Praying for a Miracle

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A few years ago, I met a friend over Freecycle.  This is a website that allows you to give away what you don't need and get things you do for free.  It's a great system.  This woman and I arranged over the phone to meet, so I could give her car seats my kids had outgrown.  We bonded over loss.  I had lost a child who was four months old, then had had a series of miscarriages.  She had delivered a stillborn at about 22 weeks.  We were both mothers of angels.  That was something that cemented our bond.  

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My family has since moved into her area.  We continued to chat as often as we could with our respective families and work keeping us busy.  I had no rainbow baby.  She continued to have several.  At first, I was a little envious.  Now, I'm well past wanting another baby, and my two teenagers would vote me off the island if I were to somehow get one.  I'm happy for her and was delighted to hear she was expecting a little girl.  

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Then, she started to bleed and have contractions at 23 weeks.  She rushed to the hospital, I'm sure with nothing but terror of a repeat experience of her first stillbirth.  Instead, she delivered a live preemie at 23 1/2 weeks.  I can only imagine the stress and fear, especially in someone who knows she's fully capable of losing a baby.  Many of those who have not joined the empty-arms club somehow feel it could never happen to them.  To many of those who have lost one, the loss of another seems more possible.  

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Now, all those who know her family are praying for a miracle.  It's a rare thing for a baby to survive such an early birth.  It has been known to happen, but it will be a miracle.  For those who believe in prayer, I ask that you treat this story as more than an abstraction.  Pray for this family.  Please pray for this baby.  They're going to need all the prayers they can get.  I believe in miracles and will continue to pray for them as well.  

A Different Kind of Loss

[Too much house]

For years, we've been trying to get my mother to let go of their house of 17 years because she couldn't afford it, and it was too much house for her, a huge 5-bedroom with two levels and a large yard.  She and my dad bought it when she still had adult children moving out and back in, when grandkids were on the horizon, when they sometimes needed to house whole families.  Since then, all families have moved away, all need for more space is gone, and their five-bedroom house has been occupied by a couple who couldn't keep it up and generally went other places for family reunions and visits.  Oh, and it was also filled with 50ish years of hoarded stuff, including the corpses of a recently exterminated roach population and live mice.  Most large appliances were on their last legs, all sinks leaked, and it just really needed an overhaul.  Yet, still, they clung to what they know, the misery and discomfort that had become comfortable.  

[Huckster at the door-source]

A couple of years ago, they signed on the dotted line with a huckster who hustled them into a contract for a new roof they didn't need (and that left their house leakier) and solar panels that never did or would do them any good.  Then, my mother lost her job as a substitute teacher for being too nice.  They're both pushing 80.  Letting her go from a thankless job was really the most merciful thing they could have done.  But it still left them in a lurch, unable to afford to live.  I had my parents apply for additional help from the VA, since my dad was Navy in his heyday, but all it left them was confused and frustrated.  

[A new house--theirs is smaller--source]

We as their adult children were finally able to pool our resources to get a conservatorship for my senile father earlier this year.  A short time later, my realtor husband found the perfect house for them in a 55+ community locally, so we can care for them.  It took some doing, but we were finally able to talk my parents into selling their old house, with all its aches and pains, in order to move into the new house on the reverse mortgage my dad coveted in his more capable days but could never get because his house wasn't valuable enough until recently.  

[home love-source]

Dad saw the house and fell in love.  His whole adult life as a tv repairman, he was dreaming and scheming for ways to feel like he'd succeeded, like he'd made it.  This beautiful, plush, new house with its active social community, including weekly movies and a pool, was what he'd always dreamed of, even if his old dreams have fallen into a muddle of endless tv watching.  He's gone gung ho at this whole thing because it's all he's wanted, and it probably felt like a light burden because we didn't let him deal with any of the work or stress.  He just couldn't.  

[A mountain of stuff like this, only bigger. Source]

Mom, meanwhile, has had to deal with the loss of countless boxes of stuff they just couldn't fit into their new house.  For a person who has clung to every broken hanger, every ripped shirt because it gave her a sense of power she never had in her marriage, this is a rough loss.  Also, she was comfortable in her discomfort in the old house.  It gave her a place to be, a sense of community, even if much of that sense of community dissolved in COVID when she couldn't go anywhere.  We found an investor willing to give her a near-full-price offer in cash, and her house sold. We had it set up to where they should have moved directly from one house to another, but because of a snag in new law and regulations, they've been surfing our sofa (guest room) for almost a week, feeling even more lost and more dispossessed because they were homeless.  

[moving day-source]

Now, they're ready to move into their new house (hopefully) today, which is amazing.  This is the day for which I've been praying for years now, the day when my parents will get to move into their new home with no mortgage, funds to settle debts (which we'll deal with, as we did with ours), and just live.  All the leaky faucets, mouse and cockroach infestations, debts, broken windows, extra junk, etc. will be things of the past.  Mom and Dad can now live whatever life they want to live.  But I have a hunch they'll both feel a little lost.  Mom's whole life has been filled up with fretting over money, broken faucets, her stuff, her weeds, etc.  Now, she doesn't even have to do her own yard work, deal with her debts, anything.  It seems the best kind of loss. 

[When it is all gone.  Source]

Yet it will still be a loss.  Having their kids move out over the years has been a loss, though we often get together.  Losing her job of almost 30 years was a loss, leaving her life empty of something meaningful to do and people (other than Dad) to fill her world.  Losing her old house was a loss because it was their world for 17 years.  Now, even moving into a new house free of busywork will also feel like a loss.  She'll be forced to CHOSE how she spends her time, and it's probably been a long time since she felt she had that kind of choice (though she's really had it all along).  We'll be there for her.  I'd like to think we've given her the opportunity to learn joy.  I know Dad is just joyful at the idea of moving into a house that makes him feel like he's made it.  But can Mom overcome all this loss and find joy?  I pray so, but I guess we'll find out.  

Funerals

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I imagine a lot of people hate funerals for many reasons.  2010 killed funerals forevermore for me.  Not that I ever wanted to attend one to begin with.  Attending one usually means you've lost someone near and dear to you or to someone you love.  I'd lost cats and other pets and my grandparents, but funerals seemed a distant reality at that point.   2010, my husband's beloved father died in February (but we only found it out via Google after the face--long, ugly story--so attending a funeral was not an option).  I lost my beloved brother in May, and I was notified (via voice mail) Mother's Day morning.  That had to be a blow to our mom.  A month and a half later, at the end of June, my baby died in a tragic accident.  It felt like the grim reaper was stalking us all year and finally cut our hearts out.  Every attempt at a rainbow baby resulted in more and more and more loss.  Life has never been the same since, and death has been our constant companion.  Funerals seemed a specter I could not handle.  

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We've attended a few funerals since, but mostly to support friends or distant family.  Recently, my husband's brother lost his beloved wife.  He's already lost his mom and dad.  He only has two brothers, and one has burned all bridges with us through nightmarish means.  That means my husband only has one brother who remains, and they're very close.  My husband's brother has had serious health problems and carries an oxygen tank.  Losing his wife to cancer was a terrible blow, especially since she seemed so strong and healthy until the news of two kinds of cancer, including pancreatic, came out a short time ago.  The shock of the dreaded C word didn't have much time to become their reality before it took her.  

[Alli's tiny casket]

We went up to their house to support the family.  My husband went to the viewing, but I couldn't do it.  I haven't been to a viewing since I saw my baby, cold and waxy, in her casket ten years ago.  I can't do viewings anymore.  Just the thought brings it all back, with painful tears.  

[Her celebratory casket] 

I did attend the funeral, which my sister-in-law planned herself in her waning weeks when it became a reality she wouldn't be here much longer.  She was a popular teacher for over two decades, well-loved and very much missed by the whole community.  I'd never been to a funeral like that before, in a football stadium, with football players singing the school song, color guard marching with the flag, the national anthem, loved ones singing "The Spirit in the Sky."  It seemed more a celebration of her life than a standard, sedate funeral.  It didn't bring back the wave of flashback pain like most funerals would.  Like just thinking of attending the viewing did.  It seemed the ideal sort of celebration for someone so young, seemingly healthy, and vibrant.  But it was still a funeral and still brought back shades of my own pain.  

[from Pixabay.com]

It's a hard thing to deal with loss.  It changes one in a fundamental way.  I loved the way the family of my sister-in-law spoke of her ongoing presence in their lives.  They spoke of family as a forever principle.  They focused on how they would see her again, how they would hold her and be together again.  I like to focus on that part of loss because it reminds one that the Lord overcame death, that loss isn't forever, that those who are separated will see each other again soon.  Just as the funeral brings back old pain, so does this kind of reminder bring back hope.  I'm very thankful for this reminder.  The Lord died, so we could be together again with our families.  I will hold my baby again.  This pain will not last forever.  Funerals are such a mixed bag for me, with a lot of emotional baggage good and ill.  I just have to focus on the hope and remind myself loss isn't forever, and funerals are just for now.  

Survived too Well?

[Yellowstone]

I'm not sure how I feel about the trip we went on to survive my angel Alli's angelversary.  It was exhausting, rocky in terms of sleep, fun in fits and spurts, and above all, busy.  We left Friday night to go to the house of my brother-in-law as a jumping-off point to head up to Yellowstone with two of my siblings and their families.  We do this trip almost every year but not usually with so many people.  Between cooking, catching geyser basins, visiting, making fires, and everything else that goes with camping, it was hard to think beyond the steps it took to survive.

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On that last night of the trip, my husband went on a wild goose chase through pouring rain to try to find a missing camera.  It was terrifying.  I had visions of losing someone else on that most horrible of days.  But then, he was back.  But that night was so rocky we broke camp and split first thing in the morning.

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That was when we went to visit with my brother-in-law and join our hearts to his as he mourned his dying wife.  His fairly young wife has two kinds of cancer and was passing through her third round of chemo when she found she had a hole in her stomach and could not digest.  All they can do is wait for her to pass by starvation or sepsis.  There's nothing that can be done.  So many shades of death on my baby's angelversary that I could scarcely think of myself or the tenth anniversary of my baby's death.  We got home and went through her baby book, as usual, but I'm not sure I felt the catharsis with so much pain going on around me.

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I was dreading the day so much that when it finally came, the fact that I was too busy, too preoccupied to feel it that it almost feels like I failed to really feel the day.  I feel like I failed her somehow.  But yet, not feeling the day too much was the goal.  Did I succeed too well?  Did I fail? I know there's no right or wrong way to mourn, but even after ten years' experience of mourning, I still don't understand it.

The Shark in the Water

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I feel it coming.  It almost has its own distinctive soundtrack, like Jaws.  Dada.  Dada.  Dadadadada.  Yeah, it's that angelversary again.  The death date that swims ever closer, no matter what I do to avoid thinking about it.  And just like Jaws, it's relentless, stalking its prey, namely me and my family.  And just like a shark, only those who know what to look for or are aware it's there feel something different.  That population may be a lot bigger if the fin shows up above the water.  But if it's just a vague shadow in the deep, like a date on a calendar that means nothing to most, it's a lot harder to see or understand. 

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Those who have had catastrophic loss probably know what I'm talking about.  When you first lose someone, everyone feels your loss.  Everyone reaches out to you (well, one hopes).  Everyone brings you flowers and hugs and cards of sympathy.  It's all in the open.  But when time passes, especially a decade or more, as have passed since we held our sweet baby, Alli, all dates and times and significance are buried in the water of life for everyone.  For everyone except those who see that shadow coming.  For those whose lives were changed forever by a tiny, little loss that appeared in no newspapers and changed the world for few outside our inner circle, that shadow in the water means everything.  It means the drowning, wrenching, all-encompassing pain is coming again.  I have a hard time imagining the yearly significance of that date means anything to anyone but my husband and me.  Even my kids, who were tiny when we lost our Alli, see it as mom's and dad's thing, not theirs. 

[Source]

We drag the kids all over creation on that day because the last place we want to be is home, thinking about nothing but the pain.  This year, we're going to Yellowstone, where we'll surround ourselves with family and fun.  But you'd better believe we'll feel her absence, as we always do.  That sweet ten-year-old would be pointing out the geysers, searching the woods for wolves or bison or moose with the others.  I feel the absence like a cavity in the tooth and see it like the shadow of a shark deep underwater, visible often only to me.  I'm thankful we can pray to invite my angel Alli and our other angels (from miscarriages) to join us.  I can sometimes even feel their presence.  I'm grateful to know that one day, we'll all be together again.  All that is wonderful.  It brings me so much peace to know that families can be together forever.  But on that date, the pain is real and present like a shark attack.  And I feel it coming as we speak. 

There Was a Heartbeat

[A very pregnant Snow.]

Until I got my dog ultrasounded last week, I didn't realize how much I needed to see that beating heart.  I'd spent two weeks wondering when and if she'd deliver.  It's time to let her retire from baby making since she was once treated as nothing but a breeder.  We had to train her how to be a dog, how to receive love, how to play, how to romp.  But I wanted her to have one last batch because her favorite thing in the world, the thing that brings a smile to her face, is taking care of itty bitty babies.  She hates and is totally done with pregnancy, but she's all about those babies.  We have an appointment to get her fixed in less than six weeks.  But I wanted that one last batch for her. 

[from Pixabay]

But as the days ticked by, I wondered if she was going to lose that last baby or maybe have it grow so big she wouldn't be able to birth it live.  Last time, we had a stillbirth out of three pups.  I was afraid we'd have the same and not end up with any babies this time.  It started to stress me out so much that I was losing sleep. 

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I know it's all playing into my own child loss.  After sixteen or seventeen child losses in a row, including one four-month-old and fifteen plus miscarriages, I gave up on the hope of a rainbow baby.  We now very carefully avoid any chances of another loss.  Some people say they're expecting a baby.  I got to the point that expecting for me meant expecting a miscarriage.  I lost count of the number of times I'd either test positive then find blood or, worse yet, I'd go into the doctor's office with hopes soaring then take one look at the still heart in that ultrasound and know my rainbow had turned to dust.  Again.  I needed that dog's ultrasound to show a beating heart for her but also for me.  I needed to not be told one more time that there was no heartbeat.  In that vet's office, I saw the first moving ultrasound I've seen for a long time.  And with it, hope was reborn. 

[The itty bitty bearer of the heartbeat--Cinnamon.]

We hoped for two puppies, one to raise alongside crazy six-month-old Bean as his buddy and one for my brother, who has dealt with miscarriage, divorce, and the recent and pending loss of several beloved fur babies.  But when that little beating heart--just one--came with female parts, we knew this puppy had to be my brother's.  And it's okay. 

[Bean responds to Cinnamon.]

When we give Bean's sister to my nephew, as has long been promised, Bean needs a dog buddy who can keep pace with him, who can defend itself against his wild attacks.  This little one who will not have a sparring buddy would have no defenses.  And my brother had to bury a dog they'd loved for 15 years two years ago, another one they'd loved as a comfort animal for one or two years recently, and will have to let another go soon.  They're also bidding farewell to another as an adult child moves on.  That leaves a large hole in their hearts I hope little Cinnamon can fill.  Meanwhile, we'll have Bean, his mom, and his daddy.  His daddy wants nothing to do with him.  But his mommy loves playing with him, when she's not pregnant or nursing.  All will be right with the world as long as that little heartbeat continues to pump.  We'll happily adopt out little Cinnamon because we know she'll find a happy, loving home and will be able to see her again. 

Meanwhile, my brother and his wife, who have a yours and mine kind of family, will finally get a little four-legged ours.  And they're so happy.  It feels like a good thing for everyone.  It's a beautiful thing when an ultrasound comes with a heartbeat and, with it, hope. 

Mourning Traditions Interrupted?

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Every year, we travel on Alli's angelversary.  We have something planned for that day, a trip to Yellowstone, but we have no idea if that's even going to be a possibility.  The park's pretty much closed down until two weeks before that dreaded date.  And that's subject to change, based on the quarantine situation.  There's absolutely no guarantee we will be able to do that or anything on her date.  If things continue as they have been, or there's a resurgence or worsening as many predict, we may be stuck at home.  And that's the thing we dread most of all, to be stuck in our own skins, unable to keep ourselves busy with anything but self-pity and flashbacks. 

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It's not so much the trip, itself, I'm dying for.  We've gone to Yellowstone for most of the last several years.  We know it well.  We like it, but we're not expecting to see anything we haven't seen before.  We're excited to be going with two other siblings and their families.  We haven't been able to do much as a larger family since the holidays.  We already missed doing anything or going anywhere for Easter, and we ALWAYS meet for Easter.  The more I think about how it may have to be cancelled, the sadder I become, in spite of the fact that the location, itself, isn't the most exciting thing.  If this trip is cancelled due to the current situation, that means any other plans we could make would most likely go up in flames.

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It's too early to start thinking about that date, dreading it, stewing on the possible cancellation of our campout and all that could entail.  I usually don't start that until at least the beginning of June.  But with so many things upended, turned on their ears, this feels like it could be yet another one.  It shouldn't be a big deal that this one trip should go up on the coronavirus pyre.  I hope it won't become one.  But it may be, and there's nothing any of us can do about it.