know that God can heal him, but we also know that He could welcome baby Will into Heaven now instead of later. 

The room we had been cleaning out to be his nursery now goes untouched.  We don't pick out paint colors.  We don't register.  Our families don't plan baby showers.  We don't read books about having and raising babies.  We don't do the things we thought we'd do at this point.

Instead, we go to appointments and I lay in silence listening for his heartbeat, is today the day?  We go to appointments where they give us details about how to prepare to have a still born baby or a baby who dies shortly after birth.  We choose a funeral home.  We choose a cemetery.  We are given information about the grieving process.

Instead of preparing for a new life, we prepare for a likely and untimely death.  We aren't preparing to say hello, we are preparing to say goodbye.

We live in constant tension between hoping for a miracle and facing the possibility of a bitter reality.

And in the meanwhile, I carry William.  I carry him and love him and cherish every single moment.  Even through all the pain, I have no regrets.  I know with all my heart that God has chosen William just for us.  He has chosen my husband and I specifically for William.

The decision to continue a pregnancy that the doctors have deemed a "failure" was not a hard decision for us.  We pleaded with God to give us a child and choosing to end our baby's life because of his diagnosis was not an option. 

But does the ease with which we made our decision make this journey any easier? 

No.

It's important to me that I am honest through this journey.  I have no desire to appear self-righteous.  I don't want to act like I am a pillar of strength who gets up each day bravely facing the road before me, confident that everything will turn out alright.  Even though I believe without a shadow of a doubt that we made the right decision, I am still a disappointed and frightened young mother.  I still shake in the middle of the night at the thought of going through labor and delivery for the first time under these circumstances.  I still cry angry tears, asking God why He doesn't change this situation.  I still doubt my ability to actually walk this road.

I want to carry William, God.  I am honored to carry the gift you have given us.  

But who will carry me?  

I don't think I can really do this, God.  I feel like I'm stumbling and falling.  

I'm not strong enough...who will carry me?

 As I face my own weakness, I have to cling to God's promises and His strength.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; He rescues those whose spirits are crushed" Psalm 34:18

Please rescue me, God.  
I need You to carry me.  
I can't do this on my own.  
I will carry William while You carry me...I trust You to carry us both.