Her Birthday Came and Left

[A birthday that remembers but does not celebrate. Source]

Her birthday last month was particularly hard.  I had a major breakdown the night before, a few during the day, and especially that night.  I tried to keep myself busy all day.  It was a grading day for the English class I teach. I also transcribe online for people with hearing disabilities.  These things kept me fairly busy most of the time, but every time I slowed down like to take a walk or relax at all, my loss, the idea that my baby would now be 12. The feeling someone was missing.  

[An angel I do not see: Source]

I know she was there, but I don't yet have the spiritual gift to see or hear angels. I have family members who do and who have seen or felt or heard her.  My nephew saw her once. My niece saw her another. My husband has heard her voice.  I can only hope she's nearby with my other angels.  But still, that day is always hard because I can't see her, hear her, hold her.  

[My sweet Alli]

We always end the day with an angel food cake and a trip down memory lane as we go through her baby book.  For a short time, I can cherish those pictures, so her bright blue eyes and vibrant smiles.  I can pretend I hold her still.  But then, we always get to the end, with pictures of her grave, of her waxen face in a tiny coffin.  That's when I always lose it.  This time, my body was wracked with sobs, and both my husband and teenage son reached out and held me. It used to freak my boy to see me like that, helpless in a wave of pain. But now he understands, even if his little sister is only a vague memory to him. My other child, meanwhile, won't be anywhere someone is in mourning anymore.  Empathy makes others' emotions hard to deal with.  

But still, we keep her memory alive as well as we can.  I know one day, I will hold her in my arms again.  I know we'll be together forever. But for now, I dread that day in March for the reminder of my empty arms.  

I've Had My Three

[Deaths in threes--source]

Why is it that death often comes in threes?  Maybe it's a cliche.  I'm thankful it's not a hard-and-fast rule of the universe, but it has happened to me over the last month.  Last time I remember such a crop of funerals was 2010, the worst year of my life when my father-in-law, my brother, and my baby died within months of each other.  Events like this bring those dark days back. This wasn't that bad only because I wasn't that close with any of the parties.  Even so, each one felt like a new punch to the gut.  I don't attend funerals, but I had to go to two in the last three weeks because I promised to transcribe the services for the sake of the families.  

[Funeral 1-source]

First was Camille Ashby, on which I blogged last time.  She'd been my friend for over a decade before her multiple brain tumors robbed her of speech then functionality.  She was wonderful, hardworking, and so loving.  Her widowed husband and at least one of her boys I talked to felt a sense of relief at no longer having to carry the burden, even as they deeply felt her loss.  I talked to her daughter for quite a while, and she felt lost, like she'd lost her best friend.  Each person experiences loss in their own way.

[Funeral 2-source]

Second was Rebecca van Uitert, my Wonder Woman mission companion, and her beloved husband.  They died in a car accident in Hawaii, leaving behind four young, adopted children. They also left a hole in their community because they were so active in serving people.  Her funeral was in a separate part of the state, so I didn't make it.  It had been several years since we saw each other.  But she really changed my life.  She taught me how to teach, how to serve, and how to follow the Spirit to know how to show love. She was just so young and vibrant.  

[Funeral 3--source]

Third was my husband's buddy in this area, RJ Rucker.  He, too, had a lot of health problems, but his wife was optimistic he'd pull through a broken leg like he had through cancer, gout, and so many other health problems.  But it was not to be.  His body just gave out, and he, too, left a hole in his family's heart where their wonderful, loving, chatty grandpa used to be. 

[Like a ship in a storm--source]

It's at times like this I can't help but remember my losses, that my angel Alli's birthday is coming up in a few days.  She would have been 12.  I'm so thankful each of us knows that our family will be complete when the Lord comes again.  As Camille's daughter pointed out, having faith in the Lord is like being a ship in the storm.  It helps you stabilize in the storm, so you're not so lost.  You're still weathering the storm.  It's still no fun.  But there is hope for the future for all of us, a hope for the healing of our broken hearts when we're all back together again.  

Just One Word: To My Friend, Camille

[The card game that triggered; source]

Early in the week, my family was playing Apples to Apples.  It's a fun, harmless game we've often played.  But when the word "funeral" came up, my heart stopped feeling so light.  I've discovered that word, alone, is a trigger. All I have to do is hear it in an unexpected context, and the tears start coming. Ever since we buried my father-in-law, my baby, and my brother all within a few months of each other, and I had to give a speech for the last two, I've sworn off all non-mandatory funerals.  Unless I MUST go due to close friendship or family relationship, I'm NOT going. I can't. If the word alone is a trigger, imagine what the thing, itself, will do.  

[A yellow rose for my friend-source]

Well, this week, a close friend of mine died. I remember well the days we'd chat about family and life in general. She babysat my kids since my boy was almost exactly the same age and shared the same NICU in the same hospital when they were new. I saw her kids grow to adulthood or nearly so. But one day, they found out the end had begun. She had two brain tumors that grew and grew, taking this communication major's ability to speak, then her ability to walk, then made her what is colloquially called a vegetable, where she could scarcely respond to anyone.  I watched her family bear this burden with quiet dignity. All I could do was hug her every time I saw her, and I'd get one of her sweet, angelic smiles in return. 

[A mix of pain and joy-source]

After she passed on, I saw her superhero of a husband, who'd carried her and taken care of her through all of this, smile because she'd gone to a place she could be free of the burden of her body.  The family will miss their wife and mother, but losing her will allow them more flexibility, more life, more of a future. That can sometimes happen, that mix of pain and joy when the loss is a blessing. On that last day they had together, her husband read her valentines made for her by the members of the community who loved her. She left with the words of love of so many ringing in her ears.  

[A funeral for an angel-source]

For this friend, Camille, I will face my least favorite word, that horrible trigger word "funeral."  Just thinking about going brings the tears.  But supporting the family is worth it.  They're angels among us for their sacrifices for her.  And the wonderful Camille deserves all the respect and love her send-off will bring.  It helps knowing this is not goodbye forever but "See you later, dear Camille." 

Survived the Holidays

[surviving a broken heart-source]

Well, we've survived. That sentence wouldn't make sense to those who have never suffered a life-changing loss. To many of those people, it seems the holidays are a time of joy and celebration. However, to those who have experienced a major loss, just surviving the season may mean something. The holidays can feel like a painful weight as we ponder the hole in our hearts where a loved one used to be. It's like walking into their birthday or the anniversary of their death, only it lasts two full months. 

[Angel's Jar-source]

Most years, I survive by actively seeking out ways to serve others, so I could fill my angel jar with slips of paper that represent my gifts to her.  This year, I was so burned out from serving others and work over the last semester that I didn't have it in me to work as hard at it.  I did serve some and still put slips in a jar, but it wasn't as full as usual. I can't help but wonder if some people could have had a brighter Christmas if I tried harder.  But this year, it was all I could do to survive and work on getting as much of a break as I could to try to recover from the very real, tangible burnout.  

[Love from the source]

I did do a few things with friends and family which was nice.  We made some memories.  But once again, it was hard to summon the motivation to work at it.  So it was a peaceful holiday but not quite as fun or memorable as most.  Mostly, though, I'm thankful to have survived and am wondering why I don't have more to show for the two weeks of break.  I'm understanding a bit more of why my kids don't want to do much over the holidays.  They're so burned out from school that anything we do for fun feels like work.  I know the important thing is we did celebrate the Lord and that we did it together.  I'm sure my angels were here, too. I just have to remind myself that I will hold them again and be healed from the hurt because of the gift of the Son.  And for now, that knowledge, and the very act of survival, will have to be enough.  

Watching Another's Loss

[Teddy bear for child loss-source]

Many years ago, I met a fellow traveler, a friend of my sister.  She had one beautiful daughter and had a son who died just before he was to be born.  She impressed me with her firm faith, how she had even spoken to her unborn, how she knew he was right there with her and often saw signs of him all around her.  Her loss was so much fresher than mine, yet she seemed more advanced in the healing path than I was then and even than I am now.  She was a pillar of trust and belief to me, one who just knew she would hold her baby again and who held her angel close to her even as she couldn't hold his physical body.  

[I can't even see her face without pain.]

Meanwhile, I still feel like a lost soul.  The way I survive day to day is to not think of my angel, not look for her, not do the things that give this friend comfort.  Because when I look at images of my beautiful Alamanda, it takes me back down the dark path of thinking of people who tried to steal my family, of DCSF agents who created a false image of us through intentional deceit in order to destroy my family.  It takes me back to those months when I almost lost everything, when those I trusted turned on us, and even family members invented lies to try to tear our world apart.  It's at those moments I realize that part of the pain is still an open wound, that I'm not sure how to go about forgiving those from whom I will never hear an apology.  

[Surrounded by angels-source]

Allamanda's image also brings me back to miracles when the Lord, Himself, promised angels to help us through.  He promised and delivered the words we would need to redeem our names at just the right time. His Spirit in the room brought tears to the eyes of some of those who heard us explain our side of the story and the truth in the face of lies.  It brings me to the moments when the enemy intentionally laid a trap for us, telling us we wouldn't need a lawyer the day we could have gotten one and then sent us the paperwork the very next day, to ensure we would not get the legal aid we needed for that Monday morning.  Yet the Lord sent us someone to defend us. I see the pain, but I also see the miracles.  

[Grudges like poison-source]

These complications do not mean I can't be healed like my sister's friend. But there's a lot of healing that still hasn't happened, likely because I haven't yet figured out how to let the pain and anger go.  I know the theory that keeping a grudge is like drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to die.  Holding onto that pain will never hurt them and only will hurt me.  But just when I think healing is all but there, a trigger slaps me in the face and helps me realize I'm not there yet, even over 11 years later.  

[Expecting..but what to expect? Source]

This friend, after years of miscarriage and loss with which I can relate, finally became successfully pregnant a few months ago.  She posted her joys and her progress with her new and exciting pregnancy.  Her now-teenaged daughter was giddy with delight.  Their little one came...stillborn.  Another angel to join the first and all the ones in between.  And once again, they met the loss with pain but also an outpouring of love, an understanding they will hold this baby, too, again.  

[Another funeral. Source]

I would be destroyed, absolutely destroyed.  I only attend funerals if I can't avoid them.  Maybe I took the coward's path in backing away from loss after loss after loss.  After 15 miscarriages, I realized my body would not carry another baby, so my husband and I prayerfully gave up.  When I realized the sentence "I'm expecting" didn't end in "baby" but ended in "blood," I knew we were not meant to hold any more live children until the Lord comes again.  We accepted the gift of the angels and children we've been given.  We know we'll see them, hold them one day and gave up on the dream of our rainbow. I was delighted this friend would be greeting her own rainbow, having no idea that she'd be having a funeral instead.  

[A candle for death and rebirth-source]

I saw those images of smiling faces as they held heir baby with blue lips and purplish face and knew I'd be shriveling inside. There would be yet another jagged, bloody hole where my heart should be.  I don't know how they do it, especially this time of year.  I know there's so much more to the story than I could ever see or imagine.  I wish I could be joyous like that in the face of loss.  For now, I'll have to be thankful to know such heroes exist and that we can all have hope in holding our loved ones again, thanks to Christmas and the One we celebrate this season. 

The Holiday Melancholy

[Christmas in minor key-source]

 As the holidays approach, I expect more pain.  It's sort of the nature of the beast when one is in mourning.  Being in mourning is kind of like being an alcoholic. Once it's part of your life, it will always be part of your life, no matter how far you move away from what happened before.  Unlike just after I lost my baby, I do see the bright colors of the season.  I don't cry anymore when I hear songs about pregnancies I won't be having anymore and babies I won't be holding. But I know a lot of people still do.  

[All in black-and-white-source]

For a lot of people, the hardest part of the holiday is the expectation by almost everyone around them that this will be "the most wonderful time of the year." But around the holiday for those in mourning lies a pall, a discoloration. To some, it robs all color, all light, all hope, all joy from what's around them. Time may or may not touch that.  To others, it's simply a slight dampening, a melancholy as you reflect on what could have been if the loss had not happened.  I will sometimes reflect on the hole, the place where my angel Alli would have/could have/should have been. The feeling that the holiday would have been simple delight instead of faulty, shaky contentment.  

[Kids in subtle mourning-source]

I see it in my kids, though they probably don't know it. I see their depression and hope it's simply situational. Yet I know at the base of it somewhere is that seed of loss, that feeling that something is off because someone is missing. They'd cite other things, and those other things are probably bigger factors.  But many of those bigger factors likely started with the one factor of their world being shaken unexpectedly by the loss of their baby sister when they were tiny and that fear they both dealt with that they could be next.  

[The point-source]

We'll fulfill our traditions. We'll find joy and laughter.  We'll list the things for which we're grateful.  We'll keep putting little slips of paper into Alli's jar that speak of the deeds we do in her name to make this holiday season a little brighter for others and, thereby, for ourselves.  We'll open our gifts on Christmas morning, including the angel jar.  But it will all feel a little off, like it usually does.  I just have to remind myself of the reason for the season, that the hope that is easy to lose is in holding her and being a whole and healed family again because Jesus came to the world as a baby, grew up, and felt our sorrows and died that we may overcome death and pain.  This is the reason for the colors and the songs and the lights. And if I can remember that, maybe those lights won't seem so dim after all. 

Another Miscarriage?

[Baby shoes, source]

16 years ago, I had my first child, conceived on our honeymoon, even though we figured we'd wait a bit before we'd be ready to add a third party since we were both older when we got married. We wanted a little time together first. God had other plans, and my boy joined the party. 

[Girl booties-source]

14 years ago, I had my second child, conceived the very first weekend we even tried. I was giddy with delight the day I found out I would get my girl. It seemed our plan of having four beautiful babies in a row was right on track. Even though my husband was 38 when we had our first, and I was 28, we looked forward to joy with our armful of little ones. 

[Rose-Colored glasses fading-source]

12 years ago, we had our first miscarriage, and our glossy, rosy-eyed view of this baby-making process faltered. Devastation set it. Loss apparently COULD happen to us. Then, we tried for 11 months to have another baby. It was a struggle and a bit disappointing. But no worries. Everything would still be fine. 

[Miracle baby booties-source]

11 years ago, we welcomed our second daughter, precious Alamanda.  Her life was a miracle because we found out with her we were homozygous for Kell antibody, which kills through anemia almost every pregnancy it touches. All of that waiting and praying was worth it. She was tiny and honked like a gosling. But she was our little miracle, and we loved her. My little girl was beyond delighted to have her very own baby sister born just after her birthday. Our boy was mystified by our weird taste in pets because he didn't quite register babies as people. We were back on track. 

[Loss with a capital L-source]

Four months later, Alli was gone. I'd rearranged my life, our lives around her, and she rolled into a pillow that was nowhere near her, with unexpected and inexplicable actions she hadn't shown herself capable of before. She suffocated, and the doctors couldn't save her. And just like that, she was gone. My perfect princess number two went Home to her Father in Heaven, and we were left reeling. Not only could loss happen to us, but it was becoming a pattern. 

[Angel statues-source]

For the next several years, I dreamed of completing my perfect family. I yearned for that perfect rainbow baby, so I could once again count fingers and tiny toes. Instead, time and time again, no sooner did I get a positive pregnancy test than I'd also get a still, silent ultrasound or blood to show my dream of a rainbow had fallen into darkness again. Two or three years ago, we prayerfully decided we were done trying for a rainbow. We had 15 little angel statues representing 15 miscarriages on our angel shelf but only our first two children to hold.  

[Only babies allowed are cats-source]

I've come to terms that we won't hold any more babies until the Lord comes again. Once, my kids would have been delighted to pick out a name for a new little one. Now, they would vote me off the island if I even suggested the idea. They're teenagers with no interest in little ones unless they have four legs and fur or scales. 

[When the body is broken-source]

I missed a period recently, and when no symptoms came, I decided it must be the beginning of menopause. I actually viewed it with a kind of relief. I know symptoms pretty well by now. I've been pregnant 19+ times. After the second month, I even took a test, just to bring myself peace of mind. But the next day, I had what I'm pretty sure was yet another miscarriage. I'm not even sure how to feel about it. I don't feel the devastation I once did. Just a hollow echo of the melancholy I used to have every time. I'm more numb than anything. Too much loss is too much. 

[Through the glasses darkly-source]

I'm thankful I can feel empathy for those who bury a baby or have a miscarriage. But it's a hard thing when rose-colored glasses become sunglasses, where darkness is all you see. I am also thankful to mostly have peace with the whole situation. I remember the pain of fresh loss and can reach out to those who are new or at least newer to the empty arms club, also called parents of angels. I'm also thankful to know I will be able to hold my little ones again, thankful for the knowledge that families will be reunited again and that loss is not forever. In the meantime, the wound is still there. The pain is less acute, but I will always, at least in this lifetime, be a mother in mourning.