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.

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.

My Deepest Hurt

This is my first original song in years. I'd like to think my River girl has given me a new wind of inspiration. I have titled it: My Deepest Hurt. Here are my lyrics and my post to youtube.

My Deepest Hurt

Sometimes at night when I put up a fight

asking God why you are there

I picture your smile and I cry for a while

wondering who I am without you

Then God speaks and He promises me that He loves me

and He knows my deepest hurt

and He knows my heart's desire...that

Someday you--you will come to me

and run into my arms where I'll hold you forever

and someday I'll--I'll get to kiss your face

and tell you that you're mine

and that I loved you

from the moment I knew you were there

and my heart ached for you

when Heaven left my arms bare...

I sit by your bed, thoughts racing in my head

feeling lost and broken

No precious girl to hold, just an ever-growing hole

where you should have been

Then God speaks and He promises me that He loves me

and He knows my deepest hurt

and He knows my heart's desire...that

Someday you--you will come to me

and run into my arms where I'll hold you forever

and someday I'll--I'll get to kiss your face

and tell you that you're mine

and that I loved you

from the moment I knew you were there

and my heart ached for you

when Heaven left my arms bare...

Come to me, run into my arms

and know I'm your mother like you've known me forever

Let me kiss your face and look into your eyes

and tell you that you're mine

and that I loved you

from the moment I knew you were there

and my heart screamed for you

when Heaven left my arms bare...

When I saw your face

and your tiny fingers and toes

I saw God Himself

feeling all my sorrows and woes

and He spoke--and He promised me that He loved me

and He knew my deepest hurt

and He knew my heart's desire...was gone

and He knew my deepest hurt

And Though My Heart is Torn

I was sure by now, God, You would have reached down and wiped my tears away, stepped in and saved the day. But, once again, I say "amen" and it's still raining. As the thunder rolls, I barely hear You whisper through the rain, "I'm with you." And as Your mercy falls, I raise my hands and praise the God who gives...and takes away.

Lord, I will praise You in this storm--I will lift my hands for You are who You are no matter where I am. Every tear I've cried, You hold in Your hand. You never left my side. And though my heart is torn...I will praise You in this storm.

These are some of the lyrics to a song that has truly spoken to my heart as of late, Praise You in This Storm by Casting Crowns. Every now and then I read in the book of Job and I can only imagine that, at some point, he would have sung this song too. Job went through a definite storm and by no means am I about to compare our circumstances, but--I can feel his heart ache. I can identify with his groanings. At one point, Job says, "Why then did you bring me out of the womb? I wish I had died before any eye saw me. If only I had never come into being, or had been carried straight from the womb to the grave!" (Job 10:18-19)

Job was obviously not a mother. He had no idea what sort of pain it would cause him to literally lose a child from his own body. But he did know he belonged to God. Somewhere, down deep, he knew.

In response to Job's cry, a man named Zophar replied:

"Can you fathom the mysteries of God? Can you probe the limits of the Almighty? They are higher than the heavens--what  can you do? They are deeper than the depths of the grave--what can you know? Their measure is longer than the earth and wider than the sea." (Job 11:7-9)

"Yet if you devote your heart to him and stretch out your hands to him, if you put away the sin that is in your hand and allow no evil to dwell in your tent, then you will lift up your face without shame; you will stand firm and without fear. You will surely forget your trouble, recalling it only as waters gone by." (Job 11:13-16)

It's hard to imagine a day when my trouble will be forgotten and I will only think of it in passing.  Especially when I am reminded of it so frequently. Like yesterday at work.

"How old is your little girl?"

"She's six weeks old, born on May 12th. Do you have kids?" 

"Well...sort of. One in Heaven. She was born on May 30th."

"Oh, May 30th...that's---"

"four weeks, today actually..."

"Well...you're holding up really well..."

Yeah. I'm holding up. And I'll keep holding up. I will praise Him in this storm....it's the only way I know I'll survive it. 

Phantom

Sometimes it feels as though you were just a passing shadow, my sweet girl--a figment of my imagination.

A phantom, if you will.

You come and you go but down in the depths of my soul, your mark has been left. You are always with me, yet not at all. I cannot describe the feeling of your delicate presence. I see all of your tiny clothes hanging in your closest and I imagine you in them. I kiss the turtle on the navy blue overalls I bought just for you and I picture them...covered with sand from your first trip to the beach. You giggle and wiggle, unsure of the grainy feeling between your fingers and toes. I see you wearing them with a bonnet, something I never knew I'd grow to love seeing you wear.  You would have been such a hat girl.

I sit now in your room, at a table just recently moved here, and it looks as though a ghost has merely passed through, leaving only a faint trace of you. Your crib, untouched, moans and creeks with the absence of your body. How it longs to hold you, much like my arms, feeling the rhythm of your breathing and hearing the soft coos of your slumber.

Your changing table, stained with the work of your father's and great grandfather's own hands, remains still and lifeless, much like your entrance into the world. Memories sit atop it's carefully crafted frame, gathering dust and waiting for something that is never to come.

I wonder what to do now. The colors of this room bring back fond memories of hope--hope in your future and dreams of ours together--how I imagined rocking you in the middle of a warm summer night, listening to the crickets sing in the breeze while being lit by the moon. I'm wondering how I can ever leave this place without you but knowing I can never stay here with you. All that remains now is your dust--your beautiful ashes we so carefully placed in glass--and your little turtle lamp. It sits here in the corner of your room, remembering you. Sometimes I turn your lamp on and leave it throughout the night, as though it's rays were capable of bringing just a little more life to your memory. I wonder if it will make me feel as though you were just next door, sleeping peacefully between feedings.

My heart aches a low ache, like the deep groaning of the earth. My body feels like a boat being rocked by the ocean waves: disoriented, unbalanced, fragile. I do not feel myself in my postpartum skin. My stretchmarks are just about the only things that feel natural anymore. It is strange, however, to see them shriveled and bare. They are like a wasteland without you to bring them life and character. No precious thumping under the surface to make such an ugly thing beautiful and worth while. No kicks and hiccups to make them complete and whole. I miss you, my daughter.

I long for the night when you will visit my dreams, laughing and gazing at me. I long to see the stars in your eyes as they twinkle with awe and wonder at the sight of me. What will it be like when you say my name, when you touch my hands and look into my heart with those sparkling eyes? What will it be like to dance with you in the fields of Heaven where we walk on rainbows and rest on the wings of angels? What it be like to hold you forever and never let you go? To never let you go...

For now I will wait and for now I will dream. I will cling to the brief moments when your peaceful spirit passes through me like the River you truly are. I will hold you on earth, my phantom child, as long as I can, in my heart.  And I will rejoice the moment the Lord whispers softly "Come home"... because then I will see your face and I will never again carry the sorrow of losing you. We will be together.

And you will never more be my phantom...

"Heaven is for Real"

I started and finished a new book yesterday—“Heaven is for Real” by Todd Burpo. When I began writing this entry yesterday, I felt as though I could only set it down long enough to write what I am about to say. I know it may seem bold to say but this book has changed my life and how I view eternity. Seriously.

I first heard of this book at River’s service. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting reading material recommendations at my daughter’s funeral but somehow, I managed to remember the information. A lady that had gone to the church I grew up in told me her husband, a typical reader of only the Bible, had found it to be compelling. She mentioned the reason for recommending it was because there was a section in it that specifically spoke to the topic of child loss—about a woman who had miscarried her child around 8 weeks. At the time, I thought to myself: How can I do anything but mourn? How can I ever read a book for pleasure? Or do anything for pleasure ever again? I’m so glad God kept that book title in my memory so I could find it on that last-minute trip to Target on Saturday night. And I’m so glad he pulled at my heart strings and encouraged me to read it yesterday.

As I began to read, I was pleased to find the book starting off with juicy details in the prologue. I didn’t have to wait to get to the “good stuff.” It was captivating. To put it briefly, this book is about a four year old boy who leaves his body during an emergency appendectomy and goes to Heaven. In his account of the experience, he talks of meeting God and Jesus and many others. To know the rest, you’ll just have to read it =)

I believe children who haven’t had the chance to know Jesus go straight to Heaven when they die. This is something that has really helped me through this experience and I take rest in knowing my River is resting in the arms of God. I believe firmly that this truth is what essentially drew me to this book. As I looked at the chapter titles, I saw the one titled, “Two Sisters.” My instinct told me it would be the chapter to discuss the little boy’s encounter with his mother’s miscarried baby during his visit to Heaven. I was right. Upon finishing that chapter, I come before you now truly changed.

After Spencer and I came home from the hospital, our pastor visited us. He was there for support and comfort. Before he left, I worked up the courage to tell him some personal feelings I had been having regarding my bittersweet view of Heaven. I know it seems strange to say that. After all we hear about Heaven, who could possibly have mixed feelings about it? I could and I did. Until yesterday.

I told my pastor, just as I have told Spencer, I was sort of afraid to go to Heaven. I was afraid to leave this earth and those I loved. I was afraid because, to date, I had never found anything in the Bible that could tell me for sure if I would have the same kind of relationships in Heaven as I did on earth. This concerned me greatly. I wanted to know if I would recognize my great-grandmother, my friend Steve. And most importantly, I wanted to know if I would recognize my daughter…and if she would know I was her Mommy…

It brought great pain to think of the possibility of my relationship with her being erased. I couldn’t bear the thought of not knowing it was my River who stood before me. The thought of seeing her as just another believer who made it to Heaven really bothered me. I know that Heaven is a wonderful place but all I have ever known is this life and this earth. I have come to cherish the depth of the relationships I have with my loved ones. Well, now I know the answer I have been looking for. And God spoke it through a four year old.

When this little boy was in Heaven, he met his great grandfather, a man who died years before he was even born. And he knew who he was. My eyes began to well with tears as I read about the joys they shared together. I was elated. They knew each other!

Then came the part that confirmed it. The little boy told his parents that while he was in Heaven, a little girl came to him and began hugging him. She hugged him for a long time. When he finally spoke to her, she revealed that she was his sister and that she had “died in Mommy’s tummy.” It was then I felt a peace wash over me. I began sobbing. Not out of sorrow though, out of pure thanks. I thanked God for answering my question. I thanked Him for making me feel worth answering, that my questions weren’t trivial or stupid. I asked Him to forgive me (again) for doubting Him. You see, last week I had a meltdown with God. For the first time in my life, I was actually angry enough to blame Him. The sad part about it is that I was blaming Him for something I did. My own stupid mistake and I was blaming Him. Spencer saw me at my worst. I mean, truly my worst. He witnessed the event that can be no better explained than: “The straw that broke the camel’s back”—The day I drove my in-laws’ stick shift Subaru Forester into my apartment building.

Take a moment to read that again. In fact, I’ll just make it east and copy and paste: I drove my in-laws’ stick shift Subaru Forester into my apartment building. Yep. Last Friday, Spencer and I were going to wash our van and their car while we had it for the weekend. He and I both felt confident I could pull it in to the lot. I started off beautifully—probably the best I ever have with a clutch. Spencer waved me in, giving me the thumbs up and then TERROR. I couldn’t stop. How I wished I could have killed the engine at that moment. I was begging, pleading with the car to stop. Nothing. What my right foot thought was the break…well, it was the clutch. I drove right over the rose bushes and right through the support beam that holds up my roof. Thankfully there are two of them and thankfully no one was hurt. Needless to say, I was mortified. Humiliated. Devastated. Ticked.

As soon as Spencer was able to back the car up out of the beam and I saw that the Subaru was virtually unscathed (a miracle in itself), I ran into the house and immediately began bawling my eyes out.

“I’ve ruined our lives…I’ve ruined everything!”

Spinning in my mind was the anticipated disappointment of my mother and father-in-law, the cost of the damage, Spencer’s disappointment in me. The disappointment in myself. I felt in that moment that my whole word had just come crashing down. I cried and asked Spencer why this happened to us…after all we’d been through.

Why did God let this happen? Why didn’t He whisper in my ear and tell me not to drive the car? Why, when He knew we couldn’t afford to pay for the damage? WHY?

I was so angry at first. I said things to God and about my Faith that I never thought would be in my thoughts, let alone pass my lips. I was lost and truly broken. After I had the chance to calm down and get a grip on things, I asked God to forgive me for the things I said. I didn’t mean all of them but I definitely still had questions that needed to be answered.

It was after I read that chapter in the book that I realized my need for God more than ever before. It wasn’t that He was punishing me, although I have to admit it crossed my mind several times. I didn’t even think I was being punished when River died. (That gives you a little perspective on how irrational I was thinking about the car situation.) But to me, it was just the last straw. What I realized though was my need for God’s love, for His approval and for His guidance. After all that had happened, I really didn’t know who I was anymore or what I was here for. What was my purpose? I didn’t fit the conventional title of “Mother” but I wasn’t just a wife anymore either. Who was I? In that moment, God just gently spoke to me:

You are my child and I love you.

I know how deeply I love River and it was then I realized that God loved me more than even that—more than I can fathom. A perfect parent’s love. Without River, I may have never known just how deep a love for a child can go and I may have never had a glimpse of just how much God loves me. But now that I do, I don’t want take it for granted again. Ever.