Christmas

I have always loved Christmas.  I still love it.

But having Christmas arrive less than six weeks after our tremendous loss has been strange.  It's confusing to have such deep sorrow during a time that typically brings such happiness. 

When I look at the beautiful ornaments that hang on the tree in William's honor, I am filled with joy and pain.  I feel joy because he lived.  I feel pain because he lives no longer.

His stocking hangs above the fireplace.  We will fill it each year with items to donate to a child in need.  The thought of this new tradition brings me happiness.  William will never reach into his stocking on Christmas morning.  The realization of this loss brings me intense sadness.

In the midst of my grief, I strive to remember why we celebrate Christmas.  With gratitude, I reflect on the gift of Jesus and how His birth, death, and resurrection has made it possible for us to spend eternity in Heaven.

Today, my husband and I visited the cemetery for the first time since William's burial.  On the way there, we stopped and bought two small plants to place on his grave.  As we picked them out, I choked back tears.  Instead of buying presents for our son, we were preparing to visit his grave.
 
Later, we wept as we knelt together in front of the temporary marker that bears his name.  I ran my fingers across each letter.  My heart ached.  

As I looked around the cemetery, I noticed countless graves with wreaths or other Christmas items placed on them.  I realized that people come to the cemetery at Christmas as a way to honor their loved ones...to remember them. 

We will now do the same.  We know William resides in Heaven, but visiting his grave is a way for us to say, We remember you.  We miss you.  We love you.

As we drove home, we listened to Christmas music.  Away in a Manger played softly on the radio as I looked out the window.  I listened to the familiar words with a new perspective... 

Be near me, Lord Jesus,
I ask Thee to stay
Close by me forever
And love me I pray

Bless all the dear children
In Thy tender care
And take us to heaven
To live with Thee there

I Miss You

It's been almost four weeks since you were born

It's been almost four weeks since you died

I miss you

I miss you so much

When we were separated

My body longed to care for you

My heart longed to beat beside yours

I am so lonely for you

This morning I looked up at our skylight

I watched a single ladybug crawl slowly across the window

And I cried

I cried because I miss telling you about the world

I cried for all the ladybugs you'll never see

I sat beside the Christmas tree

And I cried

I cried because I wanted to spend this Christmas with you

I cried for every Christmas we won't be together

I cry for you often

I cry for everything we had

I cry for everything we'll never have

And I know things will get easier

But this winter feels unending

The coldness of your absence makes my heart ache

And I know you are now living in perfect eternity

But it feels as though you belong with me

In my body

Or in my arms

And I'm trying to accept that you're gone

But I miss you

Your life changed my life

So I grieve for you

Because I read that grief is the cost of loving someone

And I loved you so deeply

And will love you forever

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.

Monday Morning

On Friday we had learned that William was beginning to fade.  Over the weekend, we waited for our next heartbeat check on Monday. 

On Sunday night, I slept deeply.  I found it hard to wake on Monday morning.  I half-heartedly added a few items to the bag we had packed in case we had to rush to the hospital.  I just didn't feel as though Monday was going to be the day. 

We were going to my local OB's office for the check and would go on to CHOP if no heartbeat was found.  I just didn't believe it would happen like that.  I was sure that if William's heart stopped that week, we would discover it at our weekly CHOP appointment on Wednesday.

As we waited to go to the heartbeat check, I reminded my husband to get the bag we had packed.  We don't need it today, but we should have it just in case.

I sat on the couch and read to William.  I read him a children's book about a parent telling his child how much he loved him.  I rubbed my belly longing for him to kick.  I could feel exactly where his body was on my right side.  He always loved being on my right side.  Sometimes I would get up out of bed and there would be a huge bulge to the right of my belly button.  I loved imagining him curled up in his favorite spot within me.

Just before we left, I snapped a few pictures of myself in the mirror and asked my husband to take a picture of my belly.  I rarely did this throughout my pregnancy, but those pictures are such a treasure to me now.  I didn't realize they would be the last pictures of me carrying William.

We got in the car and drove to the doctor's office.  I awkwardly walked up the path to the door.  Even though I was just under 7 months pregnant, I was measuring much bigger.  I looked 9 months pregnant and ready to deliver at any moment.

Don't worry, said a woman standing by the door, You're in the home stretch now!

How could she have known the truth to her words?

We walked back to the examining room and the nurse asked if I wanted her to take my blood pressure and weight.

That would be great, I said.  Let's listen to the heartbeat first.

Why did I feel so confident that we would hear it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

I'm going to write about William's birth with a level of detail and candor that goes deeper than my typical style of writing.  It may be difficult for some people to read, but I'll do this because it helps me process what happened.  I'll also do this because William's birth is now part of my journey as a mother. 

Mothers often share their birth stories.  They talk about whether they had a vaginal delivery or a Cesarian.  They talk about how long they labored and how they managed their pain.  I want to share my story, too...but my story is one of birth and death.    

Our society is often uncomfortable talking about death.  The death of an infant makes people even more uncomfortable.  Years ago, people rarely spoke of their stillborn children.  They were made to feel as though they ought to forget the trauma...to move on.  I believe that every child's story is worthy of telling, no matter what the circumstances or outcome. 

William was born still, but he was still born.  His birth story deserves to be told, and I've earned the right to tell it. 

Winter is Here

William Daniel Lake

was born into Heaven

on November 14, 2011 at 11:48 pm

He weighed 3 lbs and was 14 inches long

He had my nose and my husband's mouth

His feet were perfect

Today we had a beautiful service to recognize and celebrate his life.  Then, as the sun shone down on us and the winter wind blew, we buried our precious son.

I am going to write about William's birth and will continue to share what his life means to me. 
Our story as a family is not over and William's will not be forgotten.

For a short time

I had your body in my body

I carried your belly in my belly

And now, though I have your heart in my heart

and feel your soul in my soul

I will never again have your hand in my hand

I miss your life in my life

Poem written by a grieving mother named Johanna to her daughter, Ashley Rose

Waiting for Winter

The seasons in William's life are beginning to change.  As the leaves continue falling from the trees, our baby's life is beginning to fade.

Wednesday morning, I didn't feel him move at all.  We went to our appointment at CHOP and his heartbeat was present and within normal range.  As the day continued, I felt only small movements...a tap here, a thump there.  Thursday came and went with nothing but one or two weak sensations of movement.  I felt uneasy, knowing that just days before William's kicks were consistent and strong.

On Friday morning, as the sun rose I called CHOP.  The doctor told me that I needed to do a heartbeat check that morning.  He didn't say it aggressively, but I could tell he was serious.  We made a quick plan to go to our local doctor for a heartbeat check and if there wasn't a heartbeat, we would continue on to CHOP.  My husband went to work until the local office opened.  I began packing.

As I gathered my things and put them in the bag, I kept glancing in the mirror.  I knew that this could be the day and it was possible I wouldn't be pregnant for much longer.  I lay my hand on my stomach, soaking in the image of my baby still in my body.

We went to the doctor's office and the nurse found his heartbeat immediately.  I was relieved, but couldn't shake the feeling that something was still terribly wrong.  Why isn't he moving?

The doctor from CHOP called me a few hours later and explained that William has entered into the final stages of his condition.  His body is weakening and he will now spend most of the time sleeping, in a semi-conscious state.  His systems will slowly shut down and his heart will be the last thing to stop.  She assured me that he is not in pain and will not suffer.  The timeline is uncertain.  It could be hours, days, or maybe weeks before he passes.

When the call ended, I gasped and began sobbing.  I wasn't shocked.  I knew this was coming, but nothing prepares you for the moment you truly realize your baby is dying.

With a heavy heart, my husband had gone back to work and my mom was spending the day with me.  We lay our hands on my stomach and cried.  We told him we were there and that we loved him.

I write this post as the sun is rising.  Tears stream down my face.  I think back to spring, when everything was new and hope overflowed in my heart.  William's life had just begun and I spent long hours daydreaming about the future.

Summer arrived and William grew.  As the world outside flourished with life, our sweet baby kept getting bigger and bigger.  I fell more deeply in love with him. 

As summer ended, we learned of his condition.  In utter shock and pain, we entered into fall.

Fall began with grief and uncertainty.  But my heart began to change with the colors of the leaves.  I was determined to see the beauty of this season.  Even though autumn is a time when the lush landscapes fade away and a chilly darkness begins to fall, it's always been my favorite season. 

Endings can be beautiful.

I decided to embrace the autumn of William's life, to search for beauty amidst the pain.  Of all the seasons of William's life, this has been the most precious.  The time we've spent together as a family will be a treasure to me for the rest of my life.     

And now winter is upon us, both outside and within my heart.  It is a time where life does not truly go away, but is hidden from our sight.  Unless there is a great miracle, for which we always hope, William will be born into his life in Heaven and we will continue living here without him.    

And so we wait for winter.

We wait with William.

Because that is what we do when we love someone.  We stay with them through every season. 

We hold their hand
and hold them close. 
We speak words of love to them
and then we let them go.

So with an anguished but grateful heart,

I gently stroke my belly where William sleeps,
because I cannot yet hold his hand.

I hold him safely in the center of my body,
because I cannot yet hold him in my arms.

I speak softly to him, telling him that he is dearly loved.

And when God chooses...

I will let him go.