The adrenaline is gone. And along with it, all motivation, energy, and clarity. I sit in my kitchen after working most of the day, needing to go back, listening to Pandora, having a cup of coffee, trying to get some perspective. Some 'umph'. For any and all of things I need to do.
To plan a huge marketing campaign so the office doesn't all-out flop. I should be finding seminars to go learn stuff, mainly how to bill insurance and actully get paid instead of continuously resubmitting claims. i should be pouring over the numbers of the office for the last 2 months and trying to figure out what needs to be done to most cost effectively build clientele. Trying to determine what little things the office needs to make it friendlier, warmer. Or looking for professional networking opportunities. Or for another contractor or two, maybe another LMT or an MD who thinks outside the pill bottle.
Or I should be seeking out a gym membership and running off my fatness. So I won't have to go to Goodwill looking for something to wear that doesn't make me look like a marshmellow in spandex. Or I should just take off down the road in the 96 degree GA heat on the black asphalt. That'll shed some pounds. Or I should start the 30 day Shred...again.
Or I should mop. God knows the house needs a good shalacking. But the toys are in the play room (that's all I can say) and there are no dishes in the sink. The trash has been taken out. And there's a nice layer of filth that coats the furniture. So why should I disturb it?
I have about 200 thank yous that need to be written. I've done 4. I might get around to sending them next month. Or in August, let's be honest.
There are a hundred million things I should be doing.
But the adrenaline is gone. My energy is vansihed-- or possibly vanquished-- by the mountains in front of me. And the toddler mattress I sleep on next to Kipton most nights.
I have held two baby boys in two days. And my whole body weeps for my Everett. And I have never been happier for friends who have healthy babies. I am emotinally spent without having time to grieve. How can that be?; it's been 4 weeks tomorrow, right?
Monday the 28th was Kipton's birthday and Memorial Day. Grandma wanted to have a party for Kipton as Keith and I were just too tired to want to do anything. So we had a party Monday afternoon/evening for his birthday and Memorial Day. We checked into the hospital Wednesday 30th at 5 pm. Thursday the 31st, Keith and I left the hospital two hours after they took Everett away in the basket. Keith slept. I cried until the Ambien took effect. We came home the following day (Friday) to spend the whole day with grandparents, the boys, and Yaya. Went to Target to buy my Mom's retirement present. Had a bithday party for Grandma Friday night. Drama ensues. The next morning, we went to WalMart to pick up the John Deere tractor from Yaya and a retirement cake for my mom I prepped the house for grandparents and boys to come over for lunch and playtime in the backyard. Family friends were brining food later, so I just decided we'd call my sister to come up, too. To have a retirement party for mom; I mean, those who love her most were already going to be at the house, what was 2 1/2 more people? Sunday we had lunch at Grandma's and brought the boys home.
The next week was filled with memorial plans, picture aquisition from our photographer who was on a vacation and STILL got us our photos, drama control, and eulogy writing. I went to work for a few hours twice that week to do bills and office stuff. The weekend was more family time. The following Monday we found out Keith's brother and family from California were coming in. Monday and Tuesday we shopped. Endlessly. For something, anything, that I might be able to wear and not feel like the beached, dying whale I felt (feel) like. (Thank you Off Broadway for the most fabulous shoes ever that made the rest of the outfit easier. And everything previously bought had to be returned.) Wednesday I worked for a while at the office and got ready for the 3 house guests. Dinner was at our house for the whole family on Wednesday to celebrate Justin and the girls' arrival, thankfully the in-laws provided pizza and salad. Thursday was a family fun day for the kiddos-- and super draining for a 2 week post partum mommy and daddy who lost their baby and were trying to accomodate for everyone around them, AND exhausting for 2 little boys who had felt so much angst for a week,their routines/schedules completely uprooted, and had been fed incredible amounts of sugar. So it was fun as long as we were playing and not contained. Friday was more prepping, pictures, frames, gifts for family, sudden packing up of clothes for a family who lost everything in a house fire, just... craziness. And then more drama management. Saturday morning the pictures were screwed up so we had to get them redone, Yaya arrived just in time to keep the boys for us, then we got in a fender denter at Target and the memorial service was 2 hours later. With family time at the service. And then more family time after the service. Sunday, more family time. Monday was a day for Keith and I to breathe. Tuesday Keith and I went back to work and then dinner with the family again. I worked Wednesday and part of Thursday last week. Had the boys home with me on Monday, went to work Tuesday, and now it's Wednesday.
And after typing all that, I need to breathe. Because the adrenaline's gone. And with it, my brain. And I'm tired. No, I'm exhausted. And I can't be. Becuase despite the fact that there's been very little rest, there can't be more rest. And it sucks. Because you just have to put your big girl panties (no punn intended for my extra large rear) on, and go on. And I might as well do it with a smile, because grouchy doesn't help anyone. Bitterness doesn't heal anyone or anything.
And I've just decided there will never be enough time to grieve.
Not now, at least.
So I'll have another cup of coffee. And hug my Everett bear. And wordlessly pray to make it through another day.
Without snapping at anyone for saying something stupid.
Without verbally punching someone for their selfcenteredness.
Without sobbing in front of patients.
Without making holes in the wall.
Without regretting anything.
Because sometimes we all speak without thinking.
Because we're all selfish occassinally.
Because sorrow won't pay the bills.
Because regret rots your soul.
And we all need a little grace from each other sometimes.
So you have another cup of coffee. You give a little grace. And even though the adrenline's gone and the energy, clarity, and gumption with it, and exhaustion has set in, life rolls on.
And hopefully as time keeps rolling on, the big girl panties get smaller, energy levels and clarity return, and hope-covered peace will fill everyday.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Monday, June 25, 2012
Some Days
Some days tears fall. Some days words fall.
The other night words fell. They just... Appeared. In verse. And that almost never happens for me. But in less than 30 minutes the whole of my heart and mind fell onto the page in rhyme and rhythm. And I was so peaceful. So. Calm. I wasn't fearful or angry. Just. Peacefully sad. Restful. And I thought that it might be my last Everett post. Intentionally deciding to move on as it seems so fashionable to do. So...spiritual to do.
And tonight I have cried for the last hour. Trying to find every picture I have on hand. Scratching these (explicative) bug bites and crying. Uncontrollably at points. I finally just got out of bed so I could cry without fear of waking Keith.
And there is no reason I should be awake. I've had 2 glasses of wine and 2 benedryl to help the itching that covers my body from toes to shoulders. Stupid chiggers. I don't like chemicals, but I hate chiggers. They will not survive the wrath of a grieving mother, I assure you. They will die. And there is no chigger heaven, but there better be a chigger hell...
There isn't enough coffee to keep me awake during the day. Or enough energy to make me want to DO something. And sleeping seems so...impossible in the stillness. Because when the joyous noises of a four year old and a two year old are silent, my mind is not. When the tv is off and all there is to hear is the crickets...if you can hear them beyond the other side of the snoring, my heart and my mind beg to see pictures of Everett. Some days I give in. Some days I don't. Some days I'm not strong enough to remember why I'm fat. Some days I'm not strong enough to let go and cry. Some days I'm peaceful, thinking I've grieved my last night, just thankful to have met my son alive. Some days I'm far too exhausted from chasing my wonderful little boys to invest in myself emotionally. Some days.
I share the tears, not because I seek prayers or pity. But because if you see me, I will not cry. I lack the strength in person to face my reality. I share the tears because I find there are those who seem to need them from me. But I can't seem to give them. Not on cue. In the middle of OfficeMax, I can. In the car, alone. Alone at night with my thoughts and pictures. But not on cue. I will talk about the boys, talk about the office, talk about hair, nails, your back or neck problems, your diet, but I can't talk to you about my Everett. Not yet. And it seems to be a need for a few, to SEE me cry, to SEE me broken. And I lack the strength in person. So they leaving wanting...wanting something I cant give.
Some day I will be able to TELL the story or say more than "we are as good as can be expected, if not better", or "I have my days, but mostly I'm doing well". These are true answers. But they seeM shallow, because they are. But shallow is all most people want to hear. They want to hear that you've gotten over the death of your son. They want to hear that you're happy he is in heaven. They want to hear that you are ever praising God for the time you did have.
And while all that may be true. It isn't the whole truth. The whole truth is that I still waiver somewhere between f*** you, God and It is Well With My Soul. It's just that I'm honest enough to say it. To write it. To admit it. Because although I know Everett is in heaven, it doesn't make trying to explain that going to church (where Aiden associates most closely with Jesus' home) is not going to see Everett. Because although I DO feel blessed to have held him and met him alive, I still WANT him to be alive. Because even though I think God is using my son to influence lives-- at the very least the four of us in this house-- I don't LIKE the way it's happened. So I sit here, somehwere between my emotions and my decision to have faith. Because being at peace, and feeling the peace, doesn't mean the storm stops. It just means I'm anchored hard. But the storm still comes. And I can't seem to ignore it.
And the tears still fall.
Especially at night.
In the quiet.
Alone.
It's easy to remember your blessings when the boys are laughing. When you're outside getting infested with chiggers and being feasted upon by mosquitos, swinging and playing. When you are being zerberted continuously by your exuberent 2 year old. When your four year old is on a first name basis with his John Deere tractors (I gotta get my John!!) It's easy to remember your blessings when the car always starts or when church reminds you too. Or even when you watch a few minutes of news.
It's easy to remember your blessings and feel blessed. It is much harder to feel blessed when you remember how cold your infant son was, even wrapped in three blankets. It's harder to remember to feel blessed when your body can't seem to understand where the baby is.
But it's a choice.
It always is.
And it isn't an easy one.
To choose hope.
To choose peace.
Or forgiveness. Or grace. Or love. Or whatever it is you lack because life has stolen it from you. And you feel slighted. You feel inadequate. You feel destroyed. Bitter. Angry. Victimized.
It's not easy to choose a different way than you usually do.
Even through the tears. It's not easy to remember your blessings when you feel so weak.
Some days you feel the intensity of life. Some days you feel the overwhelming peace of faith. But each day you choose to have faith. Each day you choose how to respond. Each day.
Some days hurt. Some days heal.
Everyday keeps rolling by.
It doesn't stop. Time. It just keeps going. And the choices of my heart dictate its story. Some days are easier than others. Some nights have sleep. Some nights don't. Lingering between craving to remember each moment. And longing to stop the pain. Between happy memories. And agonizing ones. Between sobbing at the feet of Jesus. And singing It is Well With My Soul.
The other night words fell. They just... Appeared. In verse. And that almost never happens for me. But in less than 30 minutes the whole of my heart and mind fell onto the page in rhyme and rhythm. And I was so peaceful. So. Calm. I wasn't fearful or angry. Just. Peacefully sad. Restful. And I thought that it might be my last Everett post. Intentionally deciding to move on as it seems so fashionable to do. So...spiritual to do.
And tonight I have cried for the last hour. Trying to find every picture I have on hand. Scratching these (explicative) bug bites and crying. Uncontrollably at points. I finally just got out of bed so I could cry without fear of waking Keith.
And there is no reason I should be awake. I've had 2 glasses of wine and 2 benedryl to help the itching that covers my body from toes to shoulders. Stupid chiggers. I don't like chemicals, but I hate chiggers. They will not survive the wrath of a grieving mother, I assure you. They will die. And there is no chigger heaven, but there better be a chigger hell...
There isn't enough coffee to keep me awake during the day. Or enough energy to make me want to DO something. And sleeping seems so...impossible in the stillness. Because when the joyous noises of a four year old and a two year old are silent, my mind is not. When the tv is off and all there is to hear is the crickets...if you can hear them beyond the other side of the snoring, my heart and my mind beg to see pictures of Everett. Some days I give in. Some days I don't. Some days I'm not strong enough to remember why I'm fat. Some days I'm not strong enough to let go and cry. Some days I'm peaceful, thinking I've grieved my last night, just thankful to have met my son alive. Some days I'm far too exhausted from chasing my wonderful little boys to invest in myself emotionally. Some days.
I share the tears, not because I seek prayers or pity. But because if you see me, I will not cry. I lack the strength in person to face my reality. I share the tears because I find there are those who seem to need them from me. But I can't seem to give them. Not on cue. In the middle of OfficeMax, I can. In the car, alone. Alone at night with my thoughts and pictures. But not on cue. I will talk about the boys, talk about the office, talk about hair, nails, your back or neck problems, your diet, but I can't talk to you about my Everett. Not yet. And it seems to be a need for a few, to SEE me cry, to SEE me broken. And I lack the strength in person. So they leaving wanting...wanting something I cant give.
Some day I will be able to TELL the story or say more than "we are as good as can be expected, if not better", or "I have my days, but mostly I'm doing well". These are true answers. But they seeM shallow, because they are. But shallow is all most people want to hear. They want to hear that you've gotten over the death of your son. They want to hear that you're happy he is in heaven. They want to hear that you are ever praising God for the time you did have.
And while all that may be true. It isn't the whole truth. The whole truth is that I still waiver somewhere between f*** you, God and It is Well With My Soul. It's just that I'm honest enough to say it. To write it. To admit it. Because although I know Everett is in heaven, it doesn't make trying to explain that going to church (where Aiden associates most closely with Jesus' home) is not going to see Everett. Because although I DO feel blessed to have held him and met him alive, I still WANT him to be alive. Because even though I think God is using my son to influence lives-- at the very least the four of us in this house-- I don't LIKE the way it's happened. So I sit here, somehwere between my emotions and my decision to have faith. Because being at peace, and feeling the peace, doesn't mean the storm stops. It just means I'm anchored hard. But the storm still comes. And I can't seem to ignore it.
And the tears still fall.
Especially at night.
In the quiet.
Alone.
It's easy to remember your blessings when the boys are laughing. When you're outside getting infested with chiggers and being feasted upon by mosquitos, swinging and playing. When you are being zerberted continuously by your exuberent 2 year old. When your four year old is on a first name basis with his John Deere tractors (I gotta get my John!!) It's easy to remember your blessings when the car always starts or when church reminds you too. Or even when you watch a few minutes of news.
It's easy to remember your blessings and feel blessed. It is much harder to feel blessed when you remember how cold your infant son was, even wrapped in three blankets. It's harder to remember to feel blessed when your body can't seem to understand where the baby is.
But it's a choice.
It always is.
And it isn't an easy one.
To choose hope.
To choose peace.
Or forgiveness. Or grace. Or love. Or whatever it is you lack because life has stolen it from you. And you feel slighted. You feel inadequate. You feel destroyed. Bitter. Angry. Victimized.
It's not easy to choose a different way than you usually do.
Even through the tears. It's not easy to remember your blessings when you feel so weak.
Some days you feel the intensity of life. Some days you feel the overwhelming peace of faith. But each day you choose to have faith. Each day you choose how to respond. Each day.
Some days hurt. Some days heal.
Everyday keeps rolling by.
It doesn't stop. Time. It just keeps going. And the choices of my heart dictate its story. Some days are easier than others. Some nights have sleep. Some nights don't. Lingering between craving to remember each moment. And longing to stop the pain. Between happy memories. And agonizing ones. Between sobbing at the feet of Jesus. And singing It is Well With My Soul.
Friday, June 22, 2012
As I Lay Me Down to Sleep-- A poem to Jesus for my Everett
As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my boys to keep.
And though my heart does surely ache,
I pray the Lord this pain to take.
So when I wake and see the morn,
The Son does give my heart untorn.
For He alone can take this pain
And give my heart a brief refrain.
For though this world gives harshly to,
His peace and love are constant. True.
But now I me down to sleep,
And for my son, my eyes do weep.
My arms they long to hold him tight,
Yet only Jesus will mend this night.
So for His comfort I will pray,
As life my son has taken away.
His face will ever mark my soul
And life will ever take its toll.
But to my King I lift my voice,
Knowing fully I have a choice.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I ask the Lord my soul to keep.
For though my soul feels empty sorrow
I know there can be peace tomorrow.
I need only to seek His hand, His face
To feel His love and warm embrace.
His love will catch my every tear,
His hands will calm my every fear.
I need only ask as tears do fall
For Him to hold me and hear my call.
So as I lay me down to sleep,
I beg the Lord a simple peep
Into his lovely heavenly dome
To see my boy in his new home.
To touch his face and kiss his cheek,
Though it strike a tearful leak.
I ask the Lord to hold him dear,
For I long to have him near.
My son, my boy, my little one
Who met his Jesus as life begun.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I know the Lord my heart will keep.
For if He loves me as He claims,
My life and pain He takes, renames.
And as His own, my sorrow goes
He takes this horror and peace He sows.
Though tears may fall and sadness fill,
The Lord of all does choose to heal.
If only I open my heart and choose
To hear Him, let Him, and not refuse.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
And though my soul will often weep,
Dear Lord I ask, I beg, I pray
Please keep my pain and doubt at bay.
And if I die before I wake,
I ask you for my family's sake
Reveal your love fresh and new
In ways they know from only you.
And have my son there for me
To hold for all of eternity.
I pray the Lord my boys to keep.
And though my heart does surely ache,
I pray the Lord this pain to take.
So when I wake and see the morn,
The Son does give my heart untorn.
For He alone can take this pain
And give my heart a brief refrain.
For though this world gives harshly to,
His peace and love are constant. True.
But now I me down to sleep,
And for my son, my eyes do weep.
My arms they long to hold him tight,
Yet only Jesus will mend this night.
So for His comfort I will pray,
As life my son has taken away.
His face will ever mark my soul
And life will ever take its toll.
But to my King I lift my voice,
Knowing fully I have a choice.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I ask the Lord my soul to keep.
For though my soul feels empty sorrow
I know there can be peace tomorrow.
I need only to seek His hand, His face
To feel His love and warm embrace.
His love will catch my every tear,
His hands will calm my every fear.
I need only ask as tears do fall
For Him to hold me and hear my call.
So as I lay me down to sleep,
I beg the Lord a simple peep
Into his lovely heavenly dome
To see my boy in his new home.
To touch his face and kiss his cheek,
Though it strike a tearful leak.
I ask the Lord to hold him dear,
For I long to have him near.
My son, my boy, my little one
Who met his Jesus as life begun.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I know the Lord my heart will keep.
For if He loves me as He claims,
My life and pain He takes, renames.
And as His own, my sorrow goes
He takes this horror and peace He sows.
Though tears may fall and sadness fill,
The Lord of all does choose to heal.
If only I open my heart and choose
To hear Him, let Him, and not refuse.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
And though my soul will often weep,
Dear Lord I ask, I beg, I pray
Please keep my pain and doubt at bay.
And if I die before I wake,
I ask you for my family's sake
Reveal your love fresh and new
In ways they know from only you.
And have my son there for me
To hold for all of eternity.
Thursday, June 21, 2012
Tears for Heaven
I miss my baby. I want to hold him again. It's been 3 weeks today. And 20 minutes as I type this right now. I've seen patients for 2 days this week, but decided I needed a day to breathe. And Thursdays I really have a hard time. And I wonder when I won't anymore. When I won't count them. Or stare at the clock at 9:54.
I'm not sad all the time. I have laughed and played with our boys. I have laughed with family. I am looking forward to joining a gym and losing the half of cocunut cake I ate. I enjoyed the distraction of work. I like being a chiropractor with counselor's heart. I like my new shoes and am looking forward to the first run. I'll be out to Goodwill to get some clothes today. I'm excited to see Yaya in a few weeks. Looking forward to a quiet lunch with Gigi tomorrow. To take the boys to the farm. To take Aiden on a weekly Mommy-Son date. (Kipton and I spend a LOT of time together). I LOVE playing with those precious boys. I'm excited about starting a small group with our new found church friends. I still have many many things that bring me joy.
But I woke up in a full on panic the day we brought Everett's ashes home. We have 2 urns-- a teddy bear and a picture box. His ashes are in both. They spread them into the two holders in an office at the funeral home. And in the middle of the night, in my half-sleep state, I panicked. Terrified. Petrified. That part of him fell on the floor. Or on the desk. And it was swept up and thrown away. I *KNOW* it essentially doesn't mean anything. They're just ashes. But I was in an absoulte, sweat drenched, heart pounding, barely breathing panic. That Everett was thrown away.
There has been so much to do, so many boxes to check. Other events that have required attention. Family gatherings. That three weeks later, there is just now time to breathe. Time to realize. Time to... hurt. But not really. Because I don't have a job. I have a business. I don't have leave. I have rent, utiities, and payments to make. (This is a not poor, pitiful me statement). So I've already been to work like 5 or 6 days, most of which is just administrative work. And there's a retreat factor to being there. A forget factor that enables me to pretend like my life doesn't include a dead baby. So work keeps me busy, even if it is a little stressful.
But normal is not normal.
I don't *usually* cry Keith to sleep. Then go cry in the shower. Then cry myself to sleep.
I don't *usually* wear a necklace that has the ONE day my son was alive imprinted on it.
I don't *usually* ache from the inside out.
I don't *usually* wonder if people can see the sadness in my eyes.
I don't *usually* wonder if I'm doing a good job of pretending my heart isn't in pieces.
Normal is something we will all learn. Normal always changes. That is what is NORMAL about normal. Change. And I know time will dim the vividness of the emptiness. Time will quiet the screams of longing. Time will dull the sharp pain of loss. Normal will always include these things. Just not this clearly.
I will always want my baby.
To hold him again.
To hold him longer.
To love him in my arms.
To watch him grow.
But now normal will include tears for heaven. Because I long for my little one. And I miss him terribly. I feel like part of me is missing. Just... gone. And I hug my Everett bear. And I cry. Becuase my baby is gone. And I'm selling a crib that should be holding him as he naps. And we've given away his clothes to a family who lost their home to a fire. And I'll take the newborn diapers I kept, just in case, to the pregnancy crisis center. There's 30 lbs to lose that remind me constantly that my baby is dead.
Normal.
Will never be normal again.
I'm not sad all the time. I have laughed and played with our boys. I have laughed with family. I am looking forward to joining a gym and losing the half of cocunut cake I ate. I enjoyed the distraction of work. I like being a chiropractor with counselor's heart. I like my new shoes and am looking forward to the first run. I'll be out to Goodwill to get some clothes today. I'm excited to see Yaya in a few weeks. Looking forward to a quiet lunch with Gigi tomorrow. To take the boys to the farm. To take Aiden on a weekly Mommy-Son date. (Kipton and I spend a LOT of time together). I LOVE playing with those precious boys. I'm excited about starting a small group with our new found church friends. I still have many many things that bring me joy.
But I woke up in a full on panic the day we brought Everett's ashes home. We have 2 urns-- a teddy bear and a picture box. His ashes are in both. They spread them into the two holders in an office at the funeral home. And in the middle of the night, in my half-sleep state, I panicked. Terrified. Petrified. That part of him fell on the floor. Or on the desk. And it was swept up and thrown away. I *KNOW* it essentially doesn't mean anything. They're just ashes. But I was in an absoulte, sweat drenched, heart pounding, barely breathing panic. That Everett was thrown away.
There has been so much to do, so many boxes to check. Other events that have required attention. Family gatherings. That three weeks later, there is just now time to breathe. Time to realize. Time to... hurt. But not really. Because I don't have a job. I have a business. I don't have leave. I have rent, utiities, and payments to make. (This is a not poor, pitiful me statement). So I've already been to work like 5 or 6 days, most of which is just administrative work. And there's a retreat factor to being there. A forget factor that enables me to pretend like my life doesn't include a dead baby. So work keeps me busy, even if it is a little stressful.
But normal is not normal.
I don't *usually* cry Keith to sleep. Then go cry in the shower. Then cry myself to sleep.
I don't *usually* wear a necklace that has the ONE day my son was alive imprinted on it.
I don't *usually* ache from the inside out.
I don't *usually* wonder if people can see the sadness in my eyes.
I don't *usually* wonder if I'm doing a good job of pretending my heart isn't in pieces.
Normal is something we will all learn. Normal always changes. That is what is NORMAL about normal. Change. And I know time will dim the vividness of the emptiness. Time will quiet the screams of longing. Time will dull the sharp pain of loss. Normal will always include these things. Just not this clearly.
I will always want my baby.
To hold him again.
To hold him longer.
To love him in my arms.
To watch him grow.
But now normal will include tears for heaven. Because I long for my little one. And I miss him terribly. I feel like part of me is missing. Just... gone. And I hug my Everett bear. And I cry. Becuase my baby is gone. And I'm selling a crib that should be holding him as he naps. And we've given away his clothes to a family who lost their home to a fire. And I'll take the newborn diapers I kept, just in case, to the pregnancy crisis center. There's 30 lbs to lose that remind me constantly that my baby is dead.
Normal.
Will never be normal again.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Everett's Goodbye
I haven't been writing, because I've been writing this. My eulogy. For my infant son. His service was Saturday June 16. It was beautiful. The best and of worst of days.
As is customary, there must be "shit story", right?
Short version of the story:
We ordered some pictures for family and the memory box to place up front with my sweet boy's teddy bear urn. The pictures weren't the right size, so we had to reorder and repick a few on Friday night. Saturday morning we should've been able to get the at 10am. At 11:30 when we got to Walgreens, NONE od the pictures were printed and 0% had downloaded(order was there, just no pictures there to print). We rush home to make a CD of the pictures to take to Target. Get frames for the gifts for family, and see how much more complicated we make the day.
We sat down in car, said how tired we were, and looked behind us to back up. To our horror, there was nothing in the mirror, but there was a tiny little Lexus sports car behind us. In utter disbelief of what had just happened, Keith got out, explained why we needed to get going as quickly as possible, exchanged information, and I sat crying hysterically in the front seat. I couldn't take anymore. I felt so defeated. EVERYTHING surrounding Everett's birth had drama attached to it. EVERYTHING. And all I wanted was peacefulness for his birth, death, and service. And now this. This unseen pricey tiny car was going to muddle up his memorial service.
And then I remembered.
We get to choose what we think about. We get to choose our attitudes. No matter what is surrounding us, we get to choose. I grabbed Keith's hande, half smiled through tears, and said "We will not let this ruin our day".
I could've gotten mad at Keith. I could've let that fester in my heart, and steal from little boy's day. I could've chosen to let the bad win.
Because there's always going to be stuff that happens to ruin a day, drive a wedge in relationships, or steal from something great that is about to happen. If you let it.
If you let it.....
This is Everett's Goodbye.......
I started this pregnancy crying. On the toilet. On a Sunday morning. Mad at God. Again.
I ended this pregnancy crying. In a hospital bed. On a Thursday morning. Sad. Again.
I can't tell you the number of times I've wondered what I did. To have such a screwed up life. Screaming out to the ceiling. How did I get here? With 2 kids, a baby on the way that was bound to die, and a business that can't survive me being pregnant AND losing a baby at the same time. What did I do, God? What did I do? Am I such a horrible person that I have to mimic Job's life? Well, God, I'm not interested in writing a story that will change lives or be inspirational. I just want MY life to change.
I can't tell you the number of times I've been told how blessed I should feel to be Everett's mother. To be a part of that chosen group of strong women whose faith would not be shaken by such a tragedy. To be chosen by God for this journey. Bull....hockey. Strong, I am not. Unshaken faith, have I not. Blessed? Are you serious? My son, who had a name before his prognosis. My son, who has brothers. My son, who most will mourn for a day, but I will miss for a lifetime. My SON. IS BEING TAKEN FROM ME. Blessed?!?
Everett changed it all. Pretty much one morning in the shower. With a Dreamworks movie. About Moses and the Israelites. I had cried myself to sleep yet another night. Terrified, confused, and strangely enough, wordlessly praying to have the family of 5 I had always wanted. Hoping against all hope. When the animated version of Moses' face flooded every part of my brain. And the music starts. The words so powerfully perfect in my broken heart that I began to sob....
Many nights we've prayed
with no proof anyone could hear.
Now we are not afraid,
even though we know there is much to fear.
We've been moving mountains long before we knew we could.
There can be miracles,
when you believe.
Though hope is frail, it's hard to kill.
Who knows what miracles you can achieve,
you will when you believe.
I guess that was all I needed. To be reminded to believe. With no proof anyone could hear. To have hope. Even if it's frail.
Somewhere around 29 weeks gestation, my little Everett changed everything about who I am. About how I thought. About my faith. About my goals. About my family. My physically doomed little boy became a miracle beyond all imagination.
Our next ultrasound was at week 33. Keith and I both walked in cautiously hopeful. We read of little miracles and huge miracles of physical healing for babies doomed to die. And part of us was sure we would get that gift. Because so many people were following our story and praying that God would "show up".
But He didn't. In fact, there was no good news at all. A few things had actually gotten worse. And I laid there. Screaming in my head. Throwing a full-on 3 year old tantrum. At God. I walked out of that appointment headed to another, furious at the world and daring Dr. Kupke to be an arrogant, controlling, man. And we found him to be anything but. His goal? For us to hold our little boy. For as long as we wanted. Without interruption. From anyone. Short of healing my son completely, it was the best news we could have gotten. And my 3 yr old tendencies began to wane.
I never stopped hoping. And I couldn't choose to stop believing. Why? Because there are moments of total peace that make no sense whatsoever. Because if this is all there is, infant death is simply a cruel trick of life. And I can't believe that. Because I must have hope of holding my Everett again. I have to believe in a Jesus who would send peace to help me survive holding my son as his life ends after 3 1/2 hours. I have to believe in a Jesus who will give me a chance to hold him again. Because this can't be it. It just can't be it.
But still, I don't understand. I don't have a clue what or where heaven really is or how it works. All I know is comfort doesn't come from things you touch, drink, eat, or even the people around you. Comfort comes from a place we can't see or understand. Because comfort is something you can't understand until you mourn. With a fully broken heart. Broken. So much that money, fame, respect, or even shoes can't heal.
Comfort doesn't mean the questions and confusion end...it just means life can take a different turn if you want it to. It means that bitterness doesn't have to be your friend. It means that hope and change can be your new normal. It means that despair and emptiness can have their fleeting moments of reign, but peace and joy can take their place. But it's a choice you make. A choice.
We chose to carry Everett every second his heart would beat. For 42 weeks, 6 days, three and a half hours, he knew nothing but love. I fully believe that in the womb, babies still sense emotion. Whether it be from a hormonal/neurochemical bath, energy interpretation, or supernatural understanding of love that only a soul, not bound but time or age, can feel-- Everett knew that every tear was shed out of love. When we held him, and he would look at me with his left eye, barely open...he knew. When Kipton hugged him, searched for him constantly, kissed him, begged for him, he knew. When the grandparents met him, he knew. As Daddy rocked him, he knew. As Aiden kept his eyes ever on the baby, he knew. He knew we chose to love to him.
And I've begged and pleaded openly with God to let me have my son. That I could love him the way a mommy should. I have begged to have this hellish nightmare of reality taken away. I have pleaded for my husband not to be punished for something I've done wrong. Because somehow this all makes more sense if I've done something to lose my priviledge of mothering Everett. It all makes more sense if I get what I deserve.
But as I have written many times, ....shit happens. Life just sucks occasionally. Somethings will never be explainable or understandable. And in times like losing your son, the standard "God's Plan" answer just doesn't cut it. Because sometimes we can eventually make sense of tragedy and sometimes we can't. Many attempt to attribute spiritual significance to these kinds of moments. Moments when the world doesn't make sense. Many attempt to attach eternal significance to these kinds of moments. And maybe they're right. Maybe that is the case...and because I can't have my Everett back, that is what I hope for. Significance for his unexpectedly long, yet tragically short life.
Knowing we would lose Everett for 20 weeks, we had 20 weeks to choose. Choose anger. Or love. Choose turmoil. Or peace. Choose emptiness. Or hope.
Keith and I chose to love each other. To allow the other to mourn in whatever way was needed. To give space and individuality in order to be a stronger couple. As Dr.Phil says, we now never miss a good opportunity to shut up. We now listen to each other with grace. And really, really listen. I am more in love with Keith than I have ever been. We are a team for the first time. We have chosen to lean in on each other. And we have found strength in each other most couples will never know. We have chosen to love above all else. We have focusd on our marriage, our boys, and our family goals. Everett's story took our marriage from desperate need to incredible strength.
Maybe I was just a terrible mother before Everett, but I want to be a supermom now. Not with secret powers of pintrest, shutterfly, or scrap booking-- although I wouldn't mind having those powers-- but with secret powers of intuition, listening, graceful discipline, encouragement, and warmth. Now more than ever, I want Aiden and Kipton to know Mommy loves them, that Mommy hears what they haven't figured out how to say, that Mommy cares what is on their hearts. I want Aiden to know that Mommy sees him watching, thinking, processing. And I will listen and chat with him about baby Everett's new "adbenture" in heaven. I want Kipton to know that I will hold him while he screams for the baby, that I will comfort him as he sees a baby leave and crumbles into hysterics. I am a softer, kinder more loving mother than I would have been without Everett.
My little Everett...this is your story, sweet boy. You have taken broken, ugly things and made them beautiful. Little Everett, you have changed our hearts. You have changed our lives. Your tiny little feet and extra long toes have left a lifetime of footprints on our hearts. And it breaks my heart, baby boy, that you will not leave footprints in the sandbox or at the beach. It breaks my heart that you will not know these changes you have brought about. And I wish we could've gotten here without losing you. I wish it could be different. I wish everyday that Mommy knew how to fix this. I would've done anything. Anything. But that's not how it happened. And I don't understand it. But know this Everett, you are the reason I will be better. You are the reason I will be better.
(Keith comes back to the stage)
The story of Everett is a sad but beautiful one. One that has touched many lives, not just ours. If his story has touched your life in a meaningful way, we ask that you let us know through the cards on your chair. If you have been changed or have something you want to change as a result of hearing Everett's story, please jot it down. These memory cards will be placed in his scrapbook as a testament to his life. You don't have to participate and a signature is not required, but if you have been touched in a permanent way by Everett's story, we would love to know about it. To memorialize his life. To be reminded that there's to more life than this. To rest assured that there can be miracles when you believe.
As is customary, there must be "shit story", right?
Short version of the story:
We ordered some pictures for family and the memory box to place up front with my sweet boy's teddy bear urn. The pictures weren't the right size, so we had to reorder and repick a few on Friday night. Saturday morning we should've been able to get the at 10am. At 11:30 when we got to Walgreens, NONE od the pictures were printed and 0% had downloaded(order was there, just no pictures there to print). We rush home to make a CD of the pictures to take to Target. Get frames for the gifts for family, and see how much more complicated we make the day.
We sat down in car, said how tired we were, and looked behind us to back up. To our horror, there was nothing in the mirror, but there was a tiny little Lexus sports car behind us. In utter disbelief of what had just happened, Keith got out, explained why we needed to get going as quickly as possible, exchanged information, and I sat crying hysterically in the front seat. I couldn't take anymore. I felt so defeated. EVERYTHING surrounding Everett's birth had drama attached to it. EVERYTHING. And all I wanted was peacefulness for his birth, death, and service. And now this. This unseen pricey tiny car was going to muddle up his memorial service.
And then I remembered.
We get to choose what we think about. We get to choose our attitudes. No matter what is surrounding us, we get to choose. I grabbed Keith's hande, half smiled through tears, and said "We will not let this ruin our day".
I could've gotten mad at Keith. I could've let that fester in my heart, and steal from little boy's day. I could've chosen to let the bad win.
Because there's always going to be stuff that happens to ruin a day, drive a wedge in relationships, or steal from something great that is about to happen. If you let it.
If you let it.....
This is Everett's Goodbye.......
I started this pregnancy crying. On the toilet. On a Sunday morning. Mad at God. Again.
I ended this pregnancy crying. In a hospital bed. On a Thursday morning. Sad. Again.
I can't tell you the number of times I've wondered what I did. To have such a screwed up life. Screaming out to the ceiling. How did I get here? With 2 kids, a baby on the way that was bound to die, and a business that can't survive me being pregnant AND losing a baby at the same time. What did I do, God? What did I do? Am I such a horrible person that I have to mimic Job's life? Well, God, I'm not interested in writing a story that will change lives or be inspirational. I just want MY life to change.
I can't tell you the number of times I've been told how blessed I should feel to be Everett's mother. To be a part of that chosen group of strong women whose faith would not be shaken by such a tragedy. To be chosen by God for this journey. Bull....hockey. Strong, I am not. Unshaken faith, have I not. Blessed? Are you serious? My son, who had a name before his prognosis. My son, who has brothers. My son, who most will mourn for a day, but I will miss for a lifetime. My SON. IS BEING TAKEN FROM ME. Blessed?!?
Everett changed it all. Pretty much one morning in the shower. With a Dreamworks movie. About Moses and the Israelites. I had cried myself to sleep yet another night. Terrified, confused, and strangely enough, wordlessly praying to have the family of 5 I had always wanted. Hoping against all hope. When the animated version of Moses' face flooded every part of my brain. And the music starts. The words so powerfully perfect in my broken heart that I began to sob....
Many nights we've prayed
with no proof anyone could hear.
Now we are not afraid,
even though we know there is much to fear.
We've been moving mountains long before we knew we could.
There can be miracles,
when you believe.
Though hope is frail, it's hard to kill.
Who knows what miracles you can achieve,
you will when you believe.
I guess that was all I needed. To be reminded to believe. With no proof anyone could hear. To have hope. Even if it's frail.
Somewhere around 29 weeks gestation, my little Everett changed everything about who I am. About how I thought. About my faith. About my goals. About my family. My physically doomed little boy became a miracle beyond all imagination.
Our next ultrasound was at week 33. Keith and I both walked in cautiously hopeful. We read of little miracles and huge miracles of physical healing for babies doomed to die. And part of us was sure we would get that gift. Because so many people were following our story and praying that God would "show up".
But He didn't. In fact, there was no good news at all. A few things had actually gotten worse. And I laid there. Screaming in my head. Throwing a full-on 3 year old tantrum. At God. I walked out of that appointment headed to another, furious at the world and daring Dr. Kupke to be an arrogant, controlling, man. And we found him to be anything but. His goal? For us to hold our little boy. For as long as we wanted. Without interruption. From anyone. Short of healing my son completely, it was the best news we could have gotten. And my 3 yr old tendencies began to wane.
I never stopped hoping. And I couldn't choose to stop believing. Why? Because there are moments of total peace that make no sense whatsoever. Because if this is all there is, infant death is simply a cruel trick of life. And I can't believe that. Because I must have hope of holding my Everett again. I have to believe in a Jesus who would send peace to help me survive holding my son as his life ends after 3 1/2 hours. I have to believe in a Jesus who will give me a chance to hold him again. Because this can't be it. It just can't be it.
But still, I don't understand. I don't have a clue what or where heaven really is or how it works. All I know is comfort doesn't come from things you touch, drink, eat, or even the people around you. Comfort comes from a place we can't see or understand. Because comfort is something you can't understand until you mourn. With a fully broken heart. Broken. So much that money, fame, respect, or even shoes can't heal.
Comfort doesn't mean the questions and confusion end...it just means life can take a different turn if you want it to. It means that bitterness doesn't have to be your friend. It means that hope and change can be your new normal. It means that despair and emptiness can have their fleeting moments of reign, but peace and joy can take their place. But it's a choice you make. A choice.
We chose to carry Everett every second his heart would beat. For 42 weeks, 6 days, three and a half hours, he knew nothing but love. I fully believe that in the womb, babies still sense emotion. Whether it be from a hormonal/neurochemical bath, energy interpretation, or supernatural understanding of love that only a soul, not bound but time or age, can feel-- Everett knew that every tear was shed out of love. When we held him, and he would look at me with his left eye, barely open...he knew. When Kipton hugged him, searched for him constantly, kissed him, begged for him, he knew. When the grandparents met him, he knew. As Daddy rocked him, he knew. As Aiden kept his eyes ever on the baby, he knew. He knew we chose to love to him.
And I've begged and pleaded openly with God to let me have my son. That I could love him the way a mommy should. I have begged to have this hellish nightmare of reality taken away. I have pleaded for my husband not to be punished for something I've done wrong. Because somehow this all makes more sense if I've done something to lose my priviledge of mothering Everett. It all makes more sense if I get what I deserve.
But as I have written many times, ....shit happens. Life just sucks occasionally. Somethings will never be explainable or understandable. And in times like losing your son, the standard "God's Plan" answer just doesn't cut it. Because sometimes we can eventually make sense of tragedy and sometimes we can't. Many attempt to attribute spiritual significance to these kinds of moments. Moments when the world doesn't make sense. Many attempt to attach eternal significance to these kinds of moments. And maybe they're right. Maybe that is the case...and because I can't have my Everett back, that is what I hope for. Significance for his unexpectedly long, yet tragically short life.
Knowing we would lose Everett for 20 weeks, we had 20 weeks to choose. Choose anger. Or love. Choose turmoil. Or peace. Choose emptiness. Or hope.
Keith and I chose to love each other. To allow the other to mourn in whatever way was needed. To give space and individuality in order to be a stronger couple. As Dr.Phil says, we now never miss a good opportunity to shut up. We now listen to each other with grace. And really, really listen. I am more in love with Keith than I have ever been. We are a team for the first time. We have chosen to lean in on each other. And we have found strength in each other most couples will never know. We have chosen to love above all else. We have focusd on our marriage, our boys, and our family goals. Everett's story took our marriage from desperate need to incredible strength.
Maybe I was just a terrible mother before Everett, but I want to be a supermom now. Not with secret powers of pintrest, shutterfly, or scrap booking-- although I wouldn't mind having those powers-- but with secret powers of intuition, listening, graceful discipline, encouragement, and warmth. Now more than ever, I want Aiden and Kipton to know Mommy loves them, that Mommy hears what they haven't figured out how to say, that Mommy cares what is on their hearts. I want Aiden to know that Mommy sees him watching, thinking, processing. And I will listen and chat with him about baby Everett's new "adbenture" in heaven. I want Kipton to know that I will hold him while he screams for the baby, that I will comfort him as he sees a baby leave and crumbles into hysterics. I am a softer, kinder more loving mother than I would have been without Everett.
My little Everett...this is your story, sweet boy. You have taken broken, ugly things and made them beautiful. Little Everett, you have changed our hearts. You have changed our lives. Your tiny little feet and extra long toes have left a lifetime of footprints on our hearts. And it breaks my heart, baby boy, that you will not leave footprints in the sandbox or at the beach. It breaks my heart that you will not know these changes you have brought about. And I wish we could've gotten here without losing you. I wish it could be different. I wish everyday that Mommy knew how to fix this. I would've done anything. Anything. But that's not how it happened. And I don't understand it. But know this Everett, you are the reason I will be better. You are the reason I will be better.
(Keith comes back to the stage)
The story of Everett is a sad but beautiful one. One that has touched many lives, not just ours. If his story has touched your life in a meaningful way, we ask that you let us know through the cards on your chair. If you have been changed or have something you want to change as a result of hearing Everett's story, please jot it down. These memory cards will be placed in his scrapbook as a testament to his life. You don't have to participate and a signature is not required, but if you have been touched in a permanent way by Everett's story, we would love to know about it. To memorialize his life. To be reminded that there's to more life than this. To rest assured that there can be miracles when you believe.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
There's nothing strong about me...
I just want the whole damn thing to be a nightmare. A horrible, endless nightmare.
So I can wake up in the morning and not be missing a baby.
I just want the whole thing to be some awful story that I made up.
So I can not feel...this. This awful pain that no one else can see. That no one else can feel. Deeper than the stitches. More intense than swollen, leaky, baseball tight boobs.
The closer the service gets and the further away from his birthday it gets, the more it becomes real. And life just keeps rolling by.
The boys keep us busy as does the planning and prep for Saturday. There are a few things we have yet to do that must get done. And we are trying to shower the boys with as much attention--and routine-- as we can. There are things I find myself not wanting to forget about both of them. Mostly everything, if I'm honest. But little things... Like that Kipton must fall asleep holding his empty cup tucked in or under his left arm. And that Aiden, when engrossed in what he's doing, will absent mindedly start singing Old MacDonald. That they both are so genuinely happy almost all the time. Granted, when they aren't happy, NONE of us are happy. There are some trying moments in our house. The boundary-seeker older brother and the boundary-destroyer younger brother. And I wonder what Everett would've been like. How he would've fit in. What crazy little thing I would want to remember about him.
I've been accused a lot lately of being strong. And I laugh. Really. I laugh. Because I'm doing everything wrong. I have moved and/or walked around since my epidural wore off just enough to get me somewhat steady. I focused on what I thought everyone else needed because it was easier than facing my own misery. I openly yell at God, fully aware of my humanity and my "non right" to do so... And do it anyway. I have a million fears when I'm "supposed" to simply rest in "the peace that passes understanding". I wonder and doubt the "point" of this story I'm telling. Living.
So because my brain thinks in strange ways, I was mulling over all of the "strong" sentiments, wrestling with my ability to simply trust and Be Still (Ex 14:14) and I thought as I turned into Target... Strong? Only if it means Struggling To Rest On Needing God. Jesus tells us that is what I should be doing.(Matt 5) Resting in God. For we will be comforted. For we will inherent the Kingdom of Heaven. And I think sometimes... I'd rather not be comforted BECAUSE I'D RATHER NOT BE MOURNING!! And sometimes I think SCREW THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.... I just want my little boy back. I just want my baby. I just.... I just want another few minutes. Please. Just a little bit longer. Please... Just a few....
And there's nothing strong about any of that. There's nothing strong about me.
I'm just a mommy who wants to remember everything I possibly can about all of my boys. I want to remember all of my poor mothering moments so that I can change. So that I can be a better Mommy. I want to remember the shining moments on ordinary days. I want to remember how hard and how painful losing Everett is...because it is somehow proof that I love him. And I know it is not true. I know there is more to remembering Everett that the pain. I will remember Kipton LOVING Everett. PopPop weeping tears onto his blanket. Gigi touching his face, tears streaming down hers. Papa's voice cracking as he said Goodbye...and that Everett looked like a Graham. Grandma holding him, letting the rest of the world disappear around her. Aiden looking. Thinking. Then Thursday on a Mommy-Son date, walking outside at school and sitting down at "brover's rock" and chatting for a "lil bit" And later our conversation over pink (strawberry) yogurt about Mommy's big belly now being little. And Everett not living with us. Unforgettable, wonderful moments.
There are some beautiful moments that have happened because of Everett. There are some happy, joyful moments. There are some moments that are heart wrenching. And I don't want to forget any of them. Even the ugly ones. The weak ones. Because I know that in these moments of my honesty in how I feel...in dealing with what floats in my head and sits in my heart, I find something I would have never otherwise known. Comfort. Peace. Hope. But I can't know the fullness of those things if I don't confront the pain.
So I will remember his life. And I will remember how my family loved him. And how the 42 weeks 6 days he spent with me changed every fiber of my being. Bringing me to the lowest points of myself on many occasions, simply to find the tears of Jesus. The Hand of Jesus. To help me stand up. Or simply give me strength to weep.
I still want the whole damn thing to be fiction. A made up story.
But this is life. This is my life. And I get to choose how I see it.
So I can wake up in the morning and not be missing a baby.
I just want the whole thing to be some awful story that I made up.
So I can not feel...this. This awful pain that no one else can see. That no one else can feel. Deeper than the stitches. More intense than swollen, leaky, baseball tight boobs.
The closer the service gets and the further away from his birthday it gets, the more it becomes real. And life just keeps rolling by.
The boys keep us busy as does the planning and prep for Saturday. There are a few things we have yet to do that must get done. And we are trying to shower the boys with as much attention--and routine-- as we can. There are things I find myself not wanting to forget about both of them. Mostly everything, if I'm honest. But little things... Like that Kipton must fall asleep holding his empty cup tucked in or under his left arm. And that Aiden, when engrossed in what he's doing, will absent mindedly start singing Old MacDonald. That they both are so genuinely happy almost all the time. Granted, when they aren't happy, NONE of us are happy. There are some trying moments in our house. The boundary-seeker older brother and the boundary-destroyer younger brother. And I wonder what Everett would've been like. How he would've fit in. What crazy little thing I would want to remember about him.
I've been accused a lot lately of being strong. And I laugh. Really. I laugh. Because I'm doing everything wrong. I have moved and/or walked around since my epidural wore off just enough to get me somewhat steady. I focused on what I thought everyone else needed because it was easier than facing my own misery. I openly yell at God, fully aware of my humanity and my "non right" to do so... And do it anyway. I have a million fears when I'm "supposed" to simply rest in "the peace that passes understanding". I wonder and doubt the "point" of this story I'm telling. Living.
So because my brain thinks in strange ways, I was mulling over all of the "strong" sentiments, wrestling with my ability to simply trust and Be Still (Ex 14:14) and I thought as I turned into Target... Strong? Only if it means Struggling To Rest On Needing God. Jesus tells us that is what I should be doing.(Matt 5) Resting in God. For we will be comforted. For we will inherent the Kingdom of Heaven. And I think sometimes... I'd rather not be comforted BECAUSE I'D RATHER NOT BE MOURNING!! And sometimes I think SCREW THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN.... I just want my little boy back. I just want my baby. I just.... I just want another few minutes. Please. Just a little bit longer. Please... Just a few....
And there's nothing strong about any of that. There's nothing strong about me.
I'm just a mommy who wants to remember everything I possibly can about all of my boys. I want to remember all of my poor mothering moments so that I can change. So that I can be a better Mommy. I want to remember the shining moments on ordinary days. I want to remember how hard and how painful losing Everett is...because it is somehow proof that I love him. And I know it is not true. I know there is more to remembering Everett that the pain. I will remember Kipton LOVING Everett. PopPop weeping tears onto his blanket. Gigi touching his face, tears streaming down hers. Papa's voice cracking as he said Goodbye...and that Everett looked like a Graham. Grandma holding him, letting the rest of the world disappear around her. Aiden looking. Thinking. Then Thursday on a Mommy-Son date, walking outside at school and sitting down at "brover's rock" and chatting for a "lil bit" And later our conversation over pink (strawberry) yogurt about Mommy's big belly now being little. And Everett not living with us. Unforgettable, wonderful moments.
There are some beautiful moments that have happened because of Everett. There are some happy, joyful moments. There are some moments that are heart wrenching. And I don't want to forget any of them. Even the ugly ones. The weak ones. Because I know that in these moments of my honesty in how I feel...in dealing with what floats in my head and sits in my heart, I find something I would have never otherwise known. Comfort. Peace. Hope. But I can't know the fullness of those things if I don't confront the pain.
So I will remember his life. And I will remember how my family loved him. And how the 42 weeks 6 days he spent with me changed every fiber of my being. Bringing me to the lowest points of myself on many occasions, simply to find the tears of Jesus. The Hand of Jesus. To help me stand up. Or simply give me strength to weep.
I still want the whole damn thing to be fiction. A made up story.
But this is life. This is my life. And I get to choose how I see it.
Thursday, June 7, 2012
I Have to be Comforted Believing
It's been a week. Almost to the minute.
O God.
It's been a week.
Since my little Everett met Jesus.
I miss his face.
I struggle to remind myself this is my reality.
I struggle to pretend life is all ok.
I struggle to pretend my head is clear.
But I hug my two precious boys and love them deeper than I ever thought possible. I hold my husband's hand tighter, more in love than I ever thought possible. A better mother. A better wife.
And I am sad Everett won't know that. I'm sad that I will only be able to imagine what his first birthday would've been like. What his laugh would sound like.
But I have no choice. And though it honestly isn't a lot of comfort, I have to be comforted believing my little boy is perfected in the arms of Jesus. As he lies in the arms of a longing, loving mother. Or father. Cooing with Nathan and Miracle. With Felicity playing Mommy. And Landon telling him about heaven. And all the other babies who met Jesus long before their families were ready to send them.
It's been a week.
O God.
It's been a week.
And right now, everyday is harder than the one before. As the focus of attention has shifted from everyone else to just us. Our family. Day in and day out. Missing one of its pieces. But fuller in love, grace, and peace than we would've been otherwise.
But I still miss him. Even though I am at peace. I still miss him. And one day. One day. It won't be harder than the day before. One day. One day. It will be only happy tears for those 3 1/2 hours instead of sad tears for the lifetime I miss him.
O God.
It's been a week.
Since my little Everett met Jesus.
I miss his face.
I struggle to remind myself this is my reality.
I struggle to pretend life is all ok.
I struggle to pretend my head is clear.
But I hug my two precious boys and love them deeper than I ever thought possible. I hold my husband's hand tighter, more in love than I ever thought possible. A better mother. A better wife.
And I am sad Everett won't know that. I'm sad that I will only be able to imagine what his first birthday would've been like. What his laugh would sound like.
But I have no choice. And though it honestly isn't a lot of comfort, I have to be comforted believing my little boy is perfected in the arms of Jesus. As he lies in the arms of a longing, loving mother. Or father. Cooing with Nathan and Miracle. With Felicity playing Mommy. And Landon telling him about heaven. And all the other babies who met Jesus long before their families were ready to send them.
It's been a week.
O God.
It's been a week.
And right now, everyday is harder than the one before. As the focus of attention has shifted from everyone else to just us. Our family. Day in and day out. Missing one of its pieces. But fuller in love, grace, and peace than we would've been otherwise.
But I still miss him. Even though I am at peace. I still miss him. And one day. One day. It won't be harder than the day before. One day. One day. It will be only happy tears for those 3 1/2 hours instead of sad tears for the lifetime I miss him.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Clear Nail Polish, Lidocaine Jelly, and Cabbage Leaves
Disclaimer: If you are a dude and a friend of mine, you might not wanna read this one. If you are a dude and have never experienced post partum with your wife, you might not wanna read this. Or, basically, if you're a dude, you might not wanna read this one.
CLear Nail Polish
Thanks to a wonderfully mild winter, the South is experiencing an infestation of bugs. All kinds of bugs. And for the first time I can remember, I have met and hated my first chigger. If you don't know what a chigger is, I hope you never do. Basically, it's itchy, red, hell. And they get in the most horrible of places. I have been painting myself with clear nail polish for the last 5 days, coating those stupid little critters to the point of absolute diamond strength (or that's what the bottle of Sally Hansen says, at least). I have no idea if it actually KILLS the little demons, but it does stop the itching better than hydrocortisone. I had 5 areas of infestation. Two surrounding my swollen, ever so incredibly snail-like slowly shrinking belly, one on the middle of my right thigh, one on my right knee, and one on my left ankle. These wouldn't be such an issue if BENDiNG wasn't such an issue. If looking at the side of my 6 month-pregnant looking belly wasn't so... miserable. Every time I get dressed, I'm reminded that there's no good way to NOT look like you just had a baby. I'm not one of those "in my pre-pregnancy jeans in a week or two" moms. O how I wish. Especially now. Especially now. Because now, as I paint those stupid chiggers to their death, my heart breaks a little. Because there is no crib. There is no baby. Only a swollen, red, itchy belly remains.
Lidocaine Jelly
In the process of meeting Everett, I ripped ('down there', for the novices of delivery). Uniquely, I was told. Well, it's not the first time I've heard that. I did with Aiden, too. The difference with Aiden is that he was rushed to the NICU, I was placed into proper sewing position and administered lidocaine shots since I didn't have an epidural. And it was pretty miserable for the first few days, but it got better. With Everett, I had an epidural and the midwife and nurses weren't going to interrupt my time with him by making me focus on anything else. So I was sewn up in baby holding position, not sewing position. And I remember them saying I bled a good bit, too. Like a lot. So I'm sure it wasn't easy. And I'm thankful they didn't interrupt us. But I must say, sitting, walking, and generally existing became unbearable yesterday. I went to see what was going on, because I seriously got to the point that I couldn't sit without feeling like that already- tender area was going to RIP apart.
And I didn't even think. I didn't even remember. All those beautiful little newborn pictures that they post in the OB offices. I thought I was doing ok. We had looked at pictures, downloading them from our phones and uploading some to get printed ALL morning. Keith and I had chatted briefly about some of the happy moments, remembering "Bebe" and him looking at us. And I laid there on that table, naked and vulnerable. Crying. Alone. With those beautiful, healthy babies. And the doctor came in. And I cried. And I laid there, almost in shock, as I heard my own voice telling the story I've only written. And somehow, it all became real. Like it wasn't ACTUALLY my life before. It was just this incredibly realistic, tragically wonderful yet horrible daydream. But when I had to SAY it. When MY voice had to say MY son no longer had a heartbeat. A bigger part of me died. And after she pulled out a few stiches while I was not yet numb, I realized that it would take more than Lidocaine to deaden this pain.
Cabbage Leaves
For these last 5 days I was hopeful that I had escaped milk production. An added little gift for the healing process. But last night, I realized I had not escaped. I'm not a leaker, never have been. I didn't really feel them engorge. But when I started to get in the tub, I realized "this is what fake boobs look like". Husbands have a love/hate relationship with this phase of post partum. And as I told Keith, for me, they're just a heavy reminder. As I expressed a little in the tub to relieve the pressure, I was sad. Realizing what my voice had earlier confirmed. My baby was dead. This story I've been writing. It's real. I have the belly, the stiches, and the boobs to prove it.
And so today, I stink of nail polish, lidocaine jelly, and cabbage leaves. Trying to remove the physical reminders of emotional pain that will not soon disappear.
CLear Nail Polish
Thanks to a wonderfully mild winter, the South is experiencing an infestation of bugs. All kinds of bugs. And for the first time I can remember, I have met and hated my first chigger. If you don't know what a chigger is, I hope you never do. Basically, it's itchy, red, hell. And they get in the most horrible of places. I have been painting myself with clear nail polish for the last 5 days, coating those stupid little critters to the point of absolute diamond strength (or that's what the bottle of Sally Hansen says, at least). I have no idea if it actually KILLS the little demons, but it does stop the itching better than hydrocortisone. I had 5 areas of infestation. Two surrounding my swollen, ever so incredibly snail-like slowly shrinking belly, one on the middle of my right thigh, one on my right knee, and one on my left ankle. These wouldn't be such an issue if BENDiNG wasn't such an issue. If looking at the side of my 6 month-pregnant looking belly wasn't so... miserable. Every time I get dressed, I'm reminded that there's no good way to NOT look like you just had a baby. I'm not one of those "in my pre-pregnancy jeans in a week or two" moms. O how I wish. Especially now. Especially now. Because now, as I paint those stupid chiggers to their death, my heart breaks a little. Because there is no crib. There is no baby. Only a swollen, red, itchy belly remains.
Lidocaine Jelly
In the process of meeting Everett, I ripped ('down there', for the novices of delivery). Uniquely, I was told. Well, it's not the first time I've heard that. I did with Aiden, too. The difference with Aiden is that he was rushed to the NICU, I was placed into proper sewing position and administered lidocaine shots since I didn't have an epidural. And it was pretty miserable for the first few days, but it got better. With Everett, I had an epidural and the midwife and nurses weren't going to interrupt my time with him by making me focus on anything else. So I was sewn up in baby holding position, not sewing position. And I remember them saying I bled a good bit, too. Like a lot. So I'm sure it wasn't easy. And I'm thankful they didn't interrupt us. But I must say, sitting, walking, and generally existing became unbearable yesterday. I went to see what was going on, because I seriously got to the point that I couldn't sit without feeling like that already- tender area was going to RIP apart.
And I didn't even think. I didn't even remember. All those beautiful little newborn pictures that they post in the OB offices. I thought I was doing ok. We had looked at pictures, downloading them from our phones and uploading some to get printed ALL morning. Keith and I had chatted briefly about some of the happy moments, remembering "Bebe" and him looking at us. And I laid there on that table, naked and vulnerable. Crying. Alone. With those beautiful, healthy babies. And the doctor came in. And I cried. And I laid there, almost in shock, as I heard my own voice telling the story I've only written. And somehow, it all became real. Like it wasn't ACTUALLY my life before. It was just this incredibly realistic, tragically wonderful yet horrible daydream. But when I had to SAY it. When MY voice had to say MY son no longer had a heartbeat. A bigger part of me died. And after she pulled out a few stiches while I was not yet numb, I realized that it would take more than Lidocaine to deaden this pain.
Cabbage Leaves
For these last 5 days I was hopeful that I had escaped milk production. An added little gift for the healing process. But last night, I realized I had not escaped. I'm not a leaker, never have been. I didn't really feel them engorge. But when I started to get in the tub, I realized "this is what fake boobs look like". Husbands have a love/hate relationship with this phase of post partum. And as I told Keith, for me, they're just a heavy reminder. As I expressed a little in the tub to relieve the pressure, I was sad. Realizing what my voice had earlier confirmed. My baby was dead. This story I've been writing. It's real. I have the belly, the stiches, and the boobs to prove it.
And so today, I stink of nail polish, lidocaine jelly, and cabbage leaves. Trying to remove the physical reminders of emotional pain that will not soon disappear.
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Details
I woke up this morning remembering his face. The details of his ears. His fingers. I didn't want to get out of bed. I wanted to crawl in a hole and scream out to the world to slow down and shut up, that MY world was in slow motion and I just wanted everything to go away. But it doesn't happen that way. The world didn't stop when we found out Everett's prognosis, and it hasn't stopped now that he's gone.
But it did. It did. For over 3 1/2 hours. The world stopped turning and the only thing that mattered was what was happening in D-7 at NSH Atlanta from 6:19am to 9:54am on May 31, 2012.
The details of delivery are a bit comical and show the realness of life in the midst of my 'fairy tale nightmare'. Today, though, I want to remember only the moments with Everett. I need that today, and I want to get it all out on 'paper' before it's not as clear.
The nurses and midwife never even hesitated. He was placed in a blanket and put on my chest. He looked... almost normal. But not. There were some minor but obvious physical deformities. But we didn't care. It didn't matter to us. He was perfect. As soon as he was in my arms, Keith was by my side, face to face with our third son. We told him we loved him profusely and repeatedly and told him he didn't need to fight for us. He didn't need to hurt for his parents. Tara, the most incredible NICU nurse, by our side all day, listened to him and said his heart rate and respirations were almost normal. And I thought, I prayed, and I begged, O please God, please, Even Now I know you can heal him. Could it be? Could you have answered EVERY request? I begged and screamed in my head. Knowing it wasn't true, but willing it with everything in my body.
He never made sound. There were no cries. No whimpers. Nothing.
I don't know what Keith was thinking. We were both busy crying and assuring Everett that he didn't need to fight or hurt or struggle just for us. We had no idea what to expect.
He was small, but bigger than we thought. 6+ lbs. I know I should remember, but I don't. Just 6+ lbs. It wasn't a detail I was concerned about. In fact, we didn't weigh him until a few hours after he met Jesus. It just didn't matter what he weighed. And the nurses weren't going to steal a precious second from us to find out something as insignificant as weight.
He could only open his left eye. It was sunken in and basically brown, likely a result of some of his deformity-- we don't have brown eyes in either of our families. He was unable to open it all the way- just enough to let us know he was looking at us. Just enough to meet us. The voices he'd been hearing for these 42+ weeks. I began to wipe him off and clean him as much as we could without giving him a bath. A bath would likely have killed him, and he would've had to leave me and that would have killed me. So we just wiped him off. He laid there so silently. Completly still.
He had a head full of blondish red hair, just like Kipton. He had long fingers and toes. Because of his poor oxygenation, his fingernails were brown. He had more dusky kind of color than we thought, he wasn't as blue as we thought he might be. His APGAR score never topped 2. But he was breathing, ever so irradicately, but he was breathing. Just for us. An answer to our prayers.
He had none of the normal infant reflexes. He couldn't grasp our fingers. There was no rooting. He wasn't strong enough to turn his head or even move. Or maybe there just wasn't enough oxygen or enough brain matter. Either way, it didn't matter. He was breathing and his heart was pumping. Just for us. Just for a little while.
Keith let me hold him for about an hour or so. The whole time I was being stitched up and finishing the delivery process(the best part of the epidural, as I had never had one-- I was basically oblivious to what was happening). We talked and sang to him. He had one or two more almost normal heartbeat checks and it was time to bring in the family. The absolute best moments of the day.
They let the boys walk in first. Kipton immediately came and sat with me in the bed and started saying "Bebe Bebe". He touched him and talked to him. He poked his cheeks about a hundred times. Occassionally he'd come out with "Bebe Evett", but mostly just "bebe". Then he hugged him. He just reached those chubby little arms out and grabbed him. It was so beautiful. He touched his ear once and got the vernix (the cheesy stuff on newborns) on his finger, raised his chubby little finger in the air and said "boogey. get it. boogey." And we all laughed. Nurses, grands, and whoever else happened to be in there at that moment. And the entire world was blissfully forgotten.
We brought Aiden over to meet him, but Aiden is a thinker, not a toucher. He asked about the baby in my belly and if this was Everett. He climbed up on the bed with me for just a second, looked at him. Like he knew something wasn't right. My little intuitive, sweet Aiden snuggled right up next to me for just a minute. He doesn't often snuggle Mommy. He's Daddy's boy. He gave Everett one last look and wiggled down.
The grandparents came up and met him, still in my arms. We didn't know how long he'd live, so I wasn't giving him up so soon. Keith still had not held him and it had been about an hour an half. We had decided early on that depending on how well he was doing, Keith and I would be the only ones to hold him alive. We just wanted to be sure that the brothers and grandparents got to meet him while he was still breathing.
We were all hungry. It was 8:15 or so, and I was feeling sick. The kids were hungry and the granparents took the boys to get something to eat. Blissfully forgetting that anything was possibly abnormal about my son, I promptly gave Everett to Keith so I could get ready for pictures. We discovered Everett had pooped everywhere, including on me. No one expected his system to be that developed. New blakets and a little clean up later (the ONLY minute or so he wasn't held), Keith got to rock him. Sing to him. Whisper to him. After a few unpleasant moments for me, and a change of attire, I got to focus all of my attention on watching Daddy with his son. Loving him. In way that few parents will ever love their children. With a love that only a few cursed parents can really know. I long to see those pictures. I saw profiles, unable to really get out of the bed. I long to see those pictures.
The grandparents and kids came back and we started family pictures. And I got to watch as each of the grandparents held him. Loved him. Like few cursed grandparents ever loved. I watched as hard, strong men wept, weakened by the six pounds of frail life in their arms. I watched loving, giving women smile and whisper and weep for the only few minutes they would have with their precious grandson. I watched Aiden roll the doctor's stool around and around the room, watching everything that was happening. And Kipton climb into the lap of almost anyone who had the "Bebe". And there was an hour there that I forgot. That it all seemed so normal. It felt so...happy. Like this was a joyous, chaotic, new baby celebration. And I just forgot.
And then, somehow, while PopPop was holding him and the rest of the room was noisy and full, I was brought back. Everyone had held him. The nurses started asking a little loudly how I was doing and how I was feeling and were suggesting that we eat and get some rest. We all agreed, as I was insanely tired, nauseated but really hungry, and I just wanted to hold him again. Aiden crawled up with me one more time, my sweet little intuitive and snuggled with just me for another minute. Someone gave Everett back to me and we took one big family picture with the five of us, then with everyone. Kipton hugged and hugged the Bebe.
Final good byes were said to the grands and boys, all with some faith-full hope that it WASN'T final good byes. It just seemed like the typical meet and greet when a newborn arrives. I somehow REALLY thought we'd just take a nap and they'd all come back and we'd hang out again. A big family. All of us.
Then reality bit hard and swiftly.
As soon as they walked out, I asked Tara to check him again. He felt... cold. He looked bluer. He sounded like he was hiccupping. His heartrate was down to the 70s. I asked if he was hiccupping or gasping, and she just nodded her head. She tearily said "just a few more minutes". I started singing Jesus Loves You, this I know, For my Jesus tells me so". I couldn't finish it, so I just started humming, dripped my tears all over him. Keith kept rubbing his head, telling him thank you for staying with us. Thank you for letting us meet him. But it was okay now. It was okay to go to Jesus. He opened his left, brown, sunken eye one last time. Tara checked him again, he took one more silent gulp, and the entire room began to sniffle. Tara couldn't speak. I think it was Sandi of the HEARTstrings team who told us that Tara couldn't hear a heartbeat. All composure left and I shook as I held him. I yelled and screamed in my head EVEN NOW JESUS!! WHERE ARE YOU?!?! even now.... even now....
And I wish I could say that I felt him there with us. That I felt Jesus' tears with us. But I just felt...lost. I felt so deeply empty in that moment. I wish I could say that I was at peace in that moment because I knew his body was perfected and he was in the arms of Jesus. But the truth is, I felt sick. I felt an emptiness that few cursed parents will ever know. Or maybe other parents can find immediate comfort in the idea of their infant in heaven. Me? I just wanted my son back. I wasn't ready for Jesus to be his cradle.
Everyone cried for a while. I was in such shock, I actually don't remember too much about what happened after his death for a little while. I know we took more pictures. Tara, Karen, and Sandi did his hand and footprints. As I started to give Everett his bath, we unwrapped him from the blanket Gigi and I made only to discover he had pooped on it post mortem. We wiped it off as best we could, but there is still a little stain. His body was already getting cold, and his color was fading into blue. His lips were dark. Tara got him some warm water and I bathed him, right on the end of the bed. I washed him. Thinking the whole time, he's so cold. Knowing it didn't matter, but unable to stand at the warmer to give him a "proper" newborn bath. He smelled of all natural soap and we put him in his 'teddy bear on a cloud' layette. We put his hat back on, the little bear ears sticking out. I put those cute little bear shoes on his feet. And I swaddled him up. And I held him some more.
After a while, everyone left, including Keith, who went to get us some lunch. I got up and walked around a little bit. I put him in the hospital bassinet with his Everett blanket, and Everett bear. And I caught myself thinking, even now... even now... I took the picture. And when I needed to roll him over so all you could see was his tiny little profile, I knew it was time. I didn't want to remember him any "worse" than he was.
Keith came in and we ate. We had a few things to discuss. Dr. Kupke, the neonatologist/geneticist, no longer thought it was Fryns Syndrome, as some of the very distinctive features of Fryns were not consistent with Everett. So there were things to talk about. Ugly things.
We decided to do an autopsy to see if we could figure out WHAT went wrong and if it would effect possible future children or our boys' children. With the decision made, we told the nurses and decided it was time to say our final goodbyes.
They wouldn't let us send him in his 'bear on the cloud' outfit, so either we needed to undress him or Karen would do it for us. We decided we would do it. As carefully as we had clothed his tiny lifeless body, we undressed him, swaddled him in warm hospital blankets, kissed his head one more time, wrapped in the handmade Pooh quilt donated to HEARTstrings, placed him in the carrying basket, and watched Karen take him away.
Away.
Where I couldn't hold him again.
Where I couldn't kiss him again.
Keith and I held each other and cried. We walked over to the couch/bed and sat. Silently for about three minutes. We looked at each other and decided it was time to go. There was no way we'd sleep in that room again. Karen came back and we got discharge started.
We packed up. Said our thank yous to the tremendously wonderful HEARTstrings and NSHA nursing teams that helped us make it through the day.
And we left. Drained. But so thankful for the nearly 4 hours of breathing my little Everett had.
I am hesitant to say that was his entire life because it feels to me like he was here for so much longer. His 42 weeks 6 days changed my innermost being. He opened my heart to hard and dark places so that I could let them go and love more deeply. He broke down walls of insecurity and taught me how to be vulnerable. He brought a strained marriage to a point of graceful, loving, flexibility. He brought to a tighly-wound Mommy loving, forgiving, understanding insight. Because of Everett Connor Minick, I will be a better wife. I will be a better Mommy. Because of my tiny, motionless, silent Everett, I will write a better story.
And I pray you choose to do the same.
But it did. It did. For over 3 1/2 hours. The world stopped turning and the only thing that mattered was what was happening in D-7 at NSH Atlanta from 6:19am to 9:54am on May 31, 2012.
The details of delivery are a bit comical and show the realness of life in the midst of my 'fairy tale nightmare'. Today, though, I want to remember only the moments with Everett. I need that today, and I want to get it all out on 'paper' before it's not as clear.
The nurses and midwife never even hesitated. He was placed in a blanket and put on my chest. He looked... almost normal. But not. There were some minor but obvious physical deformities. But we didn't care. It didn't matter to us. He was perfect. As soon as he was in my arms, Keith was by my side, face to face with our third son. We told him we loved him profusely and repeatedly and told him he didn't need to fight for us. He didn't need to hurt for his parents. Tara, the most incredible NICU nurse, by our side all day, listened to him and said his heart rate and respirations were almost normal. And I thought, I prayed, and I begged, O please God, please, Even Now I know you can heal him. Could it be? Could you have answered EVERY request? I begged and screamed in my head. Knowing it wasn't true, but willing it with everything in my body.
He never made sound. There were no cries. No whimpers. Nothing.
I don't know what Keith was thinking. We were both busy crying and assuring Everett that he didn't need to fight or hurt or struggle just for us. We had no idea what to expect.
He was small, but bigger than we thought. 6+ lbs. I know I should remember, but I don't. Just 6+ lbs. It wasn't a detail I was concerned about. In fact, we didn't weigh him until a few hours after he met Jesus. It just didn't matter what he weighed. And the nurses weren't going to steal a precious second from us to find out something as insignificant as weight.
He could only open his left eye. It was sunken in and basically brown, likely a result of some of his deformity-- we don't have brown eyes in either of our families. He was unable to open it all the way- just enough to let us know he was looking at us. Just enough to meet us. The voices he'd been hearing for these 42+ weeks. I began to wipe him off and clean him as much as we could without giving him a bath. A bath would likely have killed him, and he would've had to leave me and that would have killed me. So we just wiped him off. He laid there so silently. Completly still.
He had a head full of blondish red hair, just like Kipton. He had long fingers and toes. Because of his poor oxygenation, his fingernails were brown. He had more dusky kind of color than we thought, he wasn't as blue as we thought he might be. His APGAR score never topped 2. But he was breathing, ever so irradicately, but he was breathing. Just for us. An answer to our prayers.
He had none of the normal infant reflexes. He couldn't grasp our fingers. There was no rooting. He wasn't strong enough to turn his head or even move. Or maybe there just wasn't enough oxygen or enough brain matter. Either way, it didn't matter. He was breathing and his heart was pumping. Just for us. Just for a little while.
Keith let me hold him for about an hour or so. The whole time I was being stitched up and finishing the delivery process(the best part of the epidural, as I had never had one-- I was basically oblivious to what was happening). We talked and sang to him. He had one or two more almost normal heartbeat checks and it was time to bring in the family. The absolute best moments of the day.
They let the boys walk in first. Kipton immediately came and sat with me in the bed and started saying "Bebe Bebe". He touched him and talked to him. He poked his cheeks about a hundred times. Occassionally he'd come out with "Bebe Evett", but mostly just "bebe". Then he hugged him. He just reached those chubby little arms out and grabbed him. It was so beautiful. He touched his ear once and got the vernix (the cheesy stuff on newborns) on his finger, raised his chubby little finger in the air and said "boogey. get it. boogey." And we all laughed. Nurses, grands, and whoever else happened to be in there at that moment. And the entire world was blissfully forgotten.
We brought Aiden over to meet him, but Aiden is a thinker, not a toucher. He asked about the baby in my belly and if this was Everett. He climbed up on the bed with me for just a second, looked at him. Like he knew something wasn't right. My little intuitive, sweet Aiden snuggled right up next to me for just a minute. He doesn't often snuggle Mommy. He's Daddy's boy. He gave Everett one last look and wiggled down.
The grandparents came up and met him, still in my arms. We didn't know how long he'd live, so I wasn't giving him up so soon. Keith still had not held him and it had been about an hour an half. We had decided early on that depending on how well he was doing, Keith and I would be the only ones to hold him alive. We just wanted to be sure that the brothers and grandparents got to meet him while he was still breathing.
We were all hungry. It was 8:15 or so, and I was feeling sick. The kids were hungry and the granparents took the boys to get something to eat. Blissfully forgetting that anything was possibly abnormal about my son, I promptly gave Everett to Keith so I could get ready for pictures. We discovered Everett had pooped everywhere, including on me. No one expected his system to be that developed. New blakets and a little clean up later (the ONLY minute or so he wasn't held), Keith got to rock him. Sing to him. Whisper to him. After a few unpleasant moments for me, and a change of attire, I got to focus all of my attention on watching Daddy with his son. Loving him. In way that few parents will ever love their children. With a love that only a few cursed parents can really know. I long to see those pictures. I saw profiles, unable to really get out of the bed. I long to see those pictures.
The grandparents and kids came back and we started family pictures. And I got to watch as each of the grandparents held him. Loved him. Like few cursed grandparents ever loved. I watched as hard, strong men wept, weakened by the six pounds of frail life in their arms. I watched loving, giving women smile and whisper and weep for the only few minutes they would have with their precious grandson. I watched Aiden roll the doctor's stool around and around the room, watching everything that was happening. And Kipton climb into the lap of almost anyone who had the "Bebe". And there was an hour there that I forgot. That it all seemed so normal. It felt so...happy. Like this was a joyous, chaotic, new baby celebration. And I just forgot.
And then, somehow, while PopPop was holding him and the rest of the room was noisy and full, I was brought back. Everyone had held him. The nurses started asking a little loudly how I was doing and how I was feeling and were suggesting that we eat and get some rest. We all agreed, as I was insanely tired, nauseated but really hungry, and I just wanted to hold him again. Aiden crawled up with me one more time, my sweet little intuitive and snuggled with just me for another minute. Someone gave Everett back to me and we took one big family picture with the five of us, then with everyone. Kipton hugged and hugged the Bebe.
Final good byes were said to the grands and boys, all with some faith-full hope that it WASN'T final good byes. It just seemed like the typical meet and greet when a newborn arrives. I somehow REALLY thought we'd just take a nap and they'd all come back and we'd hang out again. A big family. All of us.
Then reality bit hard and swiftly.
As soon as they walked out, I asked Tara to check him again. He felt... cold. He looked bluer. He sounded like he was hiccupping. His heartrate was down to the 70s. I asked if he was hiccupping or gasping, and she just nodded her head. She tearily said "just a few more minutes". I started singing Jesus Loves You, this I know, For my Jesus tells me so". I couldn't finish it, so I just started humming, dripped my tears all over him. Keith kept rubbing his head, telling him thank you for staying with us. Thank you for letting us meet him. But it was okay now. It was okay to go to Jesus. He opened his left, brown, sunken eye one last time. Tara checked him again, he took one more silent gulp, and the entire room began to sniffle. Tara couldn't speak. I think it was Sandi of the HEARTstrings team who told us that Tara couldn't hear a heartbeat. All composure left and I shook as I held him. I yelled and screamed in my head EVEN NOW JESUS!! WHERE ARE YOU?!?! even now.... even now....
And I wish I could say that I felt him there with us. That I felt Jesus' tears with us. But I just felt...lost. I felt so deeply empty in that moment. I wish I could say that I was at peace in that moment because I knew his body was perfected and he was in the arms of Jesus. But the truth is, I felt sick. I felt an emptiness that few cursed parents will ever know. Or maybe other parents can find immediate comfort in the idea of their infant in heaven. Me? I just wanted my son back. I wasn't ready for Jesus to be his cradle.
Everyone cried for a while. I was in such shock, I actually don't remember too much about what happened after his death for a little while. I know we took more pictures. Tara, Karen, and Sandi did his hand and footprints. As I started to give Everett his bath, we unwrapped him from the blanket Gigi and I made only to discover he had pooped on it post mortem. We wiped it off as best we could, but there is still a little stain. His body was already getting cold, and his color was fading into blue. His lips were dark. Tara got him some warm water and I bathed him, right on the end of the bed. I washed him. Thinking the whole time, he's so cold. Knowing it didn't matter, but unable to stand at the warmer to give him a "proper" newborn bath. He smelled of all natural soap and we put him in his 'teddy bear on a cloud' layette. We put his hat back on, the little bear ears sticking out. I put those cute little bear shoes on his feet. And I swaddled him up. And I held him some more.
After a while, everyone left, including Keith, who went to get us some lunch. I got up and walked around a little bit. I put him in the hospital bassinet with his Everett blanket, and Everett bear. And I caught myself thinking, even now... even now... I took the picture. And when I needed to roll him over so all you could see was his tiny little profile, I knew it was time. I didn't want to remember him any "worse" than he was.
Keith came in and we ate. We had a few things to discuss. Dr. Kupke, the neonatologist/geneticist, no longer thought it was Fryns Syndrome, as some of the very distinctive features of Fryns were not consistent with Everett. So there were things to talk about. Ugly things.
We decided to do an autopsy to see if we could figure out WHAT went wrong and if it would effect possible future children or our boys' children. With the decision made, we told the nurses and decided it was time to say our final goodbyes.
They wouldn't let us send him in his 'bear on the cloud' outfit, so either we needed to undress him or Karen would do it for us. We decided we would do it. As carefully as we had clothed his tiny lifeless body, we undressed him, swaddled him in warm hospital blankets, kissed his head one more time, wrapped in the handmade Pooh quilt donated to HEARTstrings, placed him in the carrying basket, and watched Karen take him away.
Away.
Where I couldn't hold him again.
Where I couldn't kiss him again.
Keith and I held each other and cried. We walked over to the couch/bed and sat. Silently for about three minutes. We looked at each other and decided it was time to go. There was no way we'd sleep in that room again. Karen came back and we got discharge started.
We packed up. Said our thank yous to the tremendously wonderful HEARTstrings and NSHA nursing teams that helped us make it through the day.
And we left. Drained. But so thankful for the nearly 4 hours of breathing my little Everett had.
I am hesitant to say that was his entire life because it feels to me like he was here for so much longer. His 42 weeks 6 days changed my innermost being. He opened my heart to hard and dark places so that I could let them go and love more deeply. He broke down walls of insecurity and taught me how to be vulnerable. He brought a strained marriage to a point of graceful, loving, flexibility. He brought to a tighly-wound Mommy loving, forgiving, understanding insight. Because of Everett Connor Minick, I will be a better wife. I will be a better Mommy. Because of my tiny, motionless, silent Everett, I will write a better story.
And I pray you choose to do the same.
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