Aaron's Day

This is part two of our son's story.  It is even longer than part one, but he deserves every word and more.  I don't ever want to forget a single moment that we spent with him and wouldn't dare to leave anything out here. These words are as much for me to remember his life as they are for me to share them with you.  We thought that once he passed, we would only get to spend 10-12 hours with him before it would be time to say our goodbyes and lay him in the arms of the gentle men from the funeral home.  Instead, we were blessed with twenty-two incredible hours with our little man.  In the time span of less than one day, our lives were forever transformed and we were graced with feeling all the love that should've lasted an entire lifetime.

Aaron was placed on my chest right after he was born so that Chris and I could see him.  (Chris even got to cut the cord like he did with both of his daughters.) I don't think there is any love in the world quite like the love that a parent feels for a child.  Even when that child appears less than perfect in the eyes of the world, when you are looking down at the life you created, all you can see is beautiful.  You might register that something is different and you take note, but it is just another part of the child that you love.

He was wrapped up in a hospital blanket and was sporting one of the hospital's hats (still didn't have all of our bags in the room at this point!!) We continued to hold him while everything from labor was finished and cleaned up.  They took his measurements (16.5 inches long) and brought in a scale to weigh him - he looked so chubby that we couldn't believe he really only weighed 4lbs3oz so the nurse weighed him twice to be sure! (Unfortunately, he wasn't a candidate for any kind of organ or tissue donation, but it is a comfort to know that the transplant organization was contacted.)

Then it was time to give our little man a bath and get him ready to meet the family.  (Somewhere along the way, Chris had managed to communicate to our families about what had happened in the last hour and they were able to head for the hospital.) We didn't get to do the baths for either of the girls, but knowing that this was going to be the only bath that Aaron ever got from Mommy and Daddy made it such a special experience that I will always be grateful we got to share with him.  The nurse stepped out and we had all the time in the world to clean him off, admire his long brown hair (seriously, it was almost 3/4" long!), cover him in lotion (though I have to admit, I had forgotten how little it takes to lotion such a tiny body and he may or may not have ended up with a bit much!) and get him dressed.  He got to wear one of those impossibly tiny newborn diapers and a special "Little Brother" onesie that we have had just waiting for nearly three years to be brought out for our firstborn son.  (Since none of the ultrasounds had ever been 100% positive on gender, we decided a few days ago to pack some boy items just in case!)  We covered his little head with fresh gauze and put on one of the hats that his Mommy made for him (his Mommy can admit that while they were certainly not crochet-perfect, there was one that fit his tiny head just perfectly).  Then we swaddled him in a soft little blanket that we picked out nearly five years ago when we discovered that we were expecting Tori...we were so excited when we first found out I was pregnant that we bought an outfit and blanket for each gender.

After Aaron was all dressed, Chris headed out to find those sweet big sisters so they could meet little brother.  They came in so enthusiastically and couldn't wait to jump up on the bed with Mommy and Baby.  We explained right away that we had gotten a surprise baby brother instead of a sister and although Tori had been adamantly opposed in the past to a baby brother, she didn't seem at all troubled by the change.  The girls really didn't ask many questions, but the questions they did ask were so very very sweet.  Tori wanted to know why he was sleeping, so we explained to her again about the baby's boo-boo, how he had died and gone up to Heaven to be with God.  Abby kept pointing and asking, "Seeping? Baby seeping?"...then "Shhh.  Momma Shhh!!  Qiet! Qiet!" She may not be terribly big, but she was awfully determined that we were going to act appropriately around her new baby brother!  While it was just the five of us, a local priest came in to say a few blessings and offer his sympathies. (The nurse who had been with us through the labor was also a Catholic and called her own priest to come over for us.)

After thoroughly checking him out and discovering the new baby dolls he brought for them, Tori was ready to bring her "friends" back to meet her brother.  She was determined that Auntie Julie should be first, but we convinced her that maybe we should let Mamaw meet Aaron first.  So the girls and I walked out to the lobby to meet my Mom and bring her back.  From that point on, Tori pretty consistently introduced her brother as "Baby Karen" despite a bunch of reminders that his name was Aaron (at some point, I'm pretty sure she decided to just be silly and ignore what we had to say...because she's almost four and that's kind of what they do).  After Mom got to spend some time with her newest grandson, we let Tori choose who came next (truthfully, that way we didn't have to choose order!) and each of the aunts and uncles got to come say hello to her "Baby Karen."  Tori and Abby served as little tour guides and were delighted to get to walk through the halls to help bring everyone back to meet her baby. 

When everyone had been in to meet our son, my sister-in-law (who also did our maternity photos not so very long ago) was ready to get some absolutely precious pictures of us and our new baby.  I said it before with our maternity photos and the same is true of our newborn pictures...she did such an incredible job of showing just how much joy we all felt for this little life even among all the sorrow.  I honestly don't think I will ever be able to find words that will accurately describe just how much these photos mean to me; she took the time to send us a few tonight so I could share them with those who were eager to meet our little boy and I can already get a sense of how much I will cherish these pictures for the rest of my life.  As I type this, it has been only eight hours since he left our arms and seeing his little face pop up in my email tonight meant more to me than words can describe.  I could sit and just stare at his perfect little lips and tiny smushed-up nose for hours and having the pictures to let me do that is absolutely priceless.

By the time we finished with our visits and all of the photos, it was past 11:00pm and while the girls were clearly getting tired (Tori even climbed into the corner where we had all of our bags and sort of crashed on top of them for a few minutes), they were so well-behaved and so excited to meet their brother.  As a mother, I could not have been more proud of them and how well they have handled everything.  We got ready to say our "good nights, love yous and sweet dreams" and get our hugs, kisses, nose rubs and head-butts.  As Tori climbed up on the bed, she took my face in both of her little hands to tell me, in her most grown-up little voice, that she was very sorry but it was time for her to leave right now and she would see me tomorrow. 

After that crew headed out, we had a few hours to eat some of the OB floor's famous turkey sandwiches and drink the Coke that our nurse specially requested for us at nearly midnight (they typically have only Sprite and juices on the floor but since I had initially asked for one, she made sure to go find four of them for us).  After a little relaxing, we got a wonderful late night visit from one of my closest friends who came to meet our little boy and check in on us. 

We knew we wouldn't sleep much the rest of the night because we honestly didn't want to miss one second with him and I don't think he left our arms for more than a moment from that point on.  So we got in quite a few hours of snuggling and watching some particularly awesome late night TV...by that, I mean some "Home Improvement", "George Lopez" and a little "That 70s Show."  We did get to curl up in the bed for an hour or so to take a quick nap before breakfast though.  Shortly after that, another friend of mine came up for a visit on her way to work and dropped off an amazing keepsake pendant kit for us - turns out the timing was perfect because it had just arrived in the mail the day before!

We initially thought we would only get to spend about ten or twelve hours with Aaron and had been expecting to say our good-byes early in the morning.  As it turns out, the hospital really truly recognizes the value of the time that parents get to spend with their baby and placed absolutely no official limit on our time with him.  So we spent the morning snuggling and making all of our keepsakes (handprint impressions, our pendant kit, footprints, and a plaster mold of his tiny little fingers).

My doctor came in to check on us at about lunchtime.  She wanted to know what name we had settled on and we shared with her (because we hadn't known what we were going to name him when she left after the delivery); I had completely forgotten that her own son's name is also Aaron.  She asked how we were doing and gave us our prescription for a really really high dose of folic acid, which I will be on for the remainder of my childbearing years.  (While it isn't a guarantee that it will prevent this from happening again in the future, it would at least significantly reduce the recurrence rate.)  She gave us both hugs and asked to see us in her office in a few weeks.

We talked with the care coordinator/grief counselor shortly after that and decided that we would call her again at 3pm so she could make contact with the funeral home.  I'm not sure I would have ever really been ready for that step, but it seemed like setting a time was the best thing for us to do.  Honestly, we spent most of that time curled up in my tiny hospital bed, dripping tears on Aaron's tiny little hat while we told him all the things we thought he most needed to hear.  At 3:00pm, we called to let her know that it was okay to start the process.  We filled out the paperwork that needed done so she could call the funeral home.  She also made an extra set of tiny footprints for us and then stepped out to wait for the funeral director to arrive.

We took this time to get Aaron ready for the next step in his journey.  We gave him a fresh diaper, changed the gauze on this head, trimmed some of that long brown hair, and changed him into the outfit that we wanted him to wear.  Neither of us were particularly concerned with what babies are "supposed to wear" when you bury them, because truthfully, you just shouldn't have to bury a baby.  So we chose the outfit that we picked out so many years ago that we would've brought our first son home in...a little baseball onesie that said "Daddy's Home Run Hero" and some little red and gray pants.  We left his tiny feet bare because none of the rest of his family likes to wear socks...so why would he? We wrapped him in the blanket that I made and the blanket that my mom made and just held him tight until the funeral director arrived. 

He came in and talked to us for a few minutes, then stepped out to give us a little time.  We said a prayer together, just the three of us.  We told him for the hundredth time how much he is loved and always will be.  We covered that sweet little face in kisses.  Then we had to tell him Goodbye.  We handed him to the care coordinator who laid him in that little bassinet and then they left.

To see your child go through a door and know that you will never feel his weight again in your arms and never get to kiss his tiny little face is a feeling that I'm not sure I even want to describe.  It's an important part of the story and I don't want to leave it out, but even sitting here typing it is almost more than I can bear.  It is to feel the very physical pain of having a piece of your heart leave your body and being powerless to stop it.  Believe me, I wanted nothing more than to jump from that bed, tear him out of that little cradle and never ever let go again.  In those moments after he left, my arms felt so utterly empty.  Chris brought me the blanket that we'd had him wrapped in and it was at least some comfort, but I'm pretty sure that empty feeling is here to stay for a while.  Despite the fact that we have been trying to prepare for this for months, it is impossible to prepare for that kind of pain.

The door closed behind them and all we could do was sit and sob for a little while.  What else makes sense in that moment? Once we got calmed down again, we began to pack our things and get ready to come home.  Once again, the care coordinator was there to help us and she even 'overlooked' the rule about being discharged in a wheelchair...honestly, being wheeled off of that floor with no baby in my arms would have nearly undone me and I think she understood that.

We made it home and were greeted by our beautiful little girls, a very enthusiastic dog, a very stressed-out cat, my mother and my brother-in-law.  Tori immediately wanted to know about the baby, so we reminded her that he had gone to Heaven and didn't get to come home with us.  Thankfully she was satisfied by that and went on with whatever she was doing.  Abby saw the blanket I had held on the way home and asked "Baby in nere? Baby in nere?"  So we had to show her that it was just his blanket and told her about the baby being in Heaven too...I doubt she really grasps it, but that seemed to satisfy the matter for her.

Tori made sure to let my mom know that "Mommy and Daddy are home now, so you can go ahead and leave."  So we got the girls dressed, headed to FedEx to drop off our info for the Duke study and decided that we were all going to Applebee's for dinner.  To be sitting in a restaurant having dinner just 24 hours after giving birth and just three hours after watching your baby be wheeled away by a funeral director is an almost absurd experience, almost like a bad dream from which you hope to be awakened any minute. We didn't wake up though; instead we came home, hugged our girls tightly and put them to bed.

Chris headed to the garage to make a little wooden car to have put in the casket with his first-born son (when we were expecting an Aurora, he had been working on her music box) and I sat down here to record what has happened in our journey during these last 32 hours.

Despite the pain, despite the tears and despite that nagging empty feeling...I still know that we were blessed by the time that Aaron Michael was in our life.  I have no regrets about choosing to carry him for as long as God allowed, even though that meant the pain of having to say goodbye.  Even when the tears have fallen or the sobs escaped, I still felt an indescribable joy in the blessing of carrying such a perfect, innocent little life. He will always be our first-born son and will always be in our hearts. 

Outshining

I know I haven't been writing very often; some of that is because I don't have a lot of quiet time for it (unless it's 1:00am and I'm the only one awake, kind of like right now) and some of it is simply because I'm having a hard time finding the right words these days.

We've got just thirteen days left until our induction is scheduled on 3/4.  Even as I sit here now, and I got out of bed solely for the purpose of trying to put some thoughts down, I'm still not sure exactly how I feel about that fact.  

There is, of course, the part of me that is just like any other mother - so excited to finally meet the life I've been carrying inside of me for the last nine months.  That part of me can not wait to feel the joy of finally cradling her in my arms, holding those tiny little hands, counting all ten tiny baby toes, introducing her to her older sisters and snuggling her tight to my chest. 

There is also the part of me that is so very scared of labor, just like I was with both of the other girls.  There is a very normal fear that comes with it and I think, at one point or another, most moms would really just prefer to skip over labor and delivery and get right to that whole "holding your new baby" part.  That's kind of where I fall right now.  Don't get me wrong...I had absolutely beautiful labor experiences before and wouldn't change a thing about either one, but I had the same feelings in the weeks leading up to them. 

The rest of me is filled with anxieties about all the factors that are unique to Aurora's birth and life.  I know that we have done as much planning and preparation as we could possibly do.  I know that no amount of anxiety and lost sleep is going to change a thing.  I know that there comes a point when I really do have to just let go and trust that things will happen as they are meant to.  I also know that we have an overwhelming amount of prayer and support to help us through whatever happens.  And I know that when all is said and done, we will still have had the opportunity to celebrate the life of one very special little baby.

That special little life is what makes every second of pain, anxiety and fear absolutely worth it.  I have no doubt that the joy, love, and grace that she will bring to our lives will far outshine all of those other moments.

Unconditional Love

Happy Valentine's Day! I've been wanting to put together a post with some of the maternity photos that my sister-in-law did for us a few weeks ago and today seems like the perfect day.  Is there any love more pure than that of a mother and father for their child?  :)

I am so happy that we were given the opportunity to have maternity photos done and would absolutely recommend them for other mommas, especially those facing a similar diagnosis.  They are not only beautiful but she did such an amazing job of capturing all the happiness and joy that co-exists with even the most difficult moments of grief that we've been working through.

   The bracelets in these two images were made by a woman whose daughter Eden was born sleeping after 38 weeks of a healthy pregnancy. "Eden's Wings provides a tangible symbol of healing, hope, and remembrance to bereaved parents through our handmade bracelets." 

You can visit her site at http://edenswings.blogspot.com/

We got so many beautiful images and as much as I would love to share them all, I'm just not entirely comfortable sharing the ones with our full faces or my other girls in them.  For the same reason, I also want to say that my sister-in-law gets total credit for the awesomeness of the images but, with her permission, I am choosing not to share her name or the name of her studio.  Feel free to contact me (OneAngelsJourney@gmail.com) if you know that you live in our area and would like some more information on getting in touch with her. 

Beneath the Ice

The best way I can think of to describe the way I'm feeling is to have you imagine that you are walking across a frozen lake.  You walk cautiously, but continue to move forward and occasionally pause to breathe in the quiet beauty surrounding you.  Suddenly, the ice before you opens up and you find yourself falling through.  Before you realize what has happened, you are underwater and can do nothing but struggle to bring your head above the surface once again.  This is my attempt to get back to the surface.

Things have been pretty uneventful lately and I have found myself feeling almost at peace some days.  Yesterday, however, we were traveling to see family and about a mile from our destination, we found ourselves sitting at an intersection waiting for a funeral procession to pass.  I found myself quietly sobbing in the front seat as the hearse passed and I realized that all too soon, we would find ourselves following the car carrying our daughter.  Thankfully, the girls were occupied by a DVD and I had a short drive to pull myself back together, but I know by now that once I start crying, the tears will wait just below the surface until I finally deal with it.

So here I am and although I don't usually find myself in tears when I'm writing, I can't help but choke back the sobs.  It isn't that I had forgotten about the funeral or that I am in denial about our reality right now, but staring down the timeline for taking your child to the cemetery is painful in a way that I can not even describe. In all of the discussions and planning, I have been working so hard to handle the practical details that I haven't really let myself walk through what that day will actually look like.  This is why. I don't want to.  I don't want to walk that path more than once.  Ever.

Among the tears and pain right now, I also feel tiny little hiccups just above my left hip and what I assume is a little butt pushed firmly into my rib cage.  Maybe she hates it as much as I do when I cry and is offering her best distraction.   It's almost like that's her way of letting me know that, for now, she is still here with me.  I am grateful for those reminders of her life; I am grateful that she is such an active baby and frequently makes her presence known.  I am grateful that I've been blessed to have nine months with her and pray that she will be content to hiccup, wiggle, kick and punch right where she is for the next four weeks.  Because I will never actually be ready to say goodbye.

Island

I don't know how to explain what I'm feeling exactly, because I'm not sure it even makes sense but I feel like I have to try.  Even with all of the love, support, encouragement, kindness and prayers of family, friends and strangers...the only word I can come up with right now to describe how I feel is "alone."  It is what I imagine it would be like to stand alone on an island in sight of the mainland with no boat to get you across the waters ahead. 

I know it isn't really rational because at the very least, I have Chris by my side and we can still talk about anything.  I know I also have a number of family members who would be there for me in a heartbeat, even if all I needed was someone to listen to me cry.  I have an amazing online support network of women who have been through this and would do as much as any stranger from across the globe could do if I asked.  So I'm not really looking for anyone to say "I'm here Katie...just give me a call or a text or a message."  In my heart, I know that all I need to do is make a phone call and there would be someone on the other end willing to do anything they could if I asked. So that's not my point...honestly, I'm just hoping that by putting it somewhere other than my head, maybe I can figure out what's going on. 

Part of it is just my usual Monday funk...after working basically alone for 35 hours over the weekend, I know I usually have a little too much time in my own head, but I honestly don't mind that too much most times.  Actually, that part is kind of nice sometimes...of course there are times of chaos, it is a crisis center after all, but most of the time it is pretty tranquil and relaxed.  Our house is hardly ever what I would call tranquil!  :) 

I think another part of it is that there are several people I have reached out to recently but from whom I have gotten no response.  It isn't that I'm upset by the lack of response, exactly...I know our situation is tough and it's too much for some to handle.  That's okay, but I think what is hitting home is that, even though you receive countless offers of "If there is anything we can do, just let us know..." many of those aren't sincere.  For too many, it's just one of those things you say when you don't know what else to say to someone in crisis.  So this one isn't really a shock, but it's still kind of hard to accept.    

I think the majority of this feeling comes from the fact that we are just six weeks, or less, away from the birth of our little girl and the enormity of that is almost crushing.  I want so badly to enjoy these last weeks and I want to be prepared to celebrate the brief time that we'll have with her, but trying to balance that with keeping a grasp on reality leaves me feeling unsettled.  I know that there are those who pray for a miracle up until the moment their baby takes his or her last breath and to have that kind of faith is fine, but that isn't my faith.  I do believe that God can work miracles, but I just don't feel like that is the plan for us.  Don't get me wrong, every once in a while I catch myself daydreaming about what it would be like if this was all some terrible trial and we get to leave the hospital with a healthy baby but those fantasies are pretty brief.  For me, and for us, it's important to be prepared for the much more likely reality. I know there are mothers who have refused to make any arrangements before their baby died because it didn't make sense to plan a funeral for a baby who was still alive; I don't fault them, but that's not the way we have chosen to approach this.  Trying to balance the enthusiasm that your body wants to feel near the end of a pregnancy with the restraint that your brain is cautioning you to exercise is a constant battle. 

I can try my hardest to explain it and I'm sure it makes at least some sense, but there is no way I could ever share everything that is in my heart because there is so much that I don't even think can be put into words.  That is what leaves me feeling alone on my island...my heart and my head are so full of grief, joy, anger, frustration, love, bitterness, anxiety, anticipation, longing, and a thousand other things that I can't describe.  I know I have plenty who would jump in that boat to rescue me at all hours of the day or night, but what would I say when they reached the shore? 

What Kind of Choice Is That??

It's been two weeks since Emilee's death and that's given me a lot of time to think about a lot of things.  It's also given me the time, against my better judgement, to read some of the other blogs and comments that have been posted regarding Emilee, Leila Grace, anencephaly and suicide.  I will never cease to be amazed at how, from beneath the cloak of anonymity, some people will say the cruelest, most heartless things I have ever seen or heard.

I will only briefly address those types of people, because I don't honestly know that I can say anything that will heal whatever deep hatred or pain that they are feeling.  I can only say that I hope one day they will realize the sorrow they cause others with their own despair and begin working toward healing themselves.

More on my mind have been the comments I've seen where well-meaning people have said something to the effect of "If only her family had known the pain that choosing to continue carrying her baby would have caused her, they would have urged her to reconsider."

I want to be very clear here... the choice given to a parent when they find out that their baby has a fatal birth defect is this:  "Your baby can die now or your baby can die later."  Sound harsh?  That's because it really is.

Whether the parents choose to carry the baby to term or choose to terminate, the end result is going to be devastating. The pain that Emilee was feeling, the pain that all of us who have been in her shoes feel...that's the pain from losing a child.  It is not a pain specific to whether we choose to carry to term or whether we choose to terminate. Both options are heart-breaking because either way, all of the hopes that we once had for the little life growing inside of us change. We don't get get to dream about watching our babies grow up, get married and have babies of their own...instead, we are left hoping that we get at least a few precious moments of life to gaze into those little eyes or feel the squeeze of tiny fingers on our own.  That is the pain we face.

If you talk to a community of moms who have felt that pain...rarely will you find one who regrets her decision to carry to term but you will find many more wishing that they had decided not to terminate. (I am not, by any means, saying that all will regret their decision but I have seen more than I can count that I have said "I wish...")

I hope that if someone in your life is unlucky enough to have to face that "choice" that you will support them no matter what they decide.  It is not your job to talk them into one or the other...unless you are a parent of that child, you don't get a say.  At the end of the day, those parents need your support...not your opinions, not your criticisms and certainly not your judgement.

Wouldn't Change A Thing?

On one of the bad days recently, I started a pretty angry post with this same title.  I had read several other blogs where the mothers stated that they "wouldn't change a thing" about what they had been through.  The post was to have been along the lines of "Really - what kind of lunatic wouldn't change this situation if given the choice??" ...

I still firmly maintain that any mother who has had to walk a similar path would have loved nothing more than to leave the hospital with a healthy, happy baby who had a chance at a long life with them.  This morning, it struck me that there was a different way of looking at it. (Isn't there always?)

What I realized is that, at least for us, it means that I would do everything essentially the same way if I were faced with it again.  Chris and I have talked at length about whether we intend to have any more children, and honestly, the answer would depend on the day that you ask (and ultimately, I suppose, on God's plan).  We have also discussed the possibility of this situation happening again, as our risks for a neural tube defect are now slightly higher a second time around. 

On the bad days, we say that we could never be strong enough to endure another pregnancy like this and don't know what we would do.  On the better days, when we are a little more sane, we realize that we actually "wouldn't change a thing." The child that we created together would still be "our baby."  His or her life would still have value and it still wouldn't be up to us to choose when that life should end. 

Chris doesn't particularly care for it when I get on this topic and most of the time, I'd agree with that feeling.  We don't even know whether we'll have any more kids, so why think about this when there are so many other more immediate things that need my attention?  Well...for a couple of reasons: Most practically, I have a lot of "free thought time" at work and these are some of the things that plague me in the middle of the night.  More importantly, somehow it helps me to reaffirm the decision that we've already made this time.  It reminds me that though all of the pain and sadness, it's the right decision for us.  

(I know that statistics show 90-95% of mothers in this situation don't agree with our reasoning...I'm not judging them, just speaking from our place.)

That First Decision

One of the first decisions with which we found ourselves faced was also the most important; I don't know if I would say it was the most difficult though. Basically, we had to decide - what do we about the diagnosis we just received? We will be meeting with a specialist on Monday to discuss our official options, but I know enough to already know what paths we are facing. And really, none of them are especially appealing.

The first option is to elect for an immediate termination of the pregnancy.  We discussed this option and quickly discarded it.  Despite the fact that our baby has no chance for survival, he or she is still our child. We knew that this wasn't a decision that we could wake up and face every morning.

The second option is to carry to term and hold our child for as long as we are able before he or she passes. Obviously this means another four or five months of pregnancy during which I know that we will never get to bring this baby home from the hospital but it means a few minutes or a few hours of holding him or her in our arms.

The third option, and one that we aren't even sure will be offered, is to have an induction done and deliver now.  With this option, there is no guarantee that the induction will work at twenty weeks.  We may end up with a c-section or having to wait to term anyway.

The fourth option, and another one that we aren't sure will be offered, is to carry to term and make the decision for tissue donation.  If it is offered (or if I can find somewhere close where it is offered), this will be our first choice.  As difficult as the next five months would be, we could at least take some small comfort in knowing that our child helped spare other families the pain that we are feeling right now.

Please know and understand that I am not asking for anyone's thoughts or opinions on what choice we should make.  We are the only ones to make that decision and we are the ones who will have to live with that decision for the rest of our lives.  My brother said it best in response to another family member who was feeling helpless - "She isn't looking for anyone to give advice or tell her what to do.  She is just looking for support for whatever decisions she makes."  He couldn't be more right.