Beneath the Ethos Tree

Today marks seven weeks since I said hello and goodbye to my River. It has been a challenge but I see brighter days to come. Over the last weeks, I have been physically struggling with my body. Only recently was I medically cleared to begin running and exercising in more ways than just swimming and walking. Had I been given the green light, I would have been running much sooner. Part of the problem was that I was battling some strange symptoms. Up until an hour or so ago, I thought this torment was never going to end. To put it plainly, I have been bleeding since I gave birth. I thought I had started getting used to it but slowly, it has been nagging at my core. I've been frustrated. Wishing it would just go away. My midwife put me on a few medications to help treat a possible minor infection in my uterus. It was torturous. I don't even think my labor felt as difficult as the cramping I experienced. That was around week 5. Her theory was that if there were some tissue left behind, it could possibly be the culprit of making me feel so sick. Basically, my body needed to flush it out. That is, until tonight. 


I caution you, Reader. What I am about to disclose is somewhat graphic in nature. Please only read on if you think you are up to it. 


My bleeding over the last day had increased and I began to think I had just transitioned into my first period. I still think it might be the case. As was the custom of today, I went to change my dressings. It was becoming an hourly task. Suddenly, I felt a familiar feeling. Before I could think, I heard a sound that will forever remain in my mind--the sound of the last piece of my daughter leaving my body. I thank God that Spencer isn't a squeamish man. He lovingly came to my rescue and retrieved it. After my initial panic subsided, I called the midwife on-call. Thoughts were racing through my head: Could it be the last remaining tissue that was causing me to feel so awful? Could it have been.......another baby? I was horrified at the thought of it being another person. Another child I had lost. I almost threw up. Spencer, after much intense study, concluded it was impossible. The midwife agreed and deduced that it was, indeed, a remnant of the birthing process--the last visible proof that my daughter had once inhabited my womb. It was a part of her placenta. 


As soon as I hung up, I immediately began sobbing. I was looking at the portion of her lifeline that had been left behind. Why now? Why did it wait so long to leave me? Why was I being put through this again? It felt like losing her all over again. And then I was faced with the question: what do I do with it? I cried as I told Spencer that I couldn't just throw it away. Flushing it down the toilet seemed wrong. But what else could I do? I didn't want to keep it. Then he asked me: "What would you do with it if you could do anything you wanted?"
Silence. 
I told him I couldn't say it. That I felt like a freak. 
"I want to bury it at her park."


As I looked up, my eyes filled with tears, I saw him smiling. 
"I thought the same thing" he said.


So we got in the car and drove to her park. This park is the place Daddy went to get his exercise while River was inside of me. I had walked the loop on occasion too. Several weeks ago, on that beautiful, sunny day without our River, we went to that park for the first time since her passing. We truly felt some peace in our grieving that day. While walking the path that surrounds the park, we had stopped that day and stood under a large tree near the road. As we looked up, blossoms filled the air and rained on our pain-stricken faces. It brought warmth to our souls. Since then, we have loved that tree and have been grateful for that experience. 
Tonight, as we made our way back to that tree, I started to feel an even bigger sense of closure. Even more-so than what I felt when we buried her at the beach. 

When we reached the tree, we found a small branch. The perfect instrument with which to dig. Spencer made a beautiful spot near the root of the tree and there we placed the last physical remaining part of our baby girl. We said a prayer, thanking Jesus for His healing grace and started on our way back. Before we left, we looked up and saw a single star. It was shining directly above the tree...like River was looking down on her final resting place. As we made our way back to the car, I asked Spencer what we should name the tree. He decided on Ethos, meaning life. I couldn't have picked a better name. 


And now, I guess, that part of the journey is over--the part where I let go of the physical aspect of my daughter being gone. From here, I continue. I grow. I unite with my husband and my God. And I continue on, loving my daughter even more than the day before. 


With that, I'll leave you with a poem the Lord gave me:


Beneath the Ethos Tree


The last of you 
So small and grim
Yet precious still to me
My heart does break
Though now you're free
Beneath the Ethos Tree


Your spirit gone
Now lives Above
No earth will your eyes see
But you will always my child be
Beneath the Ethos Tree


A lone star shines
Above your grave
To guide and follow me
Now put to rest my baby be
Beneath that blessed Ethos Tree.

Fireworks from Heaven

Could she see me as I stood on the sand near the river’s shore, staring at the very pregnant mother who sat in her bikini, watching her children play in the cool water? Did she hear my thoughts when I wished that I could hold her right then?

 The fourth of July has never been my favorite holiday but for some reason, I was more excited than usual this year. As my belly grew in those last months, I kept thinking of how cute it would be to dress my little one up in red, white and blue and parade him or her around when the day finally came. When I think about it now, it’s achingly painful. Since the moment I saw her in that bonnet at the hospital, I couldn’t stop imagining taking her to the church picnic in a frilly red, white and blue dress with a hat to match. I feel as though it is almost more painful that my darling turned out to be a baby girl because of the day-dreams and “what ifs” that precious bonnet evokes.  

My heart hurts. It just hurts.

I know to some it may look like my progress through this grief has regressed…my blogs have gone from expressing feelings of peace to feelings of sadness and discomfort. The truth is, it was easier for me to find peace when this all first happened. The hard part now is holding on to it. Deep down, I still have the same faith in knowing where my River is—I know she is rejoicing in Heaven and is having a wonderful time. I’ve never really worried about that part. It’s the “what do I do now?” thing that gets me. Each day is a struggle to remember what I believe and practice it. I’m ashamed to say I’ve fallen behind in my Bible reading. I used to do it every morning but waking up is a task now, to say the least. I know that a quiet time with the Lord is important but it’s a real struggle for me to keep up with it. When I try to read in the mornings, all I can remember is reading in bed and watching my Bible thump while it rested on my belly. She always said “good morning” to me that way.

I can’t do anything thing the way I used to. It feels wrong, in a way. But I don’t know how to change either. I feel like if I mix up my routine and do something different, then I have forgotten about her…even though I still feel the hole in my heart every second of every day. A part of me is missing and I feel like my heart is going crazy trying to find it. My mind knows where she is but the rest of me just feels lost.

As I stood watching the sky glow with light last night, I wondered if she could see the fireworks from Heaven. I wondered if she missed me…as much as I miss her. I wondered how long it would be until I could hold her and smother her with kisses. I wished in that moment for time to stop—to rewind back to those last days with her safely inside of me. I wished that God would have let her stay so she didn’t have to watch the fireworks from Heaven…and could have watched them in my arms.