Announcing Our Rainbow

"The term Rainbow Baby is the understanding that the beauty of a rainbow does not negate the ravages of the storm. When a rainbow appears, it doesn't mean the storm never happened or that the family is not still dealing with its aftermath. What it means is that something beautiful and full of light has appeared in the midst of the darkness and clouds. Storm clouds may still hover but the rainbow provides a counterbalance of color, energy and hope."

Here is our "Rainbow Baby" due to arrive January 31, 2014.  

It's taken fourteen weeks and two ultrasounds, but we are finally ready to share the next leg of our journey.

During the last few weeks, I have been creating a series of posts that have been hanging around in draft form detailing what these first few months have held for us.  I honestly have not yet decided whether I will choose to share those here, in Aaron's space, or whether I will create a new space for sharing this part of our journey.  Part of me believes that this next step is very much a part of Aaron's life, as he is still very much a part of ours.  The other part of me doesn't want to overwhelm the place that began for him with the story of his baby brother or sister.

I suspect that, in the end, I will choose to continue on in this space because it would be impossible to separate the story of this pregnancy from the story of our first son.  And I wouldn't want to, even if I could.

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...

Quicksand

I know I've written a few times in the past about the ways in which our experiences since October have changed us - there are certainly many. The one that has been most on my mind lately is a change with which I cannot seem to make any kind of peace. Fear.

There are a million ways in which this new companion manifests itself. Most prevalent is the overwhelming fear that something is going to happen to the rest of my family - I am positively terrified that something horrible is going to happen to my girls, my husband, my parents, my siblings, my nieces, my nephews and the list goes on and on.  In fact, there have been weekends when Chris was supposed to take the girls out somewhere and I have literally been in tears begging him to just stay home that day because in my mind, I was certain they would never make it home if they left. God love him, he always hugs me and agrees to change plans for that day so they are relatively safe at home while I sleep. I know that it isn't a terribly rational request and I usually feel guilty for it, but at the same time I can literally feel the panic welling up in my chest in those moments and unwillingly begin to envision my life without the three of them.

Just as prominent is the unsettling feeling that we can never again expect to have a healthy "normal" pregnancy.  After the shock of receiving Aaron's diagnosis and the time that I have spent talking with other parents who have survived devastating losses, the odds of anyone ever having a healthy pregnancy seem dire, at best.  Even if we are blessed with another "healthy" pregnancy/baby, there is no doubt that I would spend nearly every moment of that pregnancy waiting for something to go horribly wrong.  At this point, I know too much - the innocence that I used to have about pregnancy is long gone and I am all too aware of the fragility and blessing in creating and sustaining life.

When I'm not in a panic about something happening to a loved one or potential loved one, I am just waiting for some expensive catastrophe with the house or the van or with one of our jobs.  In my mind, the van is a ticking time bomb just waiting for a costly repair bill, every major appliance in the house is just biding time before it quits working and needs replaced, or one of us will unexpectedly be unemployed and our finances will simply crumble.  The fact of the matter is that things do go wrong and we should probably expect them, but it's like I exist in constant waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under us again.

I am well aware that this level of anxiety, fear and apprehension is far from healthy.  It comes as no shock to me that I have trouble sleeping or that I am in an unending state of turmoil.  It is no surprise that this constant conflict is exhausting.  Unfortunately, simply knowing that many of my fears are irrational does nothing to make them any less real.  This is one of the wounds that leaves a deep scar on those whose lives have been changed in less than the blink of eye.  While some may feel it less intensely than others, there is a part of the soul that will never heal completely from that kind of life-shock.  It is actually something that I have heard others in the babyloss community mention frequently and I would suspect that it probably holds true for other sudden, life-altering events as well. 

I think that's one of the reasons that I have had such a hard time facing this particular demon.  It isn't just something that I need to "work through" or "wait out."  I'm afraid this one is going to be a lifelong change - I may get better at coping with it and I will probably learn not to let it dictate so much of our lives, but I will never again feel the blissful ignorance that comes from lack of experience. 

So I have to confess that my original intention was to end this entry above the picture, but as I was searching for a fitting image, I came across this one.  It led me to do a little reflection (which, after all, is one of the points of keeping this space) and here is where I ended up: I can still be depressed about losing our son; I can still be anxious about what may lie ahead...but I need to be more mindful of this: every moment that I spend lost in either of those is a moment where I miss the beauty in front of me.

Reach

When I came here the other day to create a post, I was shocked to see that the total pageviews had exceeded 30,000 and that the views for Aaron's birth story alone were over 1,000.  I never dreamed that so many would read the words that I have written about our sweet son.  This blog was something I started with the primary purpose of helping me begin to heal and my hope was that somewhere along the way it would help someone else too.

There are times when I am simply speechless when I realize just how many have been reached by Aaron's story and his brief life with us.  I know what an impact he has made on us, but to hear others share the ways in which he has touched them is amazing.  I have been contacted by people from all around the world who have read these words or who have seen Aaron's story posted somewhere.  Many have reached out to express condolences, others have sent prayers on our behalf and still others have been in contact to let me know that they, too, are going through a similar experience and have found strength in the words I've written.  That last group, of course, is always the most emotionally charged for me.

In the days and months following Aaron's diagnosis, I spent countless hours searching out and soaking up everything I could read that others had written about their journeys.  Something about hearing the words of others who had traveled a similar path was comforting.  I found many that were inspiring, most were heart-breaking, a number of them offered helpful tips and advice, some were full of bitterness and anger, and others conveyed a message of faith and hope. 

I have never really chosen a specific direction that I wanted for this space, but I knew that I wanted the overall feel to be one of hope and of gratefulness for the time that we were given with our son.  There have absolutely been times when I've written a piece that was angry or painful or sorrow-filled, but my goal, both in life and in my writing, has been to avoid dwelling in the pits for too long.  Most of the time, it's a goal that I achieve...sometimes it's a little tougher than others.

As we approach a time this month when our son would have been five months old, I find that the grief we feel is often just as strong as it was in the very beginning while other times it takes on a more dulled edge. I am so grateful for this space and for those who allow me to continue sharing the story of our little boy on the good days and the bad.

 

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.