357 Days

There are things that only time reveals.  Things that only time knows.

51 Thursdays.
357 days.

Everett's birthday is a Friday this year.
Last year, it was a Thursday.
The culmination of 22 weeks of fear.
Of hope.
Of deep, soul wrenching, life encompassing pain.
Forever changing the way I look at Thursdays.

22 weeks.
To know your child would die.
Being told to basically expect a silent ultrasound.
A stillbirth.
Or at best, a few minutes of life.

I was terrified.  Heartbroken.  Sad.  Just plain sad.

A sadness and heartbreak that only those who have lost a child can know.
And that was my reality.  A twisted.  Jacked up.  Unfair.  Terrifying. Reality.

And yet....

Reality is often an intricate mix of devastation, hope, joy, failure, perseverence, fear, and peaceful chaos.

The searing sting of Keith's reaction in the ultrasound room.

The details of Everett's birth in exacting detail.  The nurses all crying as the last heart beat was heard.  Watching him be taken down the hall.  In a blanket.  In a basket.
Away.
From me.

My body weeping for the absentee baby for which it prepared itself so completely.

Writing my infants eulogy.

No one knowing what to do when a baby dies.  Typical 'funeral behavior' (family get togethers, eating, laughing, basically forgetting the reason of getting together) is what happens.  And it's beyond you.  It's beyond what you can give.  But you're asked to do it anyway.  Because no one knows what to do when a baby dies.


Time.

Time reveals that even the things we think we will never forget are dulled.  Not forgotten.  But dulled.

If you're reading this from the perspective of someone who has lost a child, you understand.  You know exactly what it feels like.  You know when someone asks you how many children you have, you ask yourself if you should be honest.  Or just give the easy answer.  It's like losing a baby or a child-- one you've met, held, nurtured-- somehow doesn't count to the rest of the world.  It's perfectly ok to say "my mom died" or "my cousin died"-- that doesn't negate their existence, it just identifies their current existence.  ...But when its a baby, that most have never seen, you ask yourself... do you just.... negate the existence at all?

If you are reading this from the perspective of a mother walking through these horrible, painful days.  You've wondered.  And we all wonder.

If you're reading this just because you know me, you likely know someone who has lost a child.  It's terribly common.  Horrifically normal.  Feel out your friends, but remember the child who existed.  And ask.  Occassionaly, over some quiet time.

Ask the father, too.  He is often forgotten.

357 days.

Three and half hours.
Everett's short life was filled with all things encompassed in reality.  His sweet body was peaceful chaos.  His sweet little body failed him.  His precious soul devasted fear.  His perseverence to live filled us with inexplicable joy.

The reality of Everett's life is a forever impact on us.  On me.  To love in way that doesn't make sense.  To have faith even when the healing doesn't come.  To know that sometimes blessings come though tears.  To remember that restoration is His song.

Every soul, no matter the length of existence on earth, has a purpose.  Everett saved us.  He saved me.  He changed me.  He changed us.

Remember every soul.

357 days ago I could not have honestly said I believed it.  I wanted to believe it.

But some things, only time reveals.

Aiden and Kipton will know Everett.  By the love he left behind.  And baby Minick will know the brother never met on earth.  Because love is timeless.  And so is my little Everett.

                                                        Everett Bear, Kipton, and Aiden
                                                                          My 3 Boys

Retrospect....

I remember I was more annoyed than excited to go to my doctor's appointment last year.  My office was getting busy (like seeing a whole 10 people in a day) and I wanted to do work instead of go to the doctor.  I mean, I already knew it was a boy.  He even had a name, for crying out loud.

I was annoyed walking in.

Got more annoyed while I was there-- the chaos of the appointment.  45 minutes in the ultrasound room.  Tia's constrained voice.  Going to the consult room instead of the "appointment room".  The glucose tests that would not work.  All 4 of them.  Dr. Leezer tried her best to be gentle to me and the determined nurses.  While she told me of all the abnormalities she saw.

In my little boy.

In Everett.

I remember the shock.

I remember sobbing on the bridge over Exit 16 on 575.

I remember calling Keith.  It was a huge day for him.  At work.  Big meeting.  I remember debating if I was even going to call.

And 4 minutes later having to see a patient.  And then another.  And then another.

On autopilot.

Then researching everything I could for us to see.  I only looked for the mild possibilities.

I couldn't fathom the worst.

I couldn't accept that my baby would die.

I walked in to a red faced, tear stained husband after we both cut out of our offices early.

We convinced ourselves it wasn't severe.  We convinced ourselves there would be mild complications and that was all.  We couldn't handle anything else.  Our marriage couldn't handle anything else.  I had just started an office-- that was going well, but needed all of my attention and time.  We convinced ourselves it was nothing.

I remember showing him the ultrasound photos.  Trying to explain what he was looking at.

Last night I knew this date, January 10th, was here, I felt all those emotions again.  The indelible fragments of time etched perfectly. intricately into my brain.

And I wanted my baby.  My Everett.

As the world keeps dumping stress after stress-- many of them manufactured of our own choosing, many others the direct result of another's words (particularly this week),  I was overwhelmed with the same reminder I was given a year ago.... and the following months.

Be still and the Lord will fight for you.  You need only to be still. 

Exodus 14:14

Sometimes the biggest sense of wonder we can find in our faith is the ability to be peaceful in the middle of chaos.  To be still in the rat race.  To know and see and feel the tornado around you and be able to say

 The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
²     He makes me lie down in green pastures,
he leads me beside quiet waters,
³     he refreshes my soul.
He guides me along the right paths
    for his name’s sake.
⁴ Even though I walk
    through the darkest valley,
I will fear no evil,
    for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
    they comfort me.

⁵ You prepare a table before me
    in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
    my cup overflows.
⁶ Surely your goodness and love will follow me
    all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
    forever.

Psalm 23

May you find that peace today.  For He alone provides it.

^{http://stayathomechiro.blogspot.com/2012/01/world-doesnt-stop-just-because-your.html}

This was my first "Everett Post".  It was written on Jan 12, a year ago.  It is remembering today.  

the first christmas

The first Christmas.

Christmas was on a Tuesday.

I started crying on Sunday.
Alone.  Well, sorta.  At church.

What was intended likely to be a way to say thank you to God for your "God Moment" in 2012, made me sob.

I was alone.  Aiden was sick at home.  Keith stayed home. 

Instead of the traditional candlelight service, in typical untypical fashion, we had our own take on the beautiful tradition.

If you had a God Moment this year, if there was a way that God showed up in your life this year, a way that Jesus revealed himself to you this year, come up, light a candle.

I wasn't going to go.  I wasn't going to walk down and light a candle alone.  But I couldn't stand there.  Alone.  It was like I was pushed.  I walked down.  And started crying from the moment I left my seat. 

A few hugs and shared tears later.  I think it really began to hit me. 

There wasn't a baby this Christmas.  Just an extra thirty pounds.
The outfit I bought a year ago to tell the Keith we were having another boy.  It's downstairs.  In the Everett boxes.  Never worn.
The Christmas picture this year is just the same as last year.  Two little boys.


Kippy went down with the crud on Christmas Eve.  Only wanted me.  And I got to rock him.  Like I should have been doing for the last 7 months.

It was cathartic.  And healing.  The parents and Keith just on the other side of the wall.  Laughing.  Talking.  Eating.  Me and Kipton, in the sitting room.  Me crying.  Kipton sleeping.  Drooling.  All over my shirt.  A day or two later, Kipton was throwing an all out fit.  Nothing could satisfy him.  I got him Everett Bear.  And he squeezed him and calmed down immediately.  And held him tight for next few hours.

Aiden has been talking about Everett a lot lately.  The other day he asked me to get him a tiny little baby to sleep with him.  Everett was his favorite tiny little baby.  He wanted him.

We were laying down the other night and he asked me to tell him about Everett and when he was born.  He said he missed him.  He wanted him to come back so he could sleep in his room with him.  He wanted Everett to snuggle him and eat chickens with him.  We got him Everett Bear to sleep with.  And for 4 days, if I bring him back to my room, he gets him and takes him back.  Tonight, he said he wanted to take him to the park with us tomorrow.  So Everett could have some fun.



I write this not to seek pity or even in hopes that anyone will read it, but to have for me.  To treasure these loving memories my boys have of their little brother.  I love my boys.  I love my family. 

I have to change the Christmas music

I somehow never expected Christmas to be hard. The last week of every month is horrible at our house. With me. The last week of every month, I retreat into myself. I have no desire to see a single soul on earth.

I only want Everett.

He would've been six months old. 26 Thursdays.

Most other days are ok. But the last week of every month is close to unbearable. It's like my whole body reminds me I don't have a baby and should.

The last week of every month I'm grouchy towards Keith. I can't really figure it out. Other than he wants to be close and I want to be alone. I want to cry. I want to remember. And it feels like he doesn't.

Then we say something about it and I realize we just handle this ache, this longing, this... Emptiness very differently. He wants comfort. I want isolation. He wants connection. I want to disconnect.

He sees a baby and smiles. I see a baby and weep, even if on the inside.

He wants a baby again soon and I just want some time to miss Everett. I feel like time has been stolen from me. Time to handle it. Time to compartmentalize it. To put it away.

But Christmas reminds me that there is no putting it away when you lose a part of yourself. There is no drawer to file it away. The loss. The emptiness. The baby. That isn't there.

Damn Matthew West and his song about the baby you love so much won't make it through the year. I can't even listen to it. I have had to change the Christmas music in the car. When last year, while you were pregnant with a perfect little baby, you wept because of the hormones pulsing through you made you think losing a baby would take your breath away. It would be the end of you. Life would be unbearable.

But it doesn't. It doesn't take your life if you don't let it.

But it doesn't stop hurting.

It doesn't stop the longing.

It can make you make poor decisions. It can make you think selfishly. It can make you realize that there IS a wrong way to grieve. Grieving selfishly makes you not talk about it. Makes you think people should cater to your needs and absolve you from catering to others' needs.

Christmas reminds of so many things. May it remind us more tha ever to give, love, and live unselfishly. To give more than get. To love more than demand love. To live in service to those around us. Even in our pain. Even in our weakness. Even in our longings for daily needs. To make decisions that are bigger than our attitudes. To make decisions that are bigger than our needs. To make decisions beyond ourselves.

It will not provide anything more than peace. The pain will still be there.

But peace.

Peace. Is the only way you survive.

The longing for a loved one never goes away. But the peace of living unselfishly puts life in perspective.

And of all times of the year, Christmas should be about perspective.

I am thankful. I am grateful.

We finally put up the pictures.

Of my little boy.

I am hesitant to call him an angel, although that is my first thought. Because he is not an angel.  Angels are not the cheribums that don our antique shelves.  That Precious Moments (c) has captured and created so sweetly.  But in the earthly, totally non-biblical, selfish thought pattern, my sweet little angel is now on the walls.

And I find myself visually ignoring him.

Because I am not sure I was ready.

Not sure I was ready for big reminders to stare at me during the morning rush.

Not sure I was ready for the reminders to stare at me during Friday night movie night.

And he sits.

On the shelf.

Above the TV.

So we can see him and "he can see us".

And one part of me wants to take everything down.

Because I am just.  Not.  Ready.

And another part of me want to take him down and hold him and sob.

Because, nearly six months later, it isn't any easier.  It's just.... Different.

There are games your body and brain play on you.

Like when you get the boys out of the car and you FEEL like you are missing one.  And you look back in the car  to find it empty.

There is no baby to get out.

No baby to hold.  To kiss.  To nurse.

There are days your dried up, sagging boobs ache as if you should be nursing.  

But there is no baby.  Nor is there any milk.

There isn't a day that goes by-- a moment that passes-- that he is not on my mind but not in my arms.

My arms, my heart, my body.  Ache.  To hold him.  

And nearly six months later, many have forgotten-- or at least been consumed in their own lives...as we all are.

And I am grateful.  I am thankful.

For Madelyn.  Who remembered in everyday conversation that I just had a baby.

For Jeni O.  Who asked.  Really asked.  How I was.  And listened.

For Keith.  Who loves his family like no other man on the planet.

For patients.  Moms, to be exact.  Who let me snuggle their babies and call it adjusting them.

For daily prayers lifted on our behalf. We know they are there. How else would I miss post partum depression for the first time?

For an office I love having.  That keeps me occupied most days long enough not to crumble.  Most days.

For an office, despite all odds, that is growing. And allowing me to be mommy and doctor simultaneously.

For my sweet little boys.  Who make me smile, laugh, and love.

For Everett.  Who gives me proper perspective and priority.

For Everett.  Who taught me what love is supposed to me. What mothering should look like. 

For Everett. Who broke my heart. 

So it can beat again.

Stronger.

Louder.

The hurricane of intention and expectation.

 

A picture of my mind....

Not severe enough to warrant wide spread panic. 
But strong enough to take precaution.
In just the right location to make the biggest mess.
In need of a path change.
And.
Huge.
And.
Well.
Huge.
Swirling.
Chaos.
Turbulence.
Friction.

When a low meets a high.
When intention meets expectation.
When choices become decisions.

Because decisions are how life happens.  When choosing your life (my life)....what do I want it to look like? 

What's more important?
Stupid question.
Hard decision.

If you aren't a working mom or never thought you would be a working mom or never wanted to be a working mom, you might not feel this struggle.  If you aren't a business owner with a professional degree and a... boatload of educational debt, this decision might be easy-- or not even be a decision or hurricane in your life.

But this is a hurricane in my brain.  A daily swirling chaos of low and high.  Of intention vs. expectation.

My husband and kids are the most important 'things' in my life.  I want to live like that.  We have made a decision to parent and 'spouse' with intention.  To work.  Hard.  on these relationships.  To make the best decisions for our family.

A growing decline in society's mores and habits in all areas lead us to becoming hermits within our own lives-- but we can't do that.  Teaching kids good habits in all areas is near impossible when schools feed over processed food, rewards are filled with cancer causing materials, parents have stopped parenting hence leading kids to do and say anything they please with no direction.  It'll make you go mad!!

And yet... I have this *thing*  I have this longing to help and heal.  I have this *thing* in me that needs interaction with adults.  All day with tiny people will make me lose my everlovin' mind!!  And the whole idea of intentional parenting might go flying out the window I'd break throwing a KID out the window!

Sigh.

What do you do when you have a choice? 
When the choice demands a decision?

When intention and expectation collide?

When you feel like an absolute failure because your kids are in someone else's care more hours than yours?
And yet, the thought of making a Halloween costume ("as a good mother should"-- or any other crafty thing) give me hives.

When you feel like a horrific parent because you are actively choosing (when you don't HAVE to) to work outside the home?
And yet, this *thing* in you drives you to heal and help others.

When you want your family to be your priority-- and you tell yourself and others that it is-- but your time reflects that money is your priority?

swirling.maddening.chaos.destruction.construction.resolve.dissolve.build.rebuild.renew.revamp.redesign.

How do you know which is a selfish *thing* and which is a God *thing*?
Or are they both?
Are they neither?

How do you determine, after hours of agonizing prayer and frustrated fist shaking, which one is the right decision?

(insert internal conflict discussion in my brain)
Is there such a thing as "best of both worlds" and having success in each?!?!

Will my kids be scarred for life if I work for 9-10 hours a day 4 days a week?
Will my kids be scarred for life because I possess none of the "good" stay at home mom traits but choose to do it anyway?

What causes the least amount of scarring?

Is that what parenting boils down to? :-/  The least traumatic choices as parents?

How do I expect to be successful in the professional world (afterall, I did spend 4 years and a couple 'hunnard' grand to BE professional) and be an intentional mommy?  How in the world can I be a flourishing business owner (with overhead and physical space) and still be the biggest time, social, spiritual, and love influence in my kids' lives?  Especially when the hours of greatest "need" for my target market is when I *SHOULD* be with your family?  

And how do you make more family when daycare already costs more than you can bring home?

 (leaving my brain and now thinking outloud, on a grander scale)

I've been encouraged to think that I'm sacrificing now for a better future for our kids.  And that small town, poor farm girl part of me screams-- WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT MONEY MAKING THE FUTURE BETTER?!?!?!?!  And the realistic, culturally enveloped part of me yells back-- EVERYONE, YOU IDIOT!!  MONEY MAKES EVERYTHING EASIER AND BETTER!!!

Before I had kids, I thought much the same way.  That when they were little, that was the best time to be "gone".  But now that I have kids, now that I want my kids to know they are my priority, I am more and more convinced there is no "good" time to be absent as a parent.

And I step back.

I listen to the intention and the expectation.
Swirl.
Battle.

This is the hurricane of intention and expectation. 

Just as the winds of hurricanes are far reaching, currently and forever, so is the choice to parent with intention.  And work with conviction. 

And find the calm between the two.

I am reminded

A year ago we were trying to figure out how to tell our parents, ever so reluctantly, that we were expecting a third baby.  We were not ready for a third.  We were not trying to have a third.  But we were having a third.  May teens, 2012.  A new baby was supposed to arrive.  New office for me.  Boys new in daycare-- an astronomical expense.  Just getting into a rythym with the office and all the new things I had to learn.  I was frustrated that life was again about to get even crazier.  It felt like the stress would never end.

We had found out in early September that I was pregnant.  We didn't tell much of anyone for almost 2 months.  We were trying to be excited about it when we told them.

And by this time last year, we were getting there.

We decided to tell the grandparents on my birthday.  We were going to my parents the weekend before and coming home to Keith's parents basically the Sunday of my birthday.  My mom had already figured it out.  I was sick.  I wasn't eating.  And all I could do was sleep.  And I was already showing at 10ish weeks.  My parents were cautiously excited, knowing just how stressful the last 3 1/2 years had been.

For Keith's family we were trying to be creative so we decided on a cake.  We got me a cake (very unusual) and put "happy birthday to a mother of 3" on it.  I still remember driving up Ash Street connector to go into Prominence Point Publix to get it.  Wondering how on earth they were going to respond.

Excited and worried is what I think filled the air.  Babies are exciting.  They also bring worry.  And stress.  Anyone who tells you otherwise is blowing sunshine-- no matter how anticipated or how unexpected the baby chaos may be, it is still a bit of chaos.  Babies are wonderful.  Babies are.  All encompassing.  If you are great at total self sacrifice, no showers, little sleep, and sore boobs, then maybe babies are easy for you.  But babies are challenging--fabulous--but hard

By Thanksgiving we were full on excited about another baby.  Really.  Really. Excited.

Christmas.  Bubbling.  Crazy happy about another little boy.  Everett.  I had him named before I got home to tell Keith.  With the "boys rule" camo outfit I bought to tell him.

We decided to keep that to ourselves for another little while.  Trying to make it fun.

January.  Earth shattering.  Life altering.  Devastating.  Gut wrenching news.

18 weeks left to mourn the baby I was carrying.  We were given no chance of life.  But we thought about it.  Prayed about it.  And contemplated every "what if" any set of parents can come up with.

And we came up with love.  Earth shattering.  Life altering.  Devastating.  Gut wrenching love.

There isn't a day that I don't think about the baby missing in my Moby wrap.  There isn't a moment that I'm not one thought away from tears.  There is this hole.  This... Emptiness... where a baby belongs.

Every test known to modern science said it wasn't our genes' fault that Everett is in heaven and not in Canton.  Everything they know to look for says his death was unexplainable.  Comforting and maddening.  Encouraging and frustrating.

And I am reminded.  Of everything I have learned in this wretched, beautiful year.

I am reminded that time doesn't heal wounds.  Choices do.

I am reminded that emotional walls have no place in deep, personal relationships.  Honesty, work, and vulnerability do.

I am reminded that life is fragile and only love matters.  Only relationships matter.

I am reminded that so much can change in an instant and yet, Christ is constant--whether we remember that immediately or not.

I am reminded that choices are what make circumstances.  Not that we choose every situation, but we choose how to participate in every situation.  And we choose how to allow those things to influence our lives.

I am reminded that only faith, hope, and love remain.  But the greatest of these is love.  That faith and hope bring us through the days of inner torture.  Of self disgust. Of enveloping sadness.  Of utter despair.  But love allows us to breathe.

I am reminded that He makes all things new.  That he will right is wrong. Healing flows from Him.  That restoration is His song.

I am reminded.   Of how 6 lbs, 20 weeks, and brokenness can change the weight of the world, a lifetime of decisions, and make restoration possible.