357 Days

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

51 Thursdays.
357 days.

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

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

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

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

And yet....

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

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

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

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

Writing my infants eulogy.

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


Time.

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

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

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

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

Ask the father, too.  He is often forgotten.

357 days.

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

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

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

Remember every soul.

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

But some things, only time reveals.

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

                                                        Everett Bear, Kipton, and Aiden
                                                                          My 3 Boys

Retrospect....

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

I was annoyed walking in.

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

In my little boy.

In Everett.

I remember the shock.

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

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

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

On autopilot.

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

I couldn't fathom the worst.

I couldn't accept that my baby would die.

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

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

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

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

And I wanted my baby.  My Everett.

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

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

Exodus 14:14

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

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

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

Psalm 23

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

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

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

the first christmas

The first Christmas.

Christmas was on a Tuesday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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



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