A Masquerade to Eternity

“When are you due?”

The familiar words rang in my ears, silencing the crashing waves at high tide. Only this time, my heart did not leap at the opportunity to answer. This time, my mind spoke in its place, taking on the persona of reason and composure. I found myself at the ready to guard the hearts of the two strangers who stood before me on this overcast Manzanita Saturday; strangers who were not braced for the reality of my world.

“I’m not actually……”

The first woman who asked the question shied away. The other woman’s eyes bounced back and forth in anticipation, wondering who would speak next.

“I did just have a baby though, so I can understand why you may have thought that.”

The mood lightened. My reality lifted and it was as though, for that one brief moment, River had not died—that I was about to tell these wary strangers that she was simply napping at the house with Grandma while Mommy and Daddy enjoyed some beach time together.

No sooner could I imagine that longed-for reality did I come back to earth at a screeching halt. If I wanted to spare myself of hearing the questions that follow, I needed to act fast.

“We had a daughter but, unfortunately, she passed away.”

Sadness. Confusion. Regret.

“This would have been her first beach trip…..we were very excited to—“

The conversation then shifted directions. These women were frightened, unable to hear any more details. They asked how long we had been coming to this beach, where we were staying, where we were from. It turned out these women also lived in SE Portland, one of which was a teacher at Gilbert Heights Elementary School. An air of disguise then began to float over us like a bubble filled with the waters of our masquerade. It was as though the further away from my baby we got, the higher the covering rose, growing stronger and less likely to collapse. These women became frantic, desperate to talk of anything but the horror of the truth. They feared the mere mention of my sweet River would burst our comfort bubble, bringing the waters of reality crashing down on our heads….soaking us to our core.

I understood. I understood why they couldn’t talk about it, why they needed to escape. If I had the chance, I’d run too…far away, where no sorrow could touch even the tips of my toes. As I write those words, I realize that this is not an imagined place I seek. A place like this does exist. It is a place where I no longer need to retreat to the ashes of my once-lived child, for she will be before my very eyes, whole and perfect. It is a place that exists without tears and pain; with me forever in the arms of Love, sheltered by the wonders of such a beautiful Place. It’s an Everlasting Place.

Do you know this Place?

Will I meet you there someday, too?

The choice is yours. 

Beach Week

This is an entry I wrote in my pregnancy journal that I thought I would share. Above are some photos I have been taking at the beach this week while our family is on vacation.

8/10/11
Darling River,

By now I know you were born a precious baby girl and by now we have been missing you for some time. It’s hard to believe it has been 2 months—10 weeks and 2 days to be exact. Here I was preparing for your arrival when I was really preparing for your departure. Such a big hole you have left. Such a big hole.

I know that by writing to you it is more for myself than for anything else. You cannot hear me or read these words. Your home is no longer of this earth. Sometimes it makes me happy to know that your home is in Heaven. For now though, it makes me sad. Only sad for me. I know you are in Glory and would honestly never want to live here but I can’t help but wonder what it would be like. As I sit here on the beach with the sun to my back and the ocean waves to my face, I wonder what I would have been doing with you today. I wonder if we would be sitting on the sand together, enjoying the warmth or if we would be down by the water, walking along the shore. Or would we be walking the town, finding little mementos to take home with us to remind you of your very first trip to the beach?

Your little turtle jacket and beautiful ashes sit next to me, keeping me company. How I wish they would come alive.

I’d like to think there’s a beach in Heaven—that maybe you are running on the sands of Heaven’s shore, giggling and smiling…waiting for me. It’s hard to keep my mind in this world sometimes. I find that I often dream of the day when I will meet your spirited soul, wishing it could be today…that I didn’t have to wait a lifetime. But then I remember your Daddy. Oh, how I love your Daddy. And I think about the life we’ve made together. I have to say, it is quite remarkable. In the distance, along the cliffs of the northern shore of gorgeous Manzanita, I see Neah-Kah-Nie Mountain. And on that mountain sits The Getaway—the place your Father and I retreated to on the first days of our wedded union. I think of where we were three years ago and what our hopes and dreams were. We dreamed of you, sweet River. Even then we knew we wanted you and still now we miss you. Holding you on this beach was the first of many dreams to be fulfilled. Or so I thought. Now is the time for re-evaluation, I guess—time to consider more closely what the Lord has in mind since He is the one who now holds you and kisses you each day.

Deep down, I know that you will be so happy someday to meet your brothers and sisters in Heaven but right now, my heart is so heavy with you gone. It is difficult to free myself of the guilt I feel—guilt for considering another child to bring to the beach, to hold, to love. But my arms are so empty…and you will never fill them…here anyway. Oh, but how sweet Heaven will be when our family is complete and whole. What a day that will be. And what a day that will be when my Jesus I shall see. And I look upon His face…and He hands you to me. How glorious. And He takes me by the hand and leads me to the Promised Land where we can live together and Death will never separate us again. 

For the Moments I Feel Faint

Am I at the point of no improvement?

I try to excel but I feel no movement.

I throw up my hands,

Oh, the impossibilities.

Frustrated and tired, where do I go from here?

Now I’m searching for the confidence I’ve lost…

Overcoming these obstacles is overcoming my fear.

For the moments I feel faint I am trying to find my peace in the Lord. For the moments I feel faint I try to take a deep breath……….and choose to think of the beautiful existence my River now has. I miss her so. Each day brings new challenges. I have yet to feel true joy again but I know it will come with time. Mostly I just battle my fears and convince myself of their minimalism.

Not having consistent internet access for the last few weeks has given me ample time to think and reflect. I have been able to spend more time just being and not worrying about what everyone else is up to. It’s given me more time to feel my grief. I have to admit, it is a little scary. Typically I do not have time to feel all of the effects of the grief process but as of late I have been feeling them in full swing. Numbness is a new one. It is the one I tried to avoid feeling, if that makes any sense. While attempting to feel every little thing, my survival mechanism kicks in after a while and I find myself numb, unable to dig into my grief any longer. It is likely because I am so exhausted, both physically and emotionally. Gaining energy back is no small feat. At the end of the day, my body and mind are so run down, I simply cannot muster up enough energy to feel my pain. So I am numb.

Spencer and I have moved into a house. It’s been a huge process but I believe it has been worth it. At first I did not want move. In fact, I was angry that the process was so easy. I didn’t want to leave the home where I carried my baby girl for nine precious months. I didn’t want to leave the nursery we so lovingly painted…I didn’t want to ever forget her and the times we shared…the only times we will ever share. But, after much prayer, the Lord said “move.” So here we are. Waiting for the next step. Spencer and Kara (our new roommate and past comrade) have a “film studio” in which to work on projects and I have a sunroom. A sunroom! This is where I will be starting my very first voice studio. I am actually quite thrilled. It’s something I’ve always imagined myself doing and I am finally getting the opportunity to do it. Not just because my baby died (because, to my surprise, that’s what a lot of people think) but because my daughter lived. River’s life has been an inspiration to me in so many ways. I feel that the moment I saw her, I truly saw a glimpse of God. I feel that Spencer and I both also saw our potential. He and I had a very moving discussion about this shortly after she was born. We both felt we were able to see for the first time who we were meant to be. Now, it wasn’t like looking into some sort of crystal ball that showed our future (what we looked like, where we worked, how much money we had) but rather a feeling of intense purpose. We were assured by God that He still had a specific purpose for our lives, both individually and together. We have always known of God’s love and have always understood the concept of His plan but this was a much different experience. It was an awakening of sorts. And it now continues to revive us every-now-and-again, reminding us that the Lord still has His hand on us—that He’s not letting go.

Below are so pictures from the memorial we made of painting back River’s nursery before the move. I hope you find them a comfort.

A Help to Helpers

Over the course of time in my online Stillbirth discussion forums and various paperwork from the hospital, I have found a common thread of articles that speak to those who are on the outside of the parental grief process. Some suggest handing out this information to family and friends following a loss. Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I feel that these pointers would be helpful to some of you who are looking for some guidance on how to interact with Spencer and I now that we fit into the category of grieving mother and father.

Please know that I post this in love and hope that somewhere in here you can find things to make us all a little more comfortable in this uncomfortable phase of life. Here is a compilation of the information I have found:

From a grieving parent’s perspective:

 I understand that a specific request makes it easier for you to be involved when you otherwise wouldn’t know what to do or say. I will do my best to ask when I need something.

Please respect my need to talk and be heard. Be a good listener.

When mentioning my child, please use [her] name. It validates [her] life and keeps [her] memory alive.

Please respect my need to decline discussing details I don’t want to share. 

Please be understanding if my feelings of upset surface when you or someone else makes an insensitive remark. If I feel up to it, I will take the opportunity to educate you or others about pregnancy loss, telling you how you could respond more helpfully. 

Sometimes I will not be able to attend celebrations because I am too emotionally raw. If this happens, I will send my regrets. If you care for me, you will understand. 

The worst comments you can say to someone who has lost a child: 

“You can/will have another baby” or “You’re young. You have plenty of time to have more children.” Being young does not make it any easier. Parents need to mourn the baby they have lost. Children are not replaceable. 

“You didn’t really know the baby, so it’s not like losing a child who has lived with you awhile.” Although there is a distinction between these two losses, this is not a comforting comment. They have lost the dream of having that particular child. Although their loss may be different from losing an older child, it should never be deemed unworthy of grief. They are sad because they will never know this baby in this lifetime.

(To the mother) “If you’re sad, it’s probably because you have Postpartum Depression.” Assuming that a grieving mother automatically has PD because she is sad is a grave mistake. Dealing with emotional highs and lows are much different postpartum, especially when grief over death is added. Most mothers are well educated and informed to be on the lookout for signs of PD.

“Time heals all wounds” or “In time you will forget this ever happened.”  No amount of time can fully heal the wound left by [her] death. Their child will never just “go away” and they will never forget [her].  It is simply something the parents will learn to cope with. Over the course of time, things will improve but parents are not exempt from feeling as though their wound has been re-opened by triggering events such as celebrations, milestones, holidays and the birth of other children.

“I know how you feel.” Unless you have been through a similar loss, (in this case, the loss of a full term baby) this phrase may ring false and bring up feelings of anger. He/she will have wished you had asked how they were feeling instead. 

“What are you going to do now?” or “When will you try again?” Parents may be too stunned by their loss to make plans about a future family. This question is an invasion of their privacy unless they volunteer to talk about it. They would much rather talk about the baby they just lost.

The best comments you can say:

“I’m so sorry, I know how much you wanted to have that baby” This statement acknowledges the parent’s sorrow and gives then permission to grieve. 

“It’s okay to cry.” This response validates the parent’s feelings and his/her need to express them without embarrassment or guilt. 

“Would you like to talk about__________([River], what happened, how you’re feeling today) ?” The friend or relative who responds with this sensitive question offers the best support possible—a willing ear, a comforting shoulder and a healthy respect for the parent’s needs. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” If family and friends offer consolation through practical help, this allows the parents to say what they need, be it helping with a meal or even saying a prayer.

“May I call you back or check in with you in a few days to see how you are doing?” After a while they may find that others no longer want to talk about their loss. Family and friends who assure them that they will continue to listen and comfort them in the months to come are truly loved ones.

Some general info:

Having people say nothing at all hurts deeply because it negates our loss and the impact it has had on our lives. On the other hand, simply saying “I don’t know what to say” is honest and acknowledges the dimensions of our sorrow as well as your inability to completely understand. Talking about the loss helps us remember our baby.