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