Ten Years Gone

Sarah's birthday, technically speaking, was yesterday. Yesterday was my first day back from a vacation weekend that turned out to be anything but vacation-like. We ended up stuck in Salt Lake City Utah for a day, with a cranky toddler, who then didn't sleep most of the night after we did make it home.

So, yesterday, I jumped back into the routine of school drop-off and housekeeping, plus unpacking of both our luggage, and my Scentsy starter kit. I just became a consultant.

I didn't have time to think about it being Sarah's birthday. Of course, I still knew.

Let me explain.

New grief is all-consuming. It's this fire that eats away at you from the inside. You can never stop it burning, but eventually you do contain it. You take your memories, and your feelings, and you put them away so that they don't take over everything. But they don't go away.

On Sarah's birthday, I usually open the door to visit those thoughts and feelings and memories. But I need some time.

If I open that door, much like my actual closet, stuff is going to fall out of it, and it's a hard door to close again. I didn't have time to sit down with my box of her things, like I usually do, and touch them and sniff them to see if they still smell like her at all. They don't, by the way. Which I think is unfair. Smell is such a powerful sense. If I could still smell her....I don't know.

Today though, it seems that place in my heart is open whether I want it to be or not. And, for the record, I'm not sure if I want it to be or not.

I miss my daughter. I miss all of the things we were supposed to do together. I miss all the pictures we were supposed to have, and the memories we were supposed to make together.

And, at the same time, I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for the people who have loved us through loss, and continue to do so.

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The Loss Perspective

I was talking to a friend recently, about moving from the first year of grief to the second.

It's a weird journey from start to forever (since with grief there's never really a finish).

The first days are acute. Everything feels like it's happening in slow motion. It hurts more than you can fathom. But at least you're busy.

There are plans to be made and things to be done. There are arrangements.

People come out of the woodwork to support you, and offer their love and concern.

It hurts, but for a time, you can see that your loss means something to others. That they too, see the rend in the universe that has been made by the loss of this person you loved so much. It holds you up in those early days.

But then, everything that can be done, is done. People return to their regular lives, and suddenly you have to navigate this world that has not been made right for you.

I remember being shocked that I had to do things like pay the electrical bill. My daughter was dead. How could bills be important?

Then there's the first year, which I refer to as "the year of firsts". First holidays and milestones without them. The pain is still raw and fresh, and people understand as you touch each meaningful date and acknowledge your hurt.

But I think the real work comes with the second year and beyond. Because that's when you get down to the real work of creating a life without someone that was supposed to be there.

I had a whole life with Sarah that I haven't seen outside of dreams. And while I don't live in the urgency that is new grief, it's now a weight that I carry all the time.

It's a different kind of work, grieving. It's not even that it's always sad. It just...is.  

Truly, though, I think most of you know, I'm a happy person by nature. I love people and I love life. I'm not swimming around in my grief after almost ten years. But I will never stop missing her, either. I will never get to stop carrying on with a life that was supposed to include her. So, it's just always going to be there, that weight of her loss.

So, I was having this moment of annoyance at a mom who was complaining about her child doing something normal and wonderful. It's been happening a lot lately, actually. People having the totally normal feeling that their kids are growing up too fast, and couldn't they just slow down a little bit?

It's a feeling I've had.

But right now, I'm watching Liam learn how to use a spoon. He's almost 3 1/2 and he can't use a spoon. He can't regulate how fast he eats. He can't tear food with his front teeth. These are all skills that most kids get at about 18 months.

Of course, he's also getting more words all the time, and walking up the stairs (instead of crawling), and gaining other great skills. There's a lot to be excited about.

And still, when I hear mom's complain, I can't help but think that they should be grateful that their kids are doing those things. Because mine isn't. Or won't. Or won't soon.

But then, I know that there's nothing wrong with how they're feeling. It's normal. And it's the same thing that people who've lost could think about me. How can I complain that Liam's not doing certain things yet?

He's alive.

He could.

I sometimes have to remind myself that we all have struggles, and sometimes the hardest struggles we face are to remember to see things from a perspective other than our own, and to choose gratitude for our circumstances.

I lost Sarah.

But I get to keep Liam.

One child can never replace another, but I have so much to be thankful for. I have to hold on to that gratitude with both hands and squeeze once in a while.

You should too.

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Nine Years of Sarah

Nine years? Nine years. It's been nine years since we delivered Sarah at 22 weeks and 3 days.

In less than two weeks we had gone from a stress inducing but otherwise fine pregnancy, to complete devastation.  On Bridget's first birthday, I had my 20 week ultrasound.  I thought of it as the gender scan at the time.  It didn't occur to me that the anatomy they looked at, could be anything but perfect.

My poor ultrasound tech.  She knew exactly what she was looking at, but couldn't let on.  Couldn't tell me at all.  She let me walk out of that office on cloud nine, with little black and white pictures of my little girl.  My girl.  I was going to have three little girls, all in a row.  How funny, since the pregnancy was completely unplanned, and I'd felt really done with three kids.  But I knew when I found out that I was pregnant, that my family wasn't complete without her.

A few days later I found myself in another office, hearing that my baby couldn't live.  Hearing that the pregnancy carried potential complications for me.  I can remember sitting in the waiting room afterward, waiting for someone who was supposed to give me information on my choices, and listening to a woman discuss her normal pregnancy.  I remember being so filled with grief, I couldn't stand it.  I kept wishing she would shut up.  Couldn't the whole world see that something had gone terribly wrong?  The appointment itself was so last minute, Dominic had stayed home with the kids.  I'd just found out that my baby would die and I had to drive myself home.  I'm not entirely sure how I did that, except that I had to, and it turns out we do what we have to do, sometimes.

Of course, being new to blogging, I came home and poured out my grief out on my blog.  I had no idea what I was doing.  My blog, then on blog-city, I think, received over 25,000 hits that month.  People love a trainwreck, and I'd suddenly become a face for the pro-choice/pro-life movement.  No one, when trying to make a decision for their health and for a baby they want and love, should be in that position.  It's too much pressure.  I couldn't make the right choice for everyone.  I could only do what I thought was best for myself and for my baby and family.  That was hard enough.  I still wonder what-if.  And of course the ideals didn't see me, they didn't see Sarah. They certainly didn't see my grief.  I could tell stories of what people told me, but if you click on the label for this blog post, you can go back and read for yourself.  It was a shitstorm.  And for a brief time, I was the center of it.

So much has happened in nine years.  Our family has welcomed Ciaran, Quinn, Brennan, and Liam.  Four little boys.  I wonder if any of them would have been here if Sarah hadn't come, or if she hadn't died. Selfishly, I'd like to have all of them with me.

Tonight, Dominic and I went through her box.  Even after nine years, for me, Sarah's short life is so big.  And yet everything we have, fits into a little amazon box.  In it is her bunny, her blanket, the hat she wore, books we were given, cards we were sent.  Anything that would be a memory for us, a memory of her big life, is in that tiny box.

I am grateful for every piece of it.  The hand and footprints, the washcloth they used to get the ink off of her.  Every little thing is what we could get to make a few hours together, last a lifetime.

Sarah taught me about grief.  She taught me about learning to live with part of your heart missing.  Most importantly, Sarah put me on a different path.  One that took many years.  I didn't even realize it at the time, really, but I'm most definitely not the Conservative Catholic Homeschooling Mom I was then.  I'm a better person for having been her mother.  I'm more open.  I understand more.  

I found a paper in her box.  It said "findings consistent with semi-lobar holoprosencephaly and encephalocele".  I can't understand why, now, but I focused so much on the first diagnosis, that I forgot the second one.  I never realized that there was an increased chance of neural tube defects after having a child with a neural tube defect.

When Liam was diagnosed, I was angry.  I couldn't go through all of that again.  But Liam is still here. Thursday he will have a CT to see how his shunt is functioning, and will see the neurosurgeon.  Still, he is here.  It makes no logical sense, but I feel like the Universe owed me a keeper.  And while no child can replace another, I feel like he's the gift that we were given, the one we got to keep.

Our family is as complete as it can be without Sarah.  Our Shooting Star. In my dreams she was always blonde, which I thought was weird.  I didn't have any blonde kids.  Then Liam came, and he is all blonde.  I'm sure that means something.  It feels like another connection between them.

After nine years I can say that I survived the worst.  But I can also say that grief leaves its mark on a person.  It changes, the way scars do, but it's always there, and it's always tender.  My little girl is gone, but she is remembered.  She is loved.  And we have been too.

Thank you to everyone who has carried the spark of her memory in their hearts.  She lives on through you.  And thank you to everyone over the last nine years who has shown us kindness and support.  It means so much to us that we have been loved.

Happy Birthday, Sarah.  Your tiny life was grand, and I'm grateful for every moment that I had with you.

Liam

Every once in a while I meet someone, and pretty soon I'm telling Liam's story.  Of course, Liam's story is only in context for us when you know Sarah's story.  So, that's always fun, too.

The subject has left me....sensitive.  The issues of life, termination, the term "incompatible with life" all took on a different meaning when the ideas were no longer theoretical, but real, and happening to me and to my baby.

I'm grateful for supportive friends and family.  I'm grateful for a husband who, after hearing that our child could survive it, had no concerns about loving and accepting the child we got, no matter what his limitations might be.

The first year of Liam had it's own set of challenges.  Everything was new, and there was so much to be done.  There wasn't a lot of time to worry about what was going to happen next, because I was so busy thinking about what was happening right then.

Now we're halfway through year two of Liam.  I love him so much.  His giggles, his skills, the way he loves to snuggle.  He's amazing.  This year, though, this year I see his peers pulling away from him.  They are advancing by leaps and bounds, with new skills all the time.  Meanwhile I'm still trying to get him to say a few words and hoping he'll decide to walk soon.  That can be hard to see.  Also, the realization hit me the other day that between Ciaran and Liam, we may never be child-free.

That was my purpose.  You have kids, you raise them, and eventually they become independent.  But what happens if they don't?  I suppose most people would have thought of that sooner, but to be honest, that never really occurred to me.  How very naive I was.

At the same time, I can't focus on what may be.  I can only address what is happening right now.  And, to be honest, he's doing really well in so many ways.  He is a healthy and happy baby who is working really hard to hit those milestones.

Don't get me wrong.  I don't feel sorry for myself.  I'm not even sure if I'm worried about it.  It's just another one of those times where you look at your future and think that it may not be what you thought it would.  But then, kids are like that.  They don't always want to go along with your plans.

I see these memes all the time on the internet about the strength of Special Needs parents.  I don't know that I'm strong.  But I know I've learned to be flexible.  If I didn't bend to go along with some of the curves life has thrown us, I would have broken.

Wednesday's Child

I can never remember, was Wednesday's child full of grace, or full of woe?

In seven years I've come to feel like Sarah was , in a way, full of both, equally, at the same time.  Two aspects living peacefully side-by-side in my heart.

In the beginning, when people would ask me how many children I had, I would feel guilty if I left her out of the number.  Now, it's become a protective mechanism.  If I tell them about her, I have to tell them all about her.  I have to pick at the scab and make it bleed.  Most of the time, I don't want to do that.  It's become second nature to leave her off of the total number.  So much so that I sometimes forget how many times I've actually given birth.  And I did give birth to her.

I still think of her.  A lot, actually.  I've looked for meaning in her life and death, and I've found some.  Without Sarah, there would not have been a Ciaran.  Without Sarah, I might not have had so much hope for Liam.  Without Sarah I would not have been able to know some people who've become very important to me over the years.  Without Sarah, it might have taken me a lot longer to begin to question the belief system I had subjugated myself to, and get to where I needed to be spiritually and as a whole person (and it still wasn't exactly a quick conversion).

Even after seven years, I still look at her name on the marker and mourn my hopes and dreams for her.  I could have had 3 little girls making me want to stuff cotton in my ears.  And with three, two could take sides against one!  And wouldn't puberty have been fun?  But along with all of that, there are years of cuddles and kisses, and I-love-you's that I haven't had.  I think it's fair, just once in a while, to allow myself to really miss that.

Grief can't be on the front burner forever, or we'd lose ourselves.  But it never really goes away, either.  It's put in a safe place, along with memories, and dreams, and that allows  us to go through our lives and even be happy.  But I do still miss her.  I will always miss her.  And to never look at what I miss would be to not acknowledge what a profound impact she had on my life.

Some Things Don't Change

I found a group of moms online to help me through this whole Encephalocele diagnosis.  Who can better tell me what to expect and what things mean than women who've been there?  But I wondered what would happen if we got a member who was looking to understand the diagnosis and prepare for or recover from the loss of a child.  Especially if they chose to end the pregnancy.  

It happened.

For me it was like stepping back in time.  From multiple issues to a risky pregnancy, it felt like someone else had stepped onto a track I'd already laid down.  But this time she was coming into a group of which I was a member.  Surely there wouldn't be any problem.

That wasn't the case.  I've had six years to think about why this happens.  I think some women believe if there's a beating heart, there's a chance.  That may be true for some babies, but not for all.  And the more issues you stack on it, the more distant that chance becomes.  

Some women think if you don't fight tooth and nail to give your child every last second of life they can squeeze out, you're not trying hard enough.  I don't believe that.  I think sometimes there is just as much bravery in being able to let go and say goodbye.  

Some women think that any choice different than the one they have made is an indictment of their own.  As if there is only one right answer and if you think yours is right for you, you must think everyone else's is wrong.  I don't believe this either.  My circumstances aren't necessarily the same as someone else's.   I can't judge someone else for making what they believe to be the best choice for themselves, their family, and their baby.  Isn't that what we're all trying to do?

Some women just see being pro-life as a completely black and white issue where the baby's life takes priority.  Again, I disagree.  I consider myself pro-life (though I'm sure there are pro-lifers who wouldn't consider me part of the "cause", and I wouldn't want to be associated with them either) but I think the mother is a life too and should be considered, protected, and respected.  

When someone gets a diagnosis which carries with it the very real risk of death for their child (or a certain death for their child, depending on the severity) they react differently.  And they need different things.  Some need to hear every miracle story.  They need to hold on to every scrap of hope possible in order to put one foot in front of the other.  Some need to know how to prepare for a loss they know is coming.  Some need support as they go through the loss before, at, or after coming to term.  But whatever they need, I want to help.

I want women to know about things like perinatal hospice.  I want women to know that other people have walked the path of grief and survived.  I want to offer hope and prayer to everyone who wants it whether it be for their recovery, their baby's safe delivery, surgery, miracle, whatever.  

What I don't want to see is another woman attacked or made to feel like a murderer when trying to figure out how to say goodbye to a baby they love and truly want to keep forever.  I guarantee you, we do grieve.  And we do it hard.  There's no good time or easy way to say goodbye to your baby.  

Life is hard enough to figure out for ourselves.  I'm ashamed that sometimes I have actually thought I had all the answers.  I don't.  And neither does anyone else.  We women are amazingly passionate, generous, and compassionate.  I hope that we continue to find ways to show that to each other even when we disagree.  I know, I have ridiculously high hopes.  

My prayers and thoughts tonight are with the mothers in the process of loss.  And those searching for answers to the hardest of life's questions.  

Believe those who are seeking the truth.

Doubt those who find it.

~Andre Gide

Babies Should Come Home

Have you ever heard of Holoprosencephaly?  Triploidy?  Encephalocele?  Fetal Hydrops?  Amniotic Band Syndrome?  Anencephaly?  Trisomy 18?  

I have.  I've heard of all of these, and much more.  Once you've lost a baby, and you understand, stories come from everywhere.  For loss moms, or moms facing loss, this is something the world doesn't like to talk about.  Something people don't like to face.  Who can blame them?  In their world, babies come home, and to think they don't is to be terrified beyond words.  So, when one of us moms finds someone else who will talk to us, we can sometimes just unload.  After a while, loss moms don't just carry around the story of their own heartache, but a thousand others.  From a fatal prenatal diagnosis, to SIDS, we know someone, and we're connected to them.

The day Sarah died, my friend K. was walking out to the parking lot to meet her husband, when she saw an angry young teenage girl come in to be admitted into labor and delivery.  Her exact words were, "It's just not fucking fair."  And you know what?  It's not.  It's not fucking fair.  It's not fair that crack users can waltz into a hospital and give birth to a healthy baby while some of us are forcing down our prenatal vitamins over our morning sickness and doing everything right and we leave the hospital empty handed.  

It's not fair that some parents neglect and abuse their children, while some of us spent a month picking out the safest car seat or make sure we always pick the best way for our baby to sleep only to lose our little one to SIDS.

I know.  The world isn't fair.  Life isn't fair.  But I think it's fair to say that sometimes, when it's all overwhelming me a bit, I get angry.  I'm angry that it isn't fair.  I'm angry that I don't have three little girls sleeping together upstairs after fighting about who worked hardest to clean up the playroom.  I'm angry that Liam will have to have surgery when he should just be nursing in my arms.  I'm angry that so many loving and wonderful parents have to hurt so much.  And I'm furious that there's not a damn thing I can do to make it better.  You see, I'm a a mom.  That's what I do.  I make it better.  And when the only comfort I can give is a hug and a prayer, I get really mad.  Because scared, hurting, heartbroken mamas deserve so much more than that.  

I'm sorry this is not a very upbeat blog post.  My emotions tend to be a roller coaster during the most normal of pregnancies, which this is not.  So, right now I'm just kind of rolling around in the "It's not fucking fair".  

At some point I promise I'll get up, dust it off, and send that energy out into the universe as a prayer for healing and comfort.  But for now, I'm going to stew in it a bit until my fingers are pruney.  

Five Years In Heaven

I had all sorts of plans for Sarah's fifth birthday. None of them seemed to have come out as planned. The snow on her grave is far too high to even walk through. We couldn't see her marker at all. I forgot the flowers, not that they'd have been any good. I didn't make a cake.

We did drive out. I did get cupcakes. I have thought about her all day, forcing myself to hold on the memories that seem to dim a little more every year. What exactly did her skin feel like? What did that soap smell like that they used to bathe her?  Just how did her face look as I held her tiny body? If it weren't for pictures, I might have forgotten totally.

I thought about her delivery earlier. It was not a difficult delivery physically. But it was hardly a normal birth. And when I really think about it, it feels traumatic. Like my soul was rent with her loss.

I have children to bathe, pajamas to put on, stories to read. But all I want to do is climb in bed, roll over, and hope that tomorrow comes fast. You'd think after five years, her birthday wouldn't hit me quite this hard. But then again, maybe I'm entitled to one day a year when I can indulge my grief a little bit?

Most of the time I am comforted with the knowledge that she is not in pain. I'm soothed by the idea that in heaven she has been made whole, and that I'll get to see her again. Most days, I am not at all crippled by the loss of her. But today her absence is everywhere. Today I can see in my mind, the dream I had for my three little girls. Today she is missing and I feel it acutely.

I believe in the promise that death can not permanently separate us from the ones we love. That said, even Jesus mourned the loss of Lazarus when He knew he was about to raise him from the dead. And today, with all my hope and comfort, today I mourn for my daughter who should be here, but is not.

I miss you, Sarah.

In Control

MckMama of My Charming Kids wrote an excellent blog post today about how she learned a lesson of faith from the navigational device in her car. She realized that, just as she knew it was safe to take the offramp that the device was unaware existed, she could have faith that God may take us down roads when we're not aware of what's at the end. She applied the lesson to what has happened with her son Stellan and his heart condition.

I so related to that post. When I got the news that something was wrong with Sarah, it was devestating. To hear that your baby, no matter how long carried is not capable of being one you take home. To hear that continuing to carry a much loved and wanted baby could endanger your life, it's a lot to take in. It could have been a time that I railed against God. Why was He allowing it to happen? Instead I found I needed God desperately to get through each moment.

The whole experience made me realize something that, as parents, I don't think we like to admit. We're not in control. We can buy the best carseats, and double check their proper installation. We can teach them not to cross the street without holding hands or looking both ways. We can teach them not to talk to strangers or help them look for lost puppies. We can start them on simple baby foods one at a time to look for allergies. We can feed them the best food. But life is uncertain. We are not in control. Anything is possible.

In some ways, this idea scares the bejeezus out of me. Personally, I'm a control kind of girl. I like to be able to choose what happens next. And the choices I make do have an impact. It's important to do all those things we do to keep our kids safe and healthy. But ultimately, I don't have that control. But I have faith that God does.

It's hard for me, day after day, to remember that. And to give thanks to Him for each day He graciously gives us as a family. It's hard for me to understand why He allows some of the things He does. Of course I know that even if He came down right now and explained it, it probably wouldn't satisfy me. I have to trust Him.

Where I do have control is in my attitude, and the way I choose to respond to the things in the world over which I have no control. I could hang my head and pout, cry, or rant against the injustices of the world, or even in my home. But it doesn't do me or anyone else any good. I can choose my actions. I can make the best choices possible to keep my family safe. And I can choose to worship the Lord even when I don't understand why things are happening that are painful or I just don't want to. Hebrews 13:15 uses the phrase "sacrifice of praise" which is something I've come to understand as I've learned to praise God through grief, fear, and uncertainty.

There is peace in the knowledge that He is strong enough to hold on to me, when I am too weak to hold on to Him. And, while I don't have ultimate control over what happens in the world, it is comforting to know that I can always turn to Jesus and that He has given me the free will to be able to choose and control how I respond to a world I don't always understand.

A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.
Proverbs 17:22

Through Jesus, therefore, let us continually offer to God a sacrifice of praise—the fruit of lips that confess his name. And do not forget to do good and to share with others, for with such sacrifices God is pleased.
Hebrews:15-16

Show me your ways, O LORD,
teach me your paths;

guide me in your truth and teach me,
for you are God my Savior,
and my hope is in you all day long.

Remember, O LORD, your great mercy and love,
for they are from of old.
Psalm 25:4-6

Loss, Loss, Loss

Sometimes it happens. I'm going through life, fine as anything, thinking about Sarah here and there, but with the grief of her loss feeling...less fresh. The wound is sort of, for lack of a better description, scabbed over. And then I hear a story, talk to a mom, or several, and it seems that everywhere I look I see someone still in the throes of their grief, and it brings mine back to the surface.

Which isn't to say that it's all about me. It's just that my own feelings are still raw under that scab. And when I hear someone else talk about their experiences, sometimes the scab just gets ripped right off and I commiserate and sympathize in a very real, and painful, way.

I would never again wish to go through the pain of losing Sarah. At the same time, I would do it again if it meant sparing other women the grief of their own loss. It feels, unfair, that they should have to suffer too. Of course, I suppose that's very arrogant of me to think that my pain should have been deep enough to have been enough for everyone. After all, there's only one person whose pain was enough for the whole world, and it definitely was not me. But I do think it speaks to how much grief one can feel for a baby they knew for so short a time.

We moms who lose infants, newborns, or babies still in the womb, we don't just grieve for the actual baby who was with us and is now gone. We grieve for every hope and dream we had, for every smile we'll never see, and for every laugh and word we'll never hear. We grieve for what was and what could have been.

I won't lie. I'm sad today. Today it hurts. Today I want Sarah in my arms and dancing around the living room driving me crazy like a 3 year old girl should. Of course, my Sarah would never have done those things. Her brain would never have let her do them.

Oddly, that's where my hope is. Because I believe that in heaven, she is not limited. Her brain is perfect. She can dance, she can run, and she can sing praises to the King who made her and saw fit to take her home. And I have some measure of peace and hope in the knowledge that we will be together again one day.

Thankfully our God does not leave us bereft and alone. He is there for us. He has a plan, even if we can't see it, even if we don't know what it is. So, even though I'm sad today, I'm grateful too.

Though he brings grief, he will show compassion,
so great is his unfailing love.
For he does not willingly bring affliction
or grief to the children of men.
Lamentations 3:32-33

Sarah In the Fall

Every year for All Souls Day we go and decorate Sarah's marker. I thought I'd post pictures.

This is the tree that's growing nearby. I wish the picture did it justice. It's absolutely gorgeous right now, all golden and red.

Ciaran ran around and loved being outdoors. I took him with me to make the rounds , visiting the other babies. I'm sure I'm not the only mom to take note of new babies, or to visit the older ones. It's a different kind of community, but a community nonetheless.


Daddy and the Piper sit together and look at Sarah.


We decorated her marker with Fall flowers, toys, and some candy from Halloween.




Piper remembered exactly where Sarah was from our last visit. She sat down and said "Hi, Sarah, it's me, Piper. Your big sister. I love you Sarah." and before we left she told Sarah that she'd love her forever. It's a miracle I didn't break down.



So, Sarah continues as part of our family, even in heaven. And we can't leave her out of family celebrations. I only wish she were really here, running around, and enjoying the leaves falling from the trees. I do take some comfort in the knowledge that in heaven, at least, she's healthy and whole, and can enjoy things in a way I can't even imagine yet.

Sometimes It Hits Me

I have been busy transferring old blog posts to Wordpress. Since Blog-City doesn't play well with others, there's no easy way to upload all that I've written there and bring it over here. So, one by one, I've been copying and pasting, living in html, and appreciating how much work I've put into my blog over the (almost) four years.

Then suddenly I noticed my pregnancy ticker in the sidebar. 23 weeks and 3 days. It even says "viable outside of the womb". And it hit me that I never got this far with Sarah. At this point with her she was already gone, and I was deeply grieving her loss. It's funny how it just jumps out from time to time and grabs me. It's happened enough, you'd think I'd be used to it. But it still startles me how much I can miss her when I knew her so briefly. But I've worked hard to rembember the feel of her hand on mine, and the slight weight of her in my arms. I can almost smell the soap they used to wash her feet after taking her footprints.

I am so grateful for every kick this baby gives me, and every little squirmy wiggle inside. I only wish their big sister were here with us to wonder over it as well.

(The picture for this post isn't random. That is a Sare Bear. We were given one when Sarah died. They are made by a non-profit organization called Sara's Smile which provides these special bears to loss moms. They rely on generous donations to be able to provide these bears for free to mothers who have lost their babies and children. If you know someone grieving the loss of a child, this is a beautiful and comforting gift.)

Something To Say

I was looking at my traffic here at Our Homeschool over the last few years.  Before February of 2005, when we lost Sarah, I had a small following of somewhere between 500 - 1000 hits per month.  Blogging was fun.  It was a way to talk about what we were doing and what was on my mind, and most of the people who read it were people I already knew.

That February it all changed.  Word got out on blogs both pro-choice and pro-life that we were making an incredibly difficult decision regarding our daughter.  Reading back over my posts I think I did a poor job of explaining what I had been told.  I spoke to so many doctors in such a short time, and Sarah's problems were so far outside of my scope as a nurse who works primarily with senior citizens.  My blog became a place to express my pain, and work through my test of faith.  People came to read my struggles and my readership went through the roof.

That month I received more than 25,000 hits to my blog.  Only a tiny fraction of those who came to look actually commented.  That was okay with me, really.  Anything less than supportive was just painful, and I was in enough pain already.  Looking at the hits, I expected that it would all die down once it was all over.  And it did.  Honestly, people can only watch a train wreck for so long before they have to move on.

What I didn't expect was how many people who discovered this blog during such a turbulent time in our lives, would stick around to see what I had to say after it was over.  Even now, after several lengthy pauses in my blog writing, I'm still getting over 10,000 hits per month.  I'm just one woman.  One woman in a modest house in the Midwest with a bunch of kids.  I screw up and do things right.  I try to live out my faith, though I don't always succeed.  I don't even know that I always have something to say.  And yet, some of you have been so faithful to keep checking this blog out.

Some blogs will tell you how to be a better Catholic/Christian/Wife/Mother/Homeschooler/Homemaker.  I don't have one of those blogs.  I have an every-woman blog.  One that I hope makes my readers feel that they're good enough, even if they're frustrated with the kids, late getting dinner on the table, or still have laundry sitting unfolded.  Which reminds me...I really should put that laundry away before my wonderful husband starts wondering where on earth all his pants have gone.

Thank you so much to all of my readers who've stuck it out with me.  Sometimes just seeing the number and knowing that someone is reading my blog is a form of support all in itself.  

One of Those Days

In my work I've met women who deliverd a stillborn baby 40 or more years ago.  Sometimes I discover this through simple conversation, perhaps when they ask me how many children I've had, and I include Sarah.  They are always amazed that we spent so much time with her and took so many pictures.  They weren't allowed to do that.

Back then women were told that it would be easier for them to never see the baby.  The babies were taken away without being held, memorialized, or photographed.  Sometimes husbands were told to go home and take down the whole nursery.  So these women just suffered a major loss and returned to a world that ignored it completely, with no actual reminder of their child at all.  I don't believe for a second that it was for their own good, but was more comfortable for others.

The modern world has cut itself off from death.  Especially childhood and infant death.  Even now, when grief is better understood, people have so little understanding of what it's like to live through.  Once again on my message board the issue of stillborn pictures has come up.  A number of us have a picture of our lost baby in our avatar or signature.  I've always found them precious and the sweet tasteful pictures chosen to display are not something I could have ever called disturbing and don't understand how any feeling woman could tell a mother that a picture of her baby is!

You can guess which side I'm on with this issue.  I'm sorry if a picture of my daughter reminds someone that life isn't perfect.  But I guarantee it was harder for me to lose her than it is for someone to see her picture.  And I don't think anyone has the right to tell me which picture of which of my children I display.

I started talking to a couple of other loss moms who posted, and learned their stories.  It's amazing that even when the situation is radically different from the one we found ourselves in with Sarah, so much is shared.  From the devastation of getting the news, to leaving the hospital with empty arms.  And sometimes when I hear someone else's story, it just brings my own back, along with all the feelings.

I'm so grateful for those who are willing to share their stories and their pictures.  I carry them with me in a way I can't explain.  We're not supposed to bury our children, but too many of us do.  And while I don't believe we are required to crawl into a hole and bury ourselves in our grief, I also don't think I'm required to pretend that my daughter never existed just to make someone else more comfortable.

Two Years In Heaven

Ye have lost a child--nay, she is not lost to you, who is found to Christ; she is not sent away, but only sent before; like unto a star, which going out of our sight, doth not die and vanish, but shineth in another hemisphere.
- Samuel Rutherford

Two years ago today I cried myself to sleep after holding a glimpse of heaven in my hands. I try and hold on to every single memory I was given. I hold on to her hands in mine, her long toes, and the feel of her cheek against mine. As time goes on I find that I must work harder to hold on to those memories, but it is not hard to hold on to her. She has become part of me. Looking back I can say how grateful I am to those who showed kindness and compassion to my family as we grieved. I have probably said it before, but I believe that you were God's hands and feet, ministering to us in our sorrow.

Mommy, Daddy, and Sarah...holding hands together for a moment:

Sarah & her teddy bear:

Our precious shooting star...with us for a moment, and forever in our hearts:

We miss you Sarah, and we love you. Pray for us.

Still Missing You, Sarah

Sarah's birthday isn't sneaking up on my this year, I've been counting the days, disbelieving that so much time has passed already. One would think that almost two years away from her loss, I would be through with the hurt, but I'm just not..  I don't live in a state of constant sorrow, nor am I defined completely by her absense.  But lately the grief has come back in all it's glory and it seems like just yesterday that I held her tiny body in my arms and wept over her.  I have worried that my grief for my daughter showed a lack of faith in the goodness of God, or in His ability to make good from bad.  But then I remembered this:

This is what the LORD says: "A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because her children are no more." Jeremiah 31:15

This passage is a gift from God to a grieving mother.  Rachel refused to be comforted.  How can you be comforted when your child is no more?  God understands that grief, that pain, and even that rage.  Rachel was not spared the loss of her children because they were God's chosen people and we are not spared from pain because we are people of faith.   We live in a broken world, and this is the consequence.  We are allowed to grieve!   That does not mean that one doesn't have peace.
An online event that I witnessed made me think about what it really means to have the peace of God when one faces incredible loss.  Can one really say that they have God's peace while seething with anger and hatred toward another, justifying it with their pain?  I don't believe that one can.  I believe that the true peace of God will temper anger, keeping it in check.  It doesn't seem possible to me that anger can consume a heart filled with the Holy Spirit.  It may and often does exist, we are human after all, but it cannot consume a heart filled with the God of Love.

God does not promise that we'll be rescued from our sorrow or our trials, but when we put our faith in Him, He will be our strength, even if it's just to survive.  And our character will be shown in our response to our adversity.  With the wisdom only God can give, we can allow God to use our pain to refine us like metal in the fire, stripping away the unecessary and worldly.  It  can remind us of what is really important and allows us to let go of things that are petty and trivial.
My grief will not dissapear.  It can't.  I am separated from my daughter by the life that God has given me to live.  Sarah is a gift I can't have back until we are in heaven.  At the same time the peace of God allows me to be  thankful for her short life, for her presense in my heart, and for the mother I am because of her.

Who told us we'd be rescued?
What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?
We're asking why this happens
To us who have died to live?
It's unfair. This hand is bitterness.
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow.
The wise hands opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow.

If hope is born of suffering.
If this is only the beginning.
Can we not wait for one hour watching for our Savior?

This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.

From Natalie Grant's song: Held

My hope is alive, and my Saviour has held me.  I miss my Sarah, and give thanks to my God, for when everything fell, I was held

Death Becomes Gwin

Poor Reagan.

When we moved into our new house, we got our first pet.  Well, really, Reagan did.  She was a lovely little golden hamster that he named Gwin.  We bought everything that Petco recommended for her and brought her home.

For the last few months, we've watched her grow, faithfully kept her foodbowl full, and changed her water and bedding.  We've had trouble keeping the girls from throwing in extra chew sticks and such.  But she's been really sweet and fun to have around.

Today Reagan found her curled up on her back, quite dead.  I'd looked at her earlier and wondered if she was okay, but she was alive and I saw no signs of trouble.  That was just a few hours before she passed.  Reagan is so sad.

I went to Petco and bought Max.  Max is a boy, and looks different from Gwin.  Reagan thinks he's really cool, and is happy to have him, but misses Gwin.  I told him that's understandable.

It's been interesting to watch how the kids have handled the news of Gwin's death.  Especially since I saw how things were when Sarah died.  Reagan asked a lot of questions and wanted to understand the physical side of death.  Piper became whiny because she didn't understand what was wrong in the house.  Bridget just cuddled a lot, maybe she knew I needed it.

Now, Reagan is using terms like "passed on", while Piper said at bedtime "Mommy, I'm sorry Gwin's dead", and now it's Bridget who sees that people are upset but doesn't understand why.  Gwin's death has also provided an opportunity to talk about Sarah.  Being happy that Max is here but missing Gwin is normal.  I'm happy that Ciaran is here, but I miss Sarah.  It also brought up what we believe about death, how grief is allowed, and the hope of heaven.

I think Reagan will get so much more out of pet stewardship than how to deal with death.  But this was an important lesson as well.

Thank you, Gwin.  We'll miss you.

I Was Held

I still think about Sarah, a lot.  I think about what we went through, and try on different scenarios and different choices.  I think about what it brought me, in terms of my faith.  It brought me to a place where I was utterly humbled and on my face before God, relying on him for the will to breathe in and out.  Because my daughter was dying, and I couldn't fix it.  God didn't descend on a cloud and make it all better.  He didn't write me a blog-post and defend me against my critics.  He didn't raise my daughter from the dead and give her back to me.  But He never left me alone.  He never allowed me to despair for that next breath.  He didn't just walk beside me.  He carried me, when I lacked the strength to stand.  And He showed Himself through simple human kindness, and with the hands of His body, the Church, and my brothers and sisters in Christ.

A friend played this song for me tonight.  It can be heard here.

Held by Natalie Grant:
Two months is too little.
They let him go.
They had no sudden healing.
To think that providence would
Take a child from his mother while she prays
Is appalling.

Who told us we'd be rescued?
What has changed and why should we be saved from nightmares?
We're asking why this happens
To us who have died to live?
It's unfair.

Chorus:
This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.

This hand is bitterness.
We want to taste it, let the hatred numb our sorrow.
The wise hand opens slowly to lilies of the valley and tomorrow.

(Chorus)
This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.

If hope is born of suffering.
If this is only the beginning.
Can we not wait for one hour watching for our Savior?

(Chorus)
This is what it means to be held.
How it feels when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive.
This is what it is to be loved.
And to know that the promise was
When everything fell we'd be held.

When the world turned upside down, and the very color of the sky seemed to change, and I was lost amongst people who seemed to go on as if everything were still the same, when the sacred was torn from my life, and by His Will, I survived....I did so, because I was held.

Happy Birthday, Sarah

If you feel like leaving you know you can go
But why don't you stay until tomorrow?
If you want to be free, you know, all you got to do is say so
Baby hair with a woman's eyes
I can feel you're watching in the night
All alone with me and we're waiting for the sunlight
When I feel cold, you warm me
And when I feel I can't go on, you come and hold me
It's you...
Won't you smile a while for me, Sarah
Adapted from Hall & Oats "Sara Smile"

A year ago today, I touched heaven for a brief moment, as I held my little daughter in my arms. I held her and kissed her and talked to her, squeezing every memory I could from the moments we had. Then I cried. The next day I went home and spent several sleepless nights learning that you can cry without tears, and sometimes, even if you do fall asleep, you can cry in your dreams.

I dreamed about Sarah a lot in the beginning. Each time she came to me, whole and healthy, and I begged her to stay with me. But, of course, she never did. A year later I look back and the journey and what I've learned. The great lessons that Sarah taught me.

Love can come from the most unexpected places. Wishes are not always possible. Sometimes the hardest decisions we make bring the greatest blessings. Death is not the end.

Heaven gave Sarah what I could not. Heaven made her whole. And I can only assume that one day I will be too. Until then I will think of my little Sarah often. Especially when I look into the face of her little brother. And I will be grateful that she came, grateful that I knew her for a moment, and grateful for all that she gave me. Grief is different for every person. It's a journey without a destination. It will never be over. But it's no longer all consuming.

Now my grief propels me forward, in a positive way. It keeps me grounded in the reality that the time we have is finite, and I must not take for granted anything I have. I must spend each day fully involved and aware. Thank you, Sarah, for everything. And thank you, Lord, for the gift that she was. I will love her forever. Sarah, pray for us.

Eleven Months In Heaven

Since I started my Live Journal (which is primarily a personal place, whereas this is my home and family place), I've been looking more at some of my older posts.  I linked all of my Losing Sarah entries from my new page, and I started reading them.  I was surprised that I'd forgotten so many details.  I've tried so hard to remember everything.  And I was surprised that the feelings of grief that I think are dying away, are still there, right beneath the surface, and easy to recall.

As soon as Sarah died, I began talking about having another baby.  I did receive one comment from a reader about how my rush into a subsequent pregnancy meant that I didn't care about Sarah, but I was pleased that there was only one.  My rush into another pregnancy really had more to do with the depth of my grief for her, and not a desire to forget about her.  Every mother has to decide for herself, after a loss, how long she wishes to wait before welcoming another life into hers.  And the right amount of time is different for each one.

I was searching for meaning in Sarah's death.  Having Ciaran helped me find it.  Without her, Ciaran whould not have been.  That's huge meaning.

Now I can look across the room and see Ciaran sleeping in his baby swing.  He's here and he's incredible.  And all the things that Sarah taught me are still here too.  Mostly I have an incredible gratitude and appreciation for my living children.  Yes, they can be difficult, and drive me crazy.  Yes, we're all still human and have good and bad days.  But I no longer take for granted that they are here and will always be.  Each one is a precious gift, and I am only a steward.

I still think of Sarah every day.  And I still miss her.  Some days, terribly.  But I am also more grateful for what I have.  And what I have is incredible.

Mommy misses you, Sarah.  Thank you for everything.