Reality. Smothered and Covered.

It seems in this journey that there are so many emotions to feel simultaneously. And none of them really make any sense at all. Except the sad ones and the scared ones. I have long felt an overall peacefulness with Everett's prognosis. It is the unknown that remains so fear-full. And I've read it and heard it and had it prayed that the fear would disappear. That Jesus' perfect love drives out all fear. And the thing is, I really do believe that.... and yet, I'm still a little fearful. I'm still a little scared.

I have been so blessed to have my Mother's Day prayer answered. I am grateful for all who prayed us through that. I have really only asked for one other thing in this process. I wanted to feel anticipation-- excited, loving, happy anticipation-- to meet my son. I wanted to feel at peace with his life and ready to see his face. Ready to hold him. Ready to feel him in my arms. I didn't know if I'd reach that point. Or if it was even possible. How do you hope to see your baby and know that he will likely die the same day? How does that fit together? How does that work in your brain and in your heart? How do hope, love, and reality collide?

I haven't the foggiest clue how they collide. All I know is that they do. At some point, some where, hope and love meet reality and nothing makes sense. And none of it has to. Because it just.... is. It is what it is. And it's lovely and hideous all at the same time. And we get to pick what we see more of. We get to decide which part we will see: hope, love, or reality. I happen to think a little perspective of them all is really the only healthy way to live. A grip on real life, but covered in hope and smothered in love. When we see ONLY reality, it seems that we see only the negative, the hurt, the fear, the shit. When we see ONLY hope, it seems that we spend much of life crying and disappointed, looking for flowers forgetting that you must have fertilizer and rain to make them grow. When we see ONLY love, well, I don't know that we CAN see that-- we're too short sighted by nature, too unforgiving, too caught up in ourselves. But when you somehow let yourself see the whole picture, life becomes more beautiful. And less "explainable".

I hate being pregnant. I hate gaining weight just to have to lose it again, requiring even more effort than the last time. I hate peeing constantly. I hate slowing down. I don't relish in the kicks to the lungs and bladder. I don't love feeling like the creature inside is trying to claw his way out. I don't enjoy swelling in all sorts of places. That's reality. With Aiden and Kipton that's pretty much how I felt. I just wanted to have the baby and be DONE with pregnancy. I can't say ALL of that has been true for Everett's pregnancy. For the first time, there's been a connection. Maybe not the kind "really good moms" feel, but the kind where I think about him by name, I don't constantly complain about pregnancy (please don't read "don't complaint at all", 'cause that's just a lie). But I feel better at 41 wks pregnant than I did at 38. Granted, I haven't adjusted/seen patients in a week and a half, but still, I don't *hate* pregnancy this time like I did before. Reality, smothered in love.

I dread the moment we drop Everett off at the funeral home to be cremated. I'm not sure how I will survive that moment. I'm not sure I can handle it... Maybe I should just go there intoxicated to numb the painfulness of that day. I have a sinking feeling of fear and anxiety when I can't get Everett to rouse. I get nervous when I consider the possibility of an impending stillbirth. I can't bear the thought of hearing Everett struggle to breathe. Watching him gasp for air, watching him turn bluer than we already expect him to be. I lose myself in the pain of thinking about a precious little newborn, albeit MY little boy, suffocating with no way to help. There is something terribly, terribly wrong with newborns in distress of any kind. And knowing that nothing can be done....nothing can be done... It is heart wrenching. That is reality. And yet, I long to see his little face. I want to hold him so badly sometimes it hurts. In those moments, there are no deformities. In those moments, there is no imperfection in his body. In those moments, he will be mine for always. In those moments, even though they are brief, I forget the pain. I forget the tragedy. I forget about the funeral home. And I just...love my little boy. And my heart overflows and explodes with unconditional, everlasting love. Reality, smothered in love.

I have prayer cloths from several churches. We have prayers from all over being lifted for our family. I have a few newborn diapers on hand, leftover from Kipton. I know where the newbie baby stuff is downstairs. We have been given no chance of coming home. No chance of survival longer than a few minutes. We've asked the "what if" question and have been summarily yet lovingly assured that there is no "what if" without a miracle of healing. And the ultrasounds continue to show the same problems, many of them just getting worse. And I am still fearful/hopeful/worried that the doctors don't know everything. It is unrealistic at best to even be concerned. He doesn't have enough brain to have cognitive function. He doesn't have enough lung capacity to exchange oxygen. His digestive system is in his lung cavity. His kidneys are dysfunctional at best. That is reality. It is UNREALISTIC to be fearful that he might live. But because I am fearful, I suppose there is hope. Hope of an absolute, full on, unexplainable, impossible miracle. Reality, covered in hope.

And so they collide. In this wildflower pasture. With plenty of fertilizer. Plenty of sun. Just enough water. Colors and kinds all intermingled together creating a beautiful landscape. Reality. Hope. Love. You just have to see them all. Embrace them all. And know that you have no idea what flower comes up next. What emotion will grip me that day.

We wait. Somewhat impatiently, somewhat reluctantly for Everett's arrival. We consider making it "convenient for everyone"-- make sure it's not on a holiday or that the service won't fall on a holiday weekend. Make sure the church will be available for the service. Make sure grandparents have cleared schedules and no conflicts and can work "peacefully" until the circled date arrives. Make sure we don't get stuck in traffic. Make sure we get the room we want at the hospital. Make sure it's not on Kipton's birthday. Or Grandma's. Make sure the service is on a date that is best for everyone while not having a big gap of time, but enough time to get everything we want done for the service accomplished. Make sure the photographer has her schedule cleared. Be able to tell patients exactly when I'm coming back and go back to work until then. Give Keith ONE day to freak out about instead of being a little anxious EVERYDAY :)

And all those things make sense. They work well for our overly scheduled, self-centric, intertwined lives. But I look back at all the things I've tried to make happen and I am a bit displeased with much of how it turned out. Few things I've tried to control have flourished. Few things I've tried to fully direct have gone according to idealistic plan. And this...Everett's arrival, is just not something I think I really want to screw up by trying to control it and make sure it's "right" for everyone else. Babies are born on their birthdays. And my baby will likely die on his. How do *I* choose that day based on getting the best room at the hospital? How do I choose that day because it will be convenient for all involved? How do *I* choose to cut short his life, even by a second?

And it all collides. Reality. Hope. Love. We have everything we need now. We found his receiving blanket. We found a matching outfit-- 2, one to keep and one to take him to the funeral home for cremation. We have the urns. Mom sewed a blanket together for him. I stitched his initials into one of his prayer cloths. We have "Brother Bear Everett" who has band aids sewn into his head, his heart, and his tummy. The bags are fully packed. They are in the car. The birth plan has been distributed to all the doctors. We have planned as much of his service as possible. We have an email distro, a text message distro, and Facebook to keep everyone in the loop. There is nothing left TO DO.

So this is me, God, telling you I'm as ready as I'm going to get. This is me "giving permission" for my son's birthday. I've fought it. I've cried about it. I've feared it. And now I'm anxious for it. Excited about it. Ready for it.

The unexplainable peace of reality, hope, and love colliding.