Looking Back: A Reflection on the First Ultrasound

This post was written on 8/3/13.

I'm going to cheat a little for this entry and do some reflection on the week following that first ultrasound.  I simply could not bring myself to sit down and write during that time...no matter how much I knew I needed to, the words just would not come.  And although we are now past this part of our journey, I want to put all those feelings into words before they begin to fade.

I barely slept at all the night before our first ultrasound.  Even though I knew there was nothing I could do to change the outcome of whatever was going to happen, I was nervous.  We had already made the decision that the girls would be staying with my parents that night instead of coming with us to the ultrasound (to be fair, we had not yet told anyone other than a few close friends about the pregnancy).  I could not stomach the thought of them being in the room if we were to once again receive devastating news.

I did reasonably well on the way to the doctor's office, but as we stepped off of the elevator and prepared to walk in, I just lost it.  We were a few minutes late because I stopped at the restroom in an attempt to get it together but quickly realized that with each passing moment, I could literally feel the hysteria working it's way up my throat and it wasn't going to get better with a few minutes of crying in a restroom.  We went inside and I struggled through a brief check-in.  Our favorite nurse came out to speak with us the waiting room (somehow, the receptionist had gotten the idea that I wanted to reschedule?) and I let her know that today was the day - I would be a mess whether we did it now, an hour from now or three weeks from now.

It was the same room where we received Aaron's diagnosis and I can not even begin to describe the intense panic of walking back into that room, sitting on the table and waiting to see the images that would appear.  Even as I sit here typing, my body is nearly vibrating with the emotions that I can do nothing to quell.

She was able to point out almost immediately the baby's full, round head with two neatly defined lobes - no anencephaly.  What an amazing blessing as we got to hear that tiny heartbeat for the first time and see little arms and legs flailing around.  I struggled not to jerk around too much as I worked through the tears of joy.

Then, as she was finishing up the ultrasound, she asked if we had done any genetic testing after Aaron was born.  We had not.  She asked if we had done any yet this pregnancy.  No. Then asked if we were planning to do any. No...but what do you see that is making you ask so many questions?? She informed us that she was seeing an increased nuchal translucency, one that was nearly twice what would be considered "within normal limits." (Simple explanation is this: nuchal translucency is a measurement of the fluid present behind the neck of the baby; it is an indicator of risk for several genetic conditions including Trisomies 13,18, 21 and Turner Syndrome.  It warrants follow-up testing.)  She went to speak with the doctor and since we had an appointment with her that day anyway, she led us to the exam room and we waited to talk with her.

The information was basically what I already knew - what was seen on the ultrasound was not a definitive diagnosis but was a risk factor for a number of things.  They would be calling for a consultation within a week with the same Maternal-Fetal Medicine specialist that we saw to confirm Aaron's diagnosis.  His office called a few hours later to set up an appointment in seven days for a Level 3 ultrasound and a consultation with the specialist.

For those seven days, we lived in a kind of limbo that would be hard to describe.  Our options ranged anywhere from "Your child has another, totally-unrelated fatal birth defect" to "Your baby might be perfectly healthy without a thing in the world wrong" and everything in-between.  With Aaron, the diagnosis was definitive from that first ultrasound...there was little room for doubt.  We began grieving for him almost immediately - those were pretty clear feelings of loss.  This time, we weren't really allowed to feel anything other than terrified at the prospect of burying another child.

Looking Back: Three Days Before Our Ultrasound

This post was written on 7/15/13 - before we were ready to announce Aaron's little brother or sister. 

My intention for the last eight weeks had been to create posts and save them in draft form until I was ready to publish them.  We found out in May that we are expecting a new little one to join our family in January.  I had wanted to carefully document our experiences and feelings during these last two months so I could share them in a back-dated series once we were prepared to share that news.  Unfortunately, that hasn't happened.  Here I am, three days before our first ultrasound, and I am just now sitting down to put words to my feelings. I didn't want to wait until after the ultrasound because I'm not sure I would still be able to accurately capture all that has been going through my head after that point, so I want to do it now. (Though, by the time you are reading this we will have had the ultrasound and will have a better idea of what path we will be walking from here.)

I know there are plenty who are going to have opinions regarding our timing and say that it's been too soon since we had Aaron.  To that, I can only say that our lives apparently run on God's timing.  Given that I know my own heart and where my own fears were leading me, I have to trust that He had a hand in the timing for one reason or another. 

For the first six weeks, I didn't even want to call the doctor's office because I knew that would make it feel too real.  I know that isn't going to make any sense to anyone who hasn't been there, but in my mind...once I called the doctor, that started a countdown to the day when we would have to go in and have an ultrasound that would tell us whether this new life was one we got to keep or another where we had to say goodbye.  (Even the woman who set up my appointments was a little irritated that I had waited over a month to call in...but how do you adequately explain to someone that just making the phone call nearly sent me into a panic attack without sounding like a lunatic?)

Turns out, I was exactly right.  I was initially so positive and felt so certain that we would be blessed with a healthy baby this time.  As time goes on, I become more and more convinced that we are going to have to figure out how to make it through all the agony again because we aren't going to get to keep this baby. 

When I let my mind wander and I think about having to walk into the doctor's office and into that ultrasound room, I usually have to stop myself because my chest gets tight and it takes everything I have not to completely fall apart. That day was easily the worst day of our lives...worse than the day he died, worse than the day we said good bye, worse than the funeral.  There was nothing good that happened that day - our rug was yanked out from under us with no cushion whatsoever.  When he was born, we got the joy of seeing our son for the first time.  When we said goodbye, we had the memories of the time we spent with him.  When we buried him, we had the peace of knowing he was at rest.  I remember practically every detail of what happened leading up to the words our doctor said...and as I think about going in for this next ultrasound, those are the moment that keep playing over and over in my mind.  (As a matter of fact, after just typing this paragraph, I had to get up and walk away from this entry for a little while.)

As we approach the twelve week mark, there are only four people besides the two of us that know I am pregnant.  Two are close friends that have been unbelievable pillars of support for me, one is a woman who has also been incredibly supportive since we received Aaron's diagnosis, and the other had a whole different set of reasons behind my choice to share.  We plan to share our news at some point after Wednesday's ultrasound, but this gives us a chance to make sure that we are able to process whatever we see before we are pressured to share with other family and friends. 

The Midnight Orange - Christopher's Story

I have so many of my own words to share and hope to do so soon, but for now I want to share a beautiful story that I recently stumbled upon.

Many of you who know me personally have seen me share the sculpture works of The Midnight Orange on Facebook and although I don't yet own any of her pieces, I find them so simply breathtaking that I couldn't help but find myself reading the story of why she began such intimate sculpting...here it is:  (Yes, it is lengthy but I promise you that it is worth every single word.)

http://themidnightorange.blogspot.com/2010/04/why-i-sculpt-child-angels.html

FRIDAY, APRIL 23, 2010

Why I Sculpt Child Angels

Christopher Brown was really little. In a class of third graders he was teeniest among all of us. He was also the most spirited. I adored him, so we fought constantly. I was a masochist for those bickerings and used to stare at the small gap between his front teeth as his mouth moved around them proving me wrong in little bursts of animation.


This is not a story about childhood love. It is not a story about friendship. Despite the presence of these things, this is pure ache and a lesson that broke my heart to learn. I will not go into sharing the details of what made Christopher a spectacular being wrapped up in the package of an 8 year old boy. I trust you find me credible and will believe this. I also ask that despite the longevity, in Chris' honor you read this.


On the first day of summer in 1990, Christopher was playing baseball with his brother, sister, and babysitter in his back yard and the ball went over the fence into a neighboring construction site. He climbed his swing set onto his father's shed, then jumped from the shed roof over the fence to get the ball. I cannot picture this in my head (either because the logistics are not clear or because my mind is protecting itself from this visual) but when Christopher jumped the fence his hand hit a latch on a crane which released two cement highway dividers. He fell and they fell on top of him. A very cherished 8 year old lost his life that day.


There was no closure. My mother felt that attending the services would be too traumatic and kept me from saying goodbye in person. I understand, but still. I agonized for years about this, even into young adulthood. So many blanks I could not fill in. I did not know where he was interned, when his birthday was. The specific day he died. Every milestone I had, I wished for him. On first days of school I would find his seat in class and then mentally spite the child who sat there. On last days of school I would be sick at the excitement around me. I'd imagine Chris's thoughts as the final bell rang and he dreamt of ponds and trails and popcorn at the drive-in, not knowing he would die by next nightfall. For years I just carried him with me. The night before my high school graduation I dreamed of him approaching through the crowd, as grown as I, and hugging me. In tears I type this.


In my second year of college I became desperate, not for closure, but for closeness to Chris and wanted so badly to connect with his family. With such a common last name they felt impossible to find. All I could do was speak of him often and hope someone connected. One day this exact thing happened, and by fate a woman scrawled an address on scrap paper and sent me away with it. I finally had a portal to his family and despite years of longing for contact, I had no idea how I could begin to express my heart to them. 


Honestly I do not recall the specific details of the sentiment that I poured into 7 handwritten pages, but my message was strong and clear. I missed Christopher, I loved him still, and I REMEMBERED. Always I remembered him. The letter I received back I held with trembling hands, but never could I have been prepared for what Christopher's mother would share with me.


She spoke of the myriad of emotions that my letter brought forth, and I expected that would be the case. She broke me down entirely when she went on to write that receiving my letter was a true miracle that had breathed new life into their son.  She shared that tragically, the loss of Christopher was so painful for others that he became rarely spoken of.


To hear that Christopher not only lost his life but also his legacy was the greatest shame imaginable. My small but bursting childhood friend had become lost to the world. Was truly buried. I cried for days. She later wrote that the greatest gift I had given them was sharing his memory with other people and allowing him to live on in this way.. Mary and I stay in touch and I am smiling this moment over the profound friendship I found in Christopher's mother.


I visit his grave when I am happy and seek to share that with him. I go there when I am hurt so I can have solitude but not be alone. My husband and I picnic with our young daughters there and they like the bells that softly chime in the fir overhanging his grave site. He is truly my forever friend, and my gift to him is ensuring that despite his life being stifled, his legacy never will be. Now you know Christopher. He was small, mighty, and magnificent. I would be beyond humbled should anyone repost his story as daily I fear that in his 8 short-lived and bittersweet years of childhood, not enough people had the chance to know his name.


This was a gift I could not stop giving to Chris and his family, and with it I achieved the opposite of closure. It burst open a door for me and truly inspired fire in my heart, because it was then that I saw a very clear window into the lives of bereaved parents. One of the things that stood out profoundly to me was need. The need for their children to be acknowledged, celebrated, spoken about. The need to know others remember. The need for a LEGACY.

Sculpting the ever-present bond between parents and children who touch the stars too soon is truly my heart's work and daily I startle at the extreme honor of being so blessed to be able to do this. My goal was to create something for parents to display for others which would then evoke conversation. I really wanted to be able to create some tangible way for parents to show others that it is okay to talk about their children and for my sculptures to be a “starting place”.  In my heart of hearts I pray that people see these pieces and realize that despite the overwhelming pain in losing a child, there is healing for parents to simply know people remember.


http://www.etsy.com/shop/TheMidnightOrange
https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Midnight-Orange/105314011660

Just one of my personal favorites...

Running

It has been obvious that I've been more than a little absent from this space in the last few weeks.  Life has been busy, but I can not honestly say that this has been the only reason.  I think it has mostly been because I knew that coming to this space and putting my thoughts in black and white in front of me was going to be painful and I haven't felt strong enough to handle that recently.  I have thought about it a few times and felt a little guilty for not writing when I knew that I needed to, but lately the bad days seem to be winning.

When that happens, my first instinct is to run.  I avoid this blog and I avoid the majority of the babyloss community where I am usually able to take comfort and, in turn, offer it to others.  I have noticed that I have a tendency to withdraw from that facet of my life and focus my energy again on just making it through each day.  It is simply too painful to invite myself to open up wounds that are still healing, so I tend to try to ignore them.

There are a few problems with this approach.  First, if you choose to ignore an injury rather than tending it and allowing the opportunity for it to heal, it is just going to get worse.  Second, this approach runs right alongside the fast track to depression.  And lastly, it leaves you feeling alone and isolated.  And even though I don't mind the solitude sometimes, I'm afraid of staying in the spot where that is my preference.

It is a normal, human reaction to want to avoid that which is too painful to want to face head-on.  Unfortunately, it is really only a temporary solution.  Eventually, we are going to have to come back to coping with whatever it is that we have been hiding from.  At that point, odds are that you are going to find yourself with some messes to fix, some wrongs to correct and things to set upright again.

With all of that said, I think this is another one of those perfectly normal steps along the path of walking through one's grief.  There are times when you get to feel empowered and strong and in charge.  There are other times when you get to focus on the hard work of grieving and coping. And there are those times when it is all just too much and you have to hide.  As long as you continue to cycle through without getting stuck in one place too long, particularly that last one, you're probably doing it right.  We can't hide forever and we certainly can not be expected to shoulder all of this grief all day, every day. 

I can't and I won't apologize for taking the time that I need for myself.  Neither should you.

Don't Rush Us

Right now, I am angry - frustrated, appalled, upset and angry.

A close friend of mine, whose son was born with a fatal birth defect the same month as Aaron, was told today that she needed to "move on with her life," "grow up," and "get over it." What's worse, is that it was someone close to her who should have been offering kindness, support and love instead of harsh words and judgement. 

So let me be very clear when I say these next few things
  - When you have lost a child, you will never completely "move on." You may keep moving, but "moving on" is not in the vocabulary. 
  - When you have been through the experience of carrying, meeting and loving  your child who is going to die, you have "grown up" more in those 9-10 months than some people will do in 9-10 years.  You lose a part of yourself; you lose the sense of innocence that you used to have about pregnancy and babies and life; you lose the confidence that everything will turn out for the best. 
 - When your child dies, you will NEVER EVER "get over it."  You learn to live with the pain.  You figure out what it takes to make it to the end of each day.  You realize that there are things in life that are still worth living for.  But you will never "get over" the fact that you had to bury your child. Ever.

So please, if you have ever asked "What can I do to help?"...this is what you can do: Don't say these things to a person who is grieving, particularly if they are grieving the loss of a child.  These statements are not helpful.  They rip out that grieving parent's heart and serve only to make them feel more isolated and alone, because you have shown them that you aren't even trying.

It's been almost four months since she and I lost our sons.  Four months. We have a lifetime to carry the fact that one of our babies died...don't rush us. 

A Moment. A Lifetime. Three Months.

Three months.  It's been three months since I held my son.  Three months since he was born.  Three months since he died.

In a lot of ways, it has been a very long three months.  I have grown a lot and I have learned a lot.  Chris and I have faced a lot together in those three months and our relationship is decades older because of the experience we have shared.  I stop to look back and I have no idea how we have managed to survive these last ninety days - and some days, that was all we have managed to do...to simply survive.  We have reached that point where it is rare for anyone else to ask how we're doing and we are fully recognizing the incredible support we are blessed with in one another.  Gradually, there have been more days where the pain and the grief serve as more of a backdrop rather than taking center stage.  In that respect, it has been a long three months.

At the very same time, those three months often feel like the blink of an eye.  I recall every moment of his delivery so vividly that it feels like it happened yesterday.  I still have moments where I can almost feel him kicking me.  There are flashes every once in a while of what it would be like if our nighttime hugs included all three of my children.  There are times when the pain is so fresh and the need to feel him in my arms is so real that it is almost crushing me.  That is when those three months feel like a single breath.

I need you to understand that I am not the same person I used to be...I will never be her again.  I need you to realize that you are not always going to find the logic in what I say or what I do.  I need you to meet me where I am and allow me to be who I have to be right now to make it to the end of each day.

To you, it may only be three months (or six months or ten years) but for me - it is both a moment and a lifetime.  There will be times when I will feel the devastation throbbing like a brand new wound and there will be times when I can run my fingers over the scar in my soul without wincing.  There is no rhyme or reason to how I feel at any given moment and I am slowly learning to embrace whatever comes because that is really the only option I've been given.

All I ask is that you remember that no matter where you think I should be or how you think I should behave, it isn't up to you.  It just isn't.

"I Will Be."

I know that I've been quiet on here for a few weeks now and I wish I had a really good reason for that.  The honest explanation is that I just haven't really felt moved to write anything.  This past week has been one of the really bad ones and although I know those are the times when I really need to sit down and get some thoughts out...lately, those are the times when I am least likely to do it.

There hasn't been one specific thing that has me in a rut, but rather a combination of things I think.  Life had actually been going really well until a week or two ago, but then all of a sudden - it sort of seemed like we fell apart again.  I had my eight week check-up at the doctor (my actual six-week visit got postponed) - their office was wonderful as usual and they made the visit as easy as they could, but something about showing up to your postpartum visit with no baby is bound to unhinge the most stable mom at least a little bit.  That same week, Aaron would have been two months old (hence, the eight weeks) and it's hard not to think about what life with a two-month old would look like right now.

We also received the paperwork to get Aaron's memorial ordered.  The woman who designed it did a positively beautiful job and she worked so hard to make sure it is exactly what we wanted it to be (odd phrasing really, considering we don't want to have to be selecting one at all).  She walked us through the entire process, then spent time to custom-create an image because the one we selected wouldn't have worked very well on the stone we had chosen.  I simply can not say enough good things about working with her, but still...seeing his name in a sketch for his headstone is really really difficult.

Mother's Day is also looming in the not-so-distant future.  I have two beautiful, healthy, amazing little girls and I thank God for them every single day...but hear me clearly when I say this: That does not take away the pain of knowing that I don't get to celebrate Mother's Day with my only son.  I'm pretty sure that is a pain I will feel in every Mother's Day for the rest of my life. 

As for the girls, they have also been asking lately about when there is going to be another baby in Mommy's tummy so they can knock on it and feel baby "knock" back.  It is so cute and so sweet...and so gut-wrenchingly painful all at the same time.  I want them to have a baby sibling; I truly and sincerely do.  I want them to have Aaron.  We are reasonably sure that we will eventually have more children (on the good days, I'm certain...on days like today, it's just too scary to contemplate), but it wouldn't be for at least several more months to allow my body time to heal and the folic acid time to build up in my system. 

As I sit here with tears streaming down my face, I have to confess that I had a different last paragraph typed up for this post...I always argue with myself when it comes to posting anything about the bad days (I've said before that the reason I do it is because it isn't fair to only share the good times).  Chris came in and asked me "Are you alright?"  Without thinking, my first response was "I will be." As soon as the words left my mouth I actually felt a little better and took a few minutes to process that.

I will be sad.
I will be heartbroken.
I will be depressed.
I will be angry.
I will be hopeful.
I will be healing.
I will be joyful.
I will be grateful.

I will be okay.

Still Standing

I know my updates are a little infrequent these days.  I don't really have a good explanation for it other than the fact that I just haven't had any ideas come to me that seemed like they were worth sharing.

Yesterday, however, I had one of those experiences where an entry just kind of writes itself in my head while I'm supposed to be doing something else.  I usually try to make sure those get published, because I assume there is a reason that they have written themselves.

I recently had a bit of a confrontation with someone in my life who was contemplating making some pretty destructive decisions in the face of intense stress.  We had talked at length regarding all of the things leading up to these decisions and the consequences of making specific choices.  It became apparent throughout the course of a number of conversations that this individual considered suicide as the only solution to the problems at hand.

Finally, I simply said, "You remember that baby I was pregnant with?  He died.  We have known since October that he was going to die and he was stillborn almost six weeks ago.  And I'm still standing here.  It has been the hardest thing I have ever gone through.  It has sucked and I would never wish that pain on anyone.  I know that things are awful for you right now too and I know you are struggling with all that you are facing.  I understand what it is like for things to suck and to not know what you are supposed to do.  I realize that you feel like this is your only choice, but I am standing here going through the crappiest thing I have ever experienced but I'm still standing here.  I'm not asking you not to kill yourself; I'm asking you to give yourself some time.  I'm asking you to wait until things don't suck so much and you aren't overwhelmed by everything you are facing.  If you still want to die at that point, then we can talk again but at least then I'll know that you aren't making a decision out of desperation."

It's not the most orthodox approach to someone in crisis, and I typically wouldn't share something so personal in that context...but sometimes there are situations where someone is able to benefit from hearing something spoken from the heart regardless of whether or not it is what you are "supposed to" say.

And I think that is the main reason that I am so compelled to share this story.  I still think about the mommy friend of mine who committed suicide at the beginning of the year and I think about the countless other moms, myself included, who sometimes struggle to make it to the end of the day.  It's normal and it's painful and it's hard to do, but I'm proud to still be standing at the end of the day (because, let's face it...even on the days when we have to sit down for a bit...we're still standing).

Normal

Please don't tell me that you "hope things are getting back to normal."  I know that you mean well and I'm sure that you say this simply because you aren't sure what else to say.  Believe me, I wish things could be normal.  I wish that I was rocking my five week old son to sleep right now instead of typing about coping with life after his death. But the reality is this:  Our lives will never be "normal" again.

We are functioning and we are working on finding a new routine for our family.  We are finding ways to cope with our grief and ways to brace ourselves for the days when the pain becomes overwhelming.  We work to find ways for the girls to remember their little brother while trying to make sure that his death doesn't scare them. 

These things are part of what has become "normal" for us now...but when you tell us that you "hope things are getting back to normal," you have no idea what that means.  There will always be a part of us that is missing and there will always be a scar in our hearts for the son we didn't get to keep.

For what it's worth, I wouldn't want things to "go back to normal."  That would be like acting that Aaron never existed.  He did.  It would be like saying that he isn't loved as much as our other children.  He is.  It would be like pretending that he hasn't changed our lives in a profound way.  He has.

We don't need the pain to go away or the tears to stop.  There is no shame in either of those things, but it would be nice for the pain to ease and the tears to lessen.  It's okay to be hurt and it's okay to need to cry; the ache and the tears will be with us for the rest of our lives.  But that doesn't mean that we can't be joyful or that we can't celebrate the blessings we are given.  We don't need to "return to normal" to feel happy; our "new normal" simply means making room for the grief alongside the joy. 

Grief's Background Music

I know I feel like writing tonight, but I'm not sure I'm going to have much success in figuring out what exactly I want to say.  I am such a mess of emotions tonight that I'm not sure anything is going to come out right.  But, that's never stopped me before. :)

Today, we have been celebrating Abby's second birthday.  Tomorrow will mark one month since we first held Aaron in our arms.  This weekend, we are having Abby's party with family and friends.  Tonight, all I can do is cry.

I know that each of the little milestones that you would normally associate with having a baby will be difficult - each new month, each birthday.  So I have been expecting a struggle as his one month "angelversary" came up.  I guess I wasn't expecting how quickly it would sneak up and surprise me.

Honestly, if you had asked me a week ago about how we were doing I really could have said that we were doing pretty well and actually meant it.  I know that part of that is because we do truly believe that Aaron is at rest and we have been so very comforted by the love, prayers and overwhelming support we have received.  Part of it is because we have been staying busy and don't have a lot of time to lay under the covers and mope.  And part of it is a tiny bit of avoidance I think...I don't mean that we avoid thinking or talking about Aaron because his name is heard multiple times every single day in our house.  But I do think that we make a pretty conscious effort to keep the grief at bay most of the time because if we let it all in at once, we would simply be drowning in it.  It's almost like our minds know that it is too much to handle all at once, so we work at balancing a "normal" life while still processing little bits of our grief at a time.

Right now, that means the balance has tipped a bit in grief's favor and we're struggling a little.  We are so excited to celebrate Abby's birthday and it is such an incredible blessing to be able to watch her with icing all over her face because she dove headfirst into her cupcake.  But it is impossible not to feel the sadness of knowing that our son will never get those moments with us.  It is impossible not to think about the fact that I gave birth to her brother a month ago and there will be no baby for friends and family to pass around at her party this weekend.  It is impossible not to get overwhelmed a little bit when the reality of his absence presents itself so firmly in front of me.

For me, letting the grief in bit by bit is the only way that I will make it through each day.  I am always aware of the fact that I miss him, but most of the time it is more like a constant background music.  Then there are days where it becomes this blaring cacophony that I can't step away from until it has decided to quiet down on its own; there is no volume button.  I do believe that those deafening moments will probably lessen in frequency, and hopefully in volume, as time goes on, but right now it's so loud that it's all I can hear.

Aaron's Angel Arms

The bracelet that started it all - Chris's bracelet with the Saint Michael medallion.

 The day before Aaron's funeral, we still didn't have something special for Chris to wear in Aaron's memory.  I had a beautiful pearl bracelet from Eden's Wings and we had made tiny pearl bracelets with little heart charms for each of the girls to wear "for Baby Aaron."  We had been looking online for a few days (since we had been staying up pretty much all night anyway, we had time for that) trying to find something manly that we could personalize...as it turns out, there just isn't a lot out there that is geared toward the Dads who have suffered the loss of a little one. 

I don't honestly remember how the idea of paracord bracelets came up, but we bought a package of royal blue paracord  and sent Chris to a Catholic bookstore about thirty minutes away for a Saint Michael medallion (or ten, as it turned out).  That night, with a little help from Professor Google, I sat on the couch and made Chris a bracelet specifically in memory of the son we would be laying to rest the next day. 

As a few days passed, it became obvious to me that making bracelets for other families was something tangible I could do...not just to honor Aaron's memory, but to provide something to other fathers who wanted something in memory of their own little ones.  Even though I knew how much Chris liked his bracelet, I wasn't sure it was even something that other Dads would want so I threw the idea out to one of the baby loss groups I'm a part of...and the response was loud and clear:  "Do it!"

So...nine days after I first made Chris's bracelet, "Aaron's Angel Arms" became 'Facebook official.'  Since then, I have been absolutely amazed at all that has happened. I would have never dreamed that I would be given the opportunity to connect with so many amazing people in such a short time.

We created a blog page to complement the Facebook page and give us a little different forum for sharing.  (And thanks to a very talented sister-in-law, we even have an online order form that makes my life a whole lot easier!)  :)  You can view it at AaronsAngelArms.blogspot.com. 

In these first two weeks, I have sent out 17 bracelets and received orders for over 20 more.  I have talked with other parents from all over the country who are willing to share their own stories of loss and allow me to share Aaron with them by providing a small reminder of our angels.  (As I asked how much shipping would cost to the UK, the woman at the post office even remarked today "Well, you've got 'em just going everywhere don't you?")

I have received offers from several who wanted to help purchase supplies, surprise their husbands, sponsor bracelets for others who couldn't afford them, or purchase a bracelet for a friend and from one who is even creating something special for us in memory of Aaron. 

The bracelet I made tonight for all three of my babies - Tori, Abby and Aaron.

Even though it has been only two weeks, I have already found so much healing in this project.  And although I truly wish that there was absolutely no need for any of us who make things in memory of Angel Babies,  I am truly humbled and honored to get to share in the stories of so many remarkable little babies, siblings, mothers and fathers. 

Trigger

It's been a few days since I have had the urge to write about anything...things have really been pretty much what you'd expect and I just haven't taken the time to say anything about it.  We've also been keeping ourselves fairly busy with the girls, repainting the kitchen, trying to undo the disaster that our house became in the last three weeks, contemplating some life changes, and working on the memorial project that I decided to start (more on that coming soon).  Today, though, I need this.

I have known since we first received Aaron's diagnosis back in October that our lives would never be quite the same again.  I knew that, for the rest of our lives, there would always be someone missing from our family and that, no matter how we heal, we will always be aware of the son that isn't with us.  I knew there would be good days, neutral days, bad days and really bad days. 

What I wasn't really prepared for (although I had been warned by plenty of other moms) is how unexpectedly something would trigger a breakdown.  It was kind of a given that it would probably be difficult to see other babies for a while and I have seen plenty of them in the three weeks since Aaron's birth.  They do catch my attention and I find myself looking at them a little longer than I used to.  I am acutely aware of the sadness in my heart, but most of the time I just say a little prayer for their health and go on with my day.

Last weekend, we went to the library with the girls and saw a mom about our age with two little girls who looked to be about 6 and 4 and a little boy who was probably 2...exactly the age spread that ours would have been.  It caught my eye and I paused for a few minutes while I just watched them all head out to the parking holding hands.  Mercifully, I was busy putting on Tori's coat and she distracted me almost immediately.  Today, however, was a completely different story.  While I was checking out our books, a mom came in with a baby carrier on her arm and  two little girls who were probably the same age as Abby and Tori.  Then I hear her say to the younger one, "Come on Abby, let's go over here."

I just lost it.  Standing in the middle of the public library with tears just streaming down my face as I'm trying to hurry up and finish scanning our books so we can get out of there as quickly as possible before I start actively sobbing.  Despite frantically trying to wipe away the tears before the girls noticed, I hear Tori ask loudly from the boat where she has been busily steering away from imaginary marine obstacles "Mommy, why are you crying??" Crap.

Trying to placate her with "It's okay sweetie, Mommy's fine." is pretty much a lost cause, so I had to take her aside and explain to her what was going on.  I let her know that Mommy saw another baby and it made me sad because I still miss Baby Aaron and wish he was here with us.  We went through the usual routine of explaining how it's okay to be sad and to cry when we need to.  She was fine with that answer and dropped it after that. 

I, on the other hand, find myself crying again as I write about it.  I assume today's encounter was so much more difficult than last weekend because it is much easier to imagine myself with the baby that is supposed to be in my arms rather than the toddler that I won't be chasing in two years.  I know this won't be the last time something floods in and reminds me so painfully of the little man that we are missing, but that means it also won't be the last time that I thank God for the opportunity that I had to hold him in my arms, even if only for a little while.  It also won't be the last time that I am reminded of the opportunities that I have every day to hold the girls, help them remember their baby brother, and let them know how much they are all loved.

Trying to Find Some Light

I mentioned last night that things have been rough lately and that is still true.  Today (since it is already after 1:00am) marks two weeks since Aaron was born and one week since we laid him to rest.  It seems like it's taken this long for the initial shock to wear off and for things to settle down enough for the enormity of all that has been happening to really sink in for me.  Chris and I have had a lot of heart-to-hearts and are doing our best to stay on top of all of these emotions and struggles, but these are some of the worst days we've had since getting our diagnosis in October. 

Although it would be hard to explain to anyone exactly why things suddenly took such a difficult turn, in talking with other mommas who have been through this I have found that the two-week mark seems to be a universally difficult one for lots of us.  Like I said above, this seems to be the point where there is no longer quite so much that needs our attention and everything really has the opportunity to sink in. 

Although things are dark and difficult and painful right now, I find myself more thankful than ever for the love and support of my husband.  We are blessed with a marriage in which there is no topic too scary or too intense; I know that he is available to hear whatever I am saying and he knows that the same is true when he needs to talk.  I can not even imagine how much more difficult this journey would be if we didn't have that "safe place" where we could be honest about how we truly feel.

I am also so thankful for the online forums in which I have found support from other mothers who have dealt with anencephaly, stillbirth and carrying to term.  Not only do those groups offer the anonymity of the internet, but you are also instantly connected with thousands of others who are in all stages of their own journeys.  It gives me the opportunity to share our experiences with those who have just received a poor diagnosis or are maybe just preparing to deliver, but also allows me to talk with mothers who delivered several months ago to see that life really does start to get a little easier again and to let me know that everything I've been feeling really is totally normal. 

I am, of course, still grateful for the continued love, prayers and support from our families and friends too.  Although there hasn't been much that we have been able to ask of them, we know they all stand at the ready if only we could find something they could do.  They have all done all that they can right now to help us and just knowing that they are there for us to call on is a comfort.

I didn't really know what I hoped to convey when I sat down to write tonight, because things do feel pretty awful right now and I'm just not ready to share what all of that looks like from the inside at the moment.  It was, however, nice to take the moment to reflect on all of the support we have had in the last few months and be mindful of the light that still exists at the edge of all this darkness.

Aaron's Funeral Mass

I did actually write most of this post the day after Aaron's funeral but just hadn't posted it yet.  Honestly, tonight has been one of the hardest I've had since we received the diagnosis in October so rather than try to make sense of the mess in my head right now, I decided it would be a good night to finish up this post and reflect on the peace I felt when I first wrote it. 

As I have mentioned before, Aaron's Mass was absolutely beautiful and Father John did a wonderful job of speaking directly to our hearts.  It did truly help us find a peace in laying our son to rest.  We were blessed to have so many family members and friends who were able to join us and we were touched by each person who came to help us celebrate our little guy.

I don't think it will ever be possible to forget that day, but I wanted to write it all down tonight while it was still so fresh in my mind so that I will always be able to come back and read over this.  I also wanted to share with anyone who wasn't able to be with us for his service.

Since we had chosen not to do a visitation, we were fortunate enough to have the church opened an hour and a half before Mass so that Chris and I could have some time to spend in prayer quietly with our son before we welcomed family and friends to gather with us.  Although it isn't something that is normally done, especially not in a lot of Catholic churches, it meant so very much to have that time before Mass to spend a few minutes with each person who came to celebrate Aaron's life and show their support for our family.  Father John has said several times since we first met with him that there isn't really isn't a good manual for this sort of thing and it was evident that he was truly letting God guide him in finding what would be best for us and our family.

Thankfully, we had chosen many of the readings and music selections before Aaron was born so we had plenty of time to reflect on exactly what we wanted.  As I heard the songs sung by those who love us and the words we had chosen read aloud, we knew we had chosen correctly.  Although we are heartbroken that Aaron didn't get to stay here with us, we wanted his funeral Mass to make it clear that we know he is safe where he is and we believe that one day we will see him again. 

 Funeral Liturgy Selections
 * Gathering Hymn - "We Walk By Faith"  "We Walk By Faith" YouTube
 * First Reading - Wisdom 4:7-15
 * Responsorial Psalm - Psalm 23
 * Second Reading - 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18
 * Gospel Reading - John 14:1-6
 * Communion Hymn - "Be Not Afraid"  "Be Not Afraid" YouTube
 * Song of Farewell - "On Eagle's Wings"  "On Eagle's Wings" YouTube

We went out to the cemetery immediately after Mass.  Chris, the girls and I all got to ride with Aaron in the limo, which was nice except that I panicked about halfway to the cemetery and thought that I had forgotten how to get there (and realized later that I definitely did not pick the shortest route).  Thankfully my dad came to the rescue and helped lead us the rest of the way (as it turns out, I knew where we were going...just had a momentary freak out).

Father John said a few final words graveside, then the girls wanted to send some balloons up to Aaron in Heaven.  Tori had chosen a blue balloon for him and Abby insisted that he wanted pink. (Abby let hers go later than the rest because she was standing on the string, but somehow it caught up to the others almost right away.)  Chris and I had white balloons for him (thank you to my younger sister for picking them up for us).  We stood with the girls until the balloons were out of sight and listened as Tori told us about what she thought Aaron would do with his balloons - she was pretty sure he was going to pop them, just for fun.

Friends and family headed back into town to meet us for the luncheon that some very kind women from church had prepared for us.  Chris and I had decided ahead of time that we wanted to stay behind until they placed Aaron's casket in the ground.  The two men were so gentle as they laid down to lower him and then stepped aside so we had a few minutes to talk with our son one more time.  Although it was muddy, Chris and I each got to place a handful of earth with him (although the mud wasn't nearly as poetic as dry dirt...the messy clunkiness seemed more appropriate for the way we felt anyway). 

Honestly, I wasn't sure how I would feel about staying to watch my son be placed in the ground.  As it turned out, my husband once again knew what he was talking about when he suggested it.  It produced a feeling of closure and finality to it all that I'm not sure I would've felt otherwise.  I know it may not be the right choice for everyone, but for us, it was certainly the right thing to do. 

As I said in my first post about Aaron's funeral mass, it was a chilly rainy day but it was a beautiful service.  We are so very grateful for the friends and family who were able to join us and sincerely appreciate the prayers of those who weren't able to be there. 

Bitterness

Out of all the emotions that I have been working my way through since October, bitterness has always played just a minor role.  There have certainly been times when it has wormed itself into my thoughts along with a touch of resentment, but overall I just don't find it to be a particularly useful emotion. 

There are several people close to me who have had children recently or are expecting a new baby soon.  During the first month or so after we received our diagnosis, seeing babies or other pregnant women nearly broke my heart.  That was when the bitterness was worst...I was almost angry at them for their healthy babies or their "normal" pregnancies.  In my mind, I would ask a hundred times why our child was going to be taken from us so soon and longed to know what we had done to deserve such unthinkable heartache.  It wasn't that I ever wished to trade places with anyone else, because I wouldn't wish this sort of pain on anyone...I just couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that everyone else was getting these healthy, perfect babies and we would soon be planning a funeral.

Thankfully, that phase was short-lived and I can honestly say I've moved beyond it.  It is still painful, but there is no longer a bitterness or resentment to accompany the ache when I see someone else's newborn or learn of a new pregnancy. 

Although we miss Aaron and will continue to miss him every day of our lives, we are so very thankful for him.  He taught us more about life, love and faith than some people are able to share with others in a lifetime that lasts a hundred years.  He helped us find a strength within ourselves that we had no idea existed.  He showed us how important it is to cherish every day and every moment because nothing is a guarantee.  He gave us the opportunity to truly learn what "unconditional love" really means, even though we thought we already knew.   

Although he weighed just over four pounds and had the tiniest little feet I have ever seen, Aaron Michael left footprints on our hearts and in our lives that have forever changed us.    

Kind of Jumbled

The last few days have been a struggle...not that I think that's going to surprise anyone, but I've been a little surprised at way that those struggles have presented themselves.  Honestly, I initially had no real intention of posting anything tonight because I am simply not thinking clearly enough to be sure that I can write anything that makes sense.  But I got some encouraging words from one of the moms I met online recently who made it a point to tell me that my words have been helping her as she prepares for the birth of her little angel in just a few weeks.  That made me remember how difficult it was, in all of the blogs that I stalked before Aaron's birth, to find anything that other mommas had written in the days immediately after their babies left them.  I suspect the reason for that is because most of them felt exactly the way I've been feeling lately.

Of course I am sad and of course I am grieving for my son, but I am also struggling to figure out how to incorporate that into my daily life.  If Aaron had been our first child, I kind of feel like I might have just spent the last ten days curled up in bed but the fact is that Tori and Abby still need their parents.  If we sat around and cried all day, they would be terrified and probably traumatized, so we try our best to save most of our emotional moments for the evening after they've gone to sleep.  I've said before that the world hasn't stopped turning just because our baby died (though I certainly wish it could've paused for me to catch my breath) so we are left trying to figure out where we fit in a world that is still basically the same, while we will never be the same again.

Those of you who know me personally know that I really really like my "to-do" lists and my Post-It notes.  For whatever reason, I thought that last night would be a good time to sit down and start making a list of all the things that will need to be done in the near future...turns out it was actually a really stupid idea and just caused me more anxiety than I need.  I know that it is my way of making sure that things don't get forgotten, but I probably could've waited a bit to put it all on paper.  It also makes me realize that I don't actually want to do any of the important stuff that I should be working on...the only things from my to-do list that I feel like doing are the ones that are much less critical.  For example, I don't want to pay bills or look at taxes.  I don't want to wash the dishes or tackle our mountain of laundry.  I don't want to sweep the floor or unpack our hospital bags.  I want to work on the blankets I've been making.  I want to sort all of the kid clothes in the garage so I can finally take some to a consignment store.  I want to scour the internet finding stuff for Abby's birthday party.  I want to shop online for supplies for the bracelets I've started making.  I want to spend several hours Facebook-stalking and talking to the other moms I've met in the last few months. All of the things that I want to do are just busy enough to keep me distracted, but don't really require a lot of brain power. 

I am trying to be kind to myself and just try to roll with whatever doesn't send me into a panic...as long as I've got the bare minimum done right now (by that, I mean we're all bathed, fed and clothed and the bills are paid on time), I figure I'm going to try to cut myself some slack.  That's actually what we've been trying to do yesterday and today - we haven't left the house and we haven't done much besides color, read stories, bake cookies, and watch cartoons.

Peace Be With You

One week ago, we welcomed Aaron Michael into our arms.  Today we laid him to rest, trusting that he will now rest peacefully in the arms of God. 

Despite the cold rain that fell all day today, we have been surrounded by nothing but warmth and beauty from all those who celebrated Aaron's life with us.  Father John conducted a Mass that was truly beautiful and was exactly what we had wanted for our son.  He has treated us with so much compassion and done absolutely everything in his power to help two grieving parents celebrate their child.  He spoke from his heart and his sincerity was evident in every word that he spoke.  The woman who helped coordinate all the elements of Mass is one of the kindest souls I have ever met; she shared a piece of her heart with me and worked so hard to make sure everything today was as perfect as it could be.  The folks from the funeral home have truly been a blessing throughout this process and have gone above and beyond more times than I can even count to help us honor our little boy.  The sweet ladies who prepared a small luncheon for our friends and family to enjoy following the burial provided us all with a place to meet and spend some time together after saying goodbye to Aaron. 

We also had so much support from family, friends and coworkers who came to celebrate Mass with us...and so many more prayers from those who couldn't join us today.  I don't know that I have ever been one who can honestly say that I've ever personally felt the power of prayer before, but that is the only explanation I have for the peace and comfort that we have felt today.

We are, of course, grieving the fact that we never got to bring our son home, but at the same time Chris and I both feel calmer tonight than we have at any point during the last week.  We truly feel that we have passed Aaron's spirit into the arms of God and that his earthly body is resting comfortably in its proper place here.  The peace that has brought to both of us is like nothing I could ever have expected.  Truly, I expected to battle a lot of emotions today, but I did not expect peace to be at the forefront.  

I know that in the weeks to come, this peace may sometimes be overshadowed by the grief and the loss that we will continue to feel for the rest of our lives.  We will never forget that our sweet son was taken from us in time that we felt was all too short, but my hope is that we will always be able to find our way back to the peace that we feel tonight. 

(I do plan to post all of the details from Aaron's service, maybe later tonight or tomorrow, but this was on my heart and I wanted to share it, perhaps to help others who are grieving our loss alongside us tonight.)

So Many Questions

One of the hardest conversations I have ever had in my life started this afternoon with my oldest child telling me, "Mommy, I just want to cry because I miss my baby Aaron so much."

I have posted several times in the last few months about how we have handled all of this with both girls and our approach has always been pretty straightforward.  Despite the honesty that we have maintained with them, we are still very careful that they will rarely see us cry about all that has happened.  It isn't because we want to hide the sadness or tears, it is because they are still babies themselves and we don't need to add any stress beyond that which is unavoidable.

So when Tori climbed into my lap this afternoon with tears streaming down her sweet little cheeks and told me that, I was caught a little off-guard.  Thankfully Chris and Abby were both nearby and we got to turn it into a fairly positive family moment, but it was a rough one.  I scooped her up, hugged her tight and told her that it was perfectly fine if she felt like crying because it's okay to be sad.  We let her know that Mommy and Daddy are sad too and sometimes we have to cry just like she does.  We also made it a point to tell her that it's okay to be happy too, because Aaron is safe in Heaven with God and knows that we love him very very much.  Abby was snuggled into Chris's lap and would occasionally come over to pat my cheek or look up and say "Heaven? God? S'okay Momma."  

I honestly can not remember the whole conversation or exactly how it went because I was so moved by her emotions and overwhelmed by my own - my intense grief over the loss of my son, but also the equally intense love I have for all three of my children.

We ended up spending nearly 45 minutes comforting her and answering so many questions.  She wanted to know if God was going to hold him and snuggle him for us, if he would give him kisses good night, and if God had a special crib waiting for Aaron in Heaven.  She wanted to know how Aaron got from here to Heaven and if someone had helped him get there -- then she said she thought that maybe Grandma used her wings to fly down and pick him up because if he tried to get there himself he might get squished by a car or truck when he crossed a road.  She wanted to know if Aaron could hear us in Heaven and wanted to know why we can't hear God talk to us but He can hear us talking to him.

We have tried several different times to try to explain what will happen at Tuesday's funeral and struggle with explaining the casket to her, but we've let her know that we'll be going to church to pray to God and ask him to always keep Aaron safe for us.  We've let her know that when people die, their angels go up to Heaven and we bury the box so their bodies can rest safely here.  (To this, she responded adamantly that Aaron was in Heaven, not still here.  So we left that one alone for now.)  She knows that the toys she and Abby got for him were sent to Heaven with him.  She and Abby both plan to release a balloon for him at the cemetery on Tuesday...Tori thinks he would like a blue one and Abby insists that he's getting pink. 

She also decided tonight that he needed something else to to snuggle, so we suggested that we could get him something and put it on top of the ground where we will bury his box.  She tapped her chin thoughtfully for a minute and informed me, "Umm...no I don't think that's going to work.  But, we can do this - let's bury them in the sand next time we go to the beach when it gets warm and then Aaron and Grandma can come get them from the beach!!  But you have to put them in a box first so it doesn't get dirty!!!"  I have no idea where she came up with that plan, but it seemed important to her...so looks like we'll be burying something on the beach next time we go.

She did eventually get settled down and we went on with our day.  There were a few more random questions since we went to purchase a crucifix and a rosary for Sunday's service, but overall she seems to be satisfied with her answers for now. 

Empty

I've been staring at a blinking cursor on a blank page for a few minutes now and can not, for the life of me, figure out what it is that I want to say tonight.  Honestly, I had hoped that we would be in bed by now but a combination of insomnia and a 3.5 year old who woke up covered in urine and vomit delayed that a bit.  It isn't that we aren't tired, because we are and we absolutely need the rest. 

But as long as I'm awake, I can find something to work on or something to do...anything to keep my mind busy.  I even rearranged our computer cabinet and organized our tax documents tonight because I ran out of legitimate tasks that actually needed completed right now.  It's just easier to keep making up excuses to stay awake than it is to decide to get some sleep.
 
When we start preparing to go to bed, that's when I start to feel the panic rise up.  In the dark, in bed...all I can think about is the baby that is supposed to be sleeping in the pack-n-play at the foot of our bed just like his sisters did.  It helps me remember what his weight felt like against my chest but that also reminds me that my arms are so empty without him.  Going to bed forces me to realize that I can roll over and sleep in any position I want because there is no longer a big belly or a baby forcing me to sleep on my side.  As much as I hate sleeping on my side, I loved feeling him shift around inside of me and feeling his little hiccups bounce around.  Now there is nothing there but the memory. 

Everyone has told us in these last months how incredibly strong we are ... tonight, I don't feel strong.  I feel empty.

I was looking for a quote tonight and this is what I found.  I want to believe it, with all my heart I want to believe that all of this grief and this pain is all for something greater.  On the good days, I am even comforted by the thought.  On the bad days, it's harder.  Today is one of the bad days...today, I just want my little boy back in my arms. 

Time Marches On

I'm not sure I even know what it is that I need to say tonight, but I feel like I have to try.  I can almost guarantee that it won't be eloquent and it might not even make sense, but that's okay.

It's been three days since we had Aaron...in some ways, it feels like it's already been ages ago but in other ways, it still seems like it was just yesterday.  In an even bigger way though...it's hard to believe that we had him at all and that he's really gone. 

We weren't exactly prepared for him to make his arrival as quickly as he did, so I think that contributes to the feeling of shell-shock that we both have right now.  It just seems that, all of a sudden he was here...and then he was gone.  And in reality...that is kind of what happened.  Although we were incredibly blessed and grateful to have 22 hours with our little guy, that is still just the blink of an eye when it comes to spending time with your child. 

It just doesn't seem possible that our baby died three days ago and yet life continues to go on in such a normal way.  What I'd really like is for the world to just stop for a little while to give me a chance to sit down and cry and not have to continue doing all of those things that need to be done.  There is, however, a part of me that knows if I allow the world to stop for too long, it just might not get started again too easily. 

While I feel like silently falling apart on the inside, the world continues moving on.  It is almost like I am watching everything happen in front of me, but I'm underwater and just moving forward takes so much extra work.  I see everyone else going on with what appear to be very normal days, but for us there is nothing normal about them at all. 

Today, we decided that we had to get out of the house for a little while.  We stopped at Burger King to grab lunch and we were "those people."  The ones with the two year old who keeps trying to sneak off and the four year old who had a total meltdown and cried loudly in the middle of the restaurant; she has never, ever done that before.  She freaked out because we packed up their food and told them they could finish in the car because lunch was taking so long and we were nearly out of energy to handle it well.  As we walked out of the restaurant, three different people commented to us, "Aww...someone's upset."  and "Aww, the little queen looks unhappy." and "Aww...must be naptime."  We said nothing, just smiled and kept walking.  But what I wanted to scream was, "No! She isn't tired and this isn't a tantrum...her brother is dead and we all feel like screaming and crying just like she is doing."  Then we went to Target to pick up my prescription and a few groceries (oddly, they were part of an extreme coupon trip that Chris and I had planned to do on date night Tuesday).  The girls weren't particularly well-behaved there either and we had another meltdown, but to anyone watching us...it would have appeared just the same as any other toddler freaking out on any normal day. 

I have been so absorbed these last few days in this whole list of things that need to be done and phone calls that had to be made. I'm a little more okay when my mind is busy and I'm actively working on something, but when I stop and have time that isn't occupied by details or by my girls...that is so much harder.  A perfect example - I didn't go to bed last night until 5am.  I was up working on drafting his birth announcement/memorial card, finalizing funeral selections, sending emails ...I wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway, so I thought I should at least put that time to use.  My hope had been that I would be so tired that I could just fall into bed and sleep, but it didn't happen that way and I'm glad I have a husband who is always there for me.

I knew ahead of time that this period would be hard, but I wasn't prepared for how much "normal" would still try to exist.  I think that is part of what is leaving me feeling so unsettled right now...our life has been forever changed, but when we came home from the hospital...everything still looked the same.  Our daily routine hasn't changed much, our bills still need paid, our pets still need care, our children still need our love, the laundry still needs done, the dishes still get dirty...and the list goes on.  It feels like the world doesn't even know that our precious baby is gone and it hurts so much to try to figure out how to function in that world. 

I know it isn't entirely rational and I know that we have literally hundreds of people who are praying for us and hurt deeply for us.  We are truly and deeply grateful for all of those prayers and there is no doubt in my mind that those prayers have helped carry us through. It's just hard to stand here and watch life continue to swirl around me while I feel so lost.