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.