Choosing Hope

This Mother’s Day I have no words… there is joy and there is pain and there is thankfulness and fear, and I can’t quite sort them all out right now.  So on this Mother’s Day, simply some beautiful faces… some that are here and some that I miss, but all that have called me “Mommy.”

  Please leave me a comment; it lets me know you’re listening!

Friday, April 26th.  An ordinary day that should not have stood out in my mind.  But somehow it did.  As much as I pushed the thought to the back of my mind , I subconsciously still counted the days.

On a morning that thrilled with the hum of routine, my heart knew it was different. Day 135. One hundred thirty five days of waking up feeling like Christmas as I float in to scoop up the warm snuggly smile that awaits me beneath rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes.  Handfuls of days to smell his sweet skin and feel tiny fingers wrap around mine.  Four and a half months that feel like a lifetime that I cannot imagine any different, but four and a half months to remember what a painfully short amount of time that is.

April 26th, my beautiful Colby Grayson was the same age Ellianna was when we held her as she drew her last breath.  Another morning we had awoken, expecting ordinary.

 Earlier in the week I tried to imagine… two days left… what if I had known?  What would I have done?

While I may have paused to let my lips memorize the feel of her skin, or rocked her through the night instead of putting her in her own bed because I was exhausted, deep down I’m glad I didn’t know.  I was present in those days before we lost her, instead of worrying what it would be like without her.  I let myself imagine who she would be, instead of wondering what would be her very last outfit.

 No matter how long the time… days, months, hours, it would have always been too short.  It reminds me of the song “The Dance” by Garth Brooks… “I could have missed the pain, but I’d have had to miss the dance.”  I’m glad I spent those four and a half months imagining my lifetime with her, instead of bracing for the reality ahead.

Day 136 I lifted Colby out of his bed and breathed in every memory I could.  I smiled, I cried, and I whispered a prayer of thanks that I got to  hold him in my arms this day…and the next, and the next, and the next.

FEAR.  That’s the big scar for me that I have done battle with for months.  This season in my life has too acutely shown me how little control I have.  Not so good for a perfectionistic control freak like me, oh my!  It is a journey… to learn how to trust with unwavering faith.  I have a long way to go.

I feared when we brought Colby home from the hospital at one week old.  He seemed so healthy, but I worried anyway.

 It took me several days to realize why my stomach hurt every time I combed his hair– it was my body remembering softly brushing over the scars on Ellianna’s head–always scared that I might hurt her. 

Colby’s soft, milky baby smell made my chest hurt.  It reminded me of the day that scent disappeared too soon.  I breathed deep of it, to ingrain it into my memory; afraid that day would come again.

My sweet baby boy started sleeping through the night at two weeks old.  Dreamy, sighing, refreshing sleep, and yet I was exhausted; awake every 15 minutes to check if he was still breathing. 

I have feared I won’t have the chance for one more photo, or that I won’t have any video of him.  You can imagine what THAT fear has led to 🙂

After several weeks of the sun rising with my sweet little boy still safe in my arms, I began to let my guard down.  That was when my faith was tested again.

He was blue, gasping, but no rise of his tiny chest.  My mind shut down, my hands did what I have been trained to do… but I couldn’t revive him on my own.  I called for help, and it wasn’t until he was on the way to the hospital ahead of me, that it all came crashing down.  The roots of hope I have been nurturing were pulled by doubt.  I was blind with terror, incredulous that I was about to live this nightmare again.

Colby stabilized, he was breathing on his own, weak and pale, but breathing.  He was admitted with aspiration pneumonia after spitting up and then inhaling the fluid.  It seemed so stable, but my heart was not.

This will sound ridiculous, but I started taking pictures.  Every few minutes taking another, because “what if this is my last chance?”
                             

It wasn’t just me… shortly after my husband left the hospital to go home to the other kids for the night, he texted me.  He was sick because it was all too familiar…. the last time he left, leaving me at the hospital with our little girl, and me calling him to come back because she was going to die.

I was standing over Colby’s bed.  He was pale, temperature rising, and everything in me was bracing for impact.  I bowed my head and I screamed at the God I was trying to trust. 

“Don’t you dare take my son from me.  I am not Job.  I will not continue to praise You.  I will not survive this time.” 

All this fear stemming from such a shallow belief that the God I claim to believe, really does have my best interests at heart.

They say He doesn’t give us more than we can handle… So I’m trying to believe that He must really think I’m strong to give me what He has.  Doesn’t make it easier really.

 As I’m entering another season that at times seems too much, I have the advantage of being able to look back at all He has brought me through.  Wasn’t ever pretty at the time, but here I am… after days I thought I would never make it through, here I am.  And there He is, just trying to make a Job out of me 🙂

Colby has since recovered completely, and is thriving.  His smell is sweet, his smiles are cherished, and we have enough photos to embarrass him for years to come.  I am sleeping almost the whole 8 hours that he is, and I am continually, purposefully giving my fears to God.

Two of my sweet little ones have surgeries coming up.  Although nothing like the brain surgeries that changed our lives, I can’t help but feel anxious.  Enough so that we are opting to drive to a hospital out of town instead of sitting in that familiar waiting room close to home.  I know that I will be an emotional wreck; that’s just the result of the hard that I’ve been through. But I’m being intentional about sharing my fears, leaning in, and choosing to hope that good things and happy endings do exist.

 Most of all, I’m preaching to myself, reviewing the promises, and remembering that even if things get hard, I will be upheld and sustained by a God who has already brought me through so much.

People don’t like hard.  They don’t want to be involved in messy, and they certainly don’t want to feel uncomfortable.

That has been a difficult reality for me to learn over the past year and a half.  When our lives got hard, we saw too many people walk away.  People we thought would be there day in and day out to pull us through, instead chose to walk to more comfortable ground where there were less tears, less heartache, and certainly no talk about death.

Some of those people have been watching; waiting until it seems like the air has cleared and they wont have to see any pain when they talk to us.  These “waiters in the wings” have assumed that it must have been long enough now.  This precious new baby we have welcomed into our lives has surely healed all our pain and enabled us to move into the future without talking about the past.

Well, oops, sorry to burst that bubble.

Hard is not fun. Hard is not pretty. It’s not something any of us would choose, but it is real and immutable and a big part of what makes us who we become.  The hard things we go through don’t magically fade away after a given amount of time.  The hard things become part of our story, and shape how we respond in the future.

Reluctantly, we have let it in.  We have leaned into it, wrestled with it, and learned how to push on when we don’t know how.

The people who don’t want to know hard exists, won’t want to commune with us, but the ones who are brave enough to embrace it, might just be blessed by some of the things it has changed in us.

Are you brave enough to let us in?

During the first few weeks of Colby’s life, I was aware numerous times of the differences between him and Ellianna.

He is alert… he shows interest…his body feels so soft and cuddly compared to the stiff muscles Ellie had.  All these things not only made us realize just how sick Ellie had been, but how healthy our new little guy is.  In spite of these obvious differences, my heart was holding out for one thing…

I know there are many anti-Valentine’s Day folks out there… for various reasons.

I like this special day, not so much for all the mushy him and her stuff, but because it gives me an extra special day to celebrate my LITTLE loves.  I enjoy their sleepy smiles when they stumble in to find a little gift wrapped in red tissue paper, topped with a sugary treat.  It is satifying to see the awe on their faces when they see that I can make pancakes turn pink, or create eggs in the shape of a heart.  They are my little Valentines, and I love reminding them just how full my heart is because of them.

There came a day though last week when Valentine’s made me feel sick.  The day I wandered through the store picking that special little treat for each of my sweeties. 

I absently stumbled upon the baby section of the store and stopped right in front of a tiny white dress sprinkled with the brightest pink butterflies.  A year and a half since I have held her, and my first thought was, “Perfect!  That’s what I will get for Ellianna.”  And then it hit me like a belly full of concrete.  She is gone.  I don’t get to pick a special Valentine surprise for her.  The only things I get to buy for this little girl are things on sticks.

A frosted flower, a flapping butterfly, a wooden heart…  things on a stick that can be stuck in the cold metal vase that sits atop her grave.  That’s it, and it makes me so sad.

I miss that I don’t get to remind her I’m thinking of her with a special treat or a new hair bow.  I miss knowing to buy her favorite color, and what size she would need.  I miss getting to tie a red bow in her hair, and staying up late to cut her sandwich in the shape of a heart.

Mostly though, I miss getting to hold her and tell her how much I love her.  So Jesus, hold my heart… until someday again I get to hold… my Chubby Little Pumpkin.

If I could figure out how to blog while nursing a baby, I would have been caught up well before now:)

Yes, he is here.  Our little nugget of handsomeness took his first breath at 2:48pm on Thursday, December 13th. 

Here is how it went….

Pregnancy was hard this time.  It came with a slew of health problems for me, a monstrous load of fear, and 8 long weeks on bedrest.  I was determined to soak up as many moments as I could, relishing in the fact that God was creating new life through me, and cherishing each new change that brought this little one closer to resting in our arms.  I took a boatload of “belly” pictures.  I completely missed out on that last time because Ellianna arrived so early, so I was determined to have proof of being pregnant this time. 

Weeks have ticked by with people wondering, questions whispering, assumptions and conclusions drawn and redrawn about why the sweet, dark, smiling face has disappeared from the candid snapshots of our life.  It has taken time to even know what to say.  It has taken sifting and processing to try to grasp what should be said when it seems there are too many souls eager to gobble up the information to be regurgitated as neighborhood gossip.

The truth is, there are things I want to say, fingers I want to point, and agony I would like to unload… but none of that will change what has happened, and none of that will right what has gone wrong in this world.

All that I really need to say is that she is gone.  The bright eyes and hopeful smile of the daughter we thought was to be our own have dissolved through an unsettling mist of heartache and confusion. 

Every time I come across things of Akemi’s that remain– a picture she drew for me, a letter she wrote, another stretched out sock without a match, I find a flurry of unanswered questions seeping from where I have tried to cover my scars.   I would sure like to know God’s purpose in all of this.  Of letting Akemi open herself up to us, and ourselves to her, just to allow it to end in yet another heartbreak for a little girl who has already been through too much.  What part does this have in the big scheme of what we are doing and who we are becoming?  Actually, I would like to pound on the doors of Heaven and scream and yell until these answers are explained to me, because I don’t like being patient, especially when it hurts.

My girls have written her letters. Excitedly telling about plans they have made, reminders of secrets they have shared, and news of the baby brother she was so excited to meet.  Letters I have tucked away from sight because I don’t know how to explain to them that they won’t get to her.  I don’t know how to explain anything, because the continued twists and turns have been so breathtaking, so discouraging, and so utterly confusing, sometimes I can only throw up my hands. 

I’d like to believe that in the hardest of times I choose to cling to faith and believe the promises I am often preaching to myself. Guess when the rubber meets the road, that’s when you see what’s really in there.

This entire pregnancy I have been doing battle with my thoughts… choking back fear, trying to rest in knowing that God created this to be just what He wanted, and that we won’t be disappointed.  Some days I have been overwhelmed when the “what if’s” creep in, but overall with the constant support and reassurance of my wingman and dearest friends, I have been able to watch days blossom into months with growing reassurance that our unborn son will be sustained with life and good health.

Until there was a chance he wouldn’t.

I have been guarded with my words to the kids.  Knowing too well how fleeting life is, when they have expressed their fears I have been careful not to make promises I know are not up to me.  Instead I have told them to keep praying, that we will be strong enough to make it through whatever happens, and that Jesus is taking care of our babies… whether on earth or in Heaven.

When I told the kids I had to go to the hospital, Baylie said, “I hope Poppyseed doesn’t die too.”  She spoke what my heart was screaming, but I couldn’t stand the cloud of fear in her eyes, and before I had a second to think of something to say to smooth the line between hope and reality, I had already blurted out “He is not going to die.  He will be fine.”

In the crush of contractions, the peril of bleeding, Mark and I did our best to point out the positive…. Baby’s heartbeat is steady, he is getting the steroids for his lungs, the magnesium to prevent brain bleeds… soon the IV’s will stop the contractions.  History won’t repeat itself.  I held myself together… until the nurse confirmed my water had broken.  That was it.  All the panic and fear and struggle to be able to control life and death came screeching to the forefront of my thoughts. 

“I can’t do this again. I won’t survive another loss.  I told Baylie he would be fine.”  The thought of betraying my daughter’s hope, of hearing her say “but you said this wouldn’t happen,” was enough to crush any semblance of faith I was still clinging to.  Anger raged, mostly at myself for being selfish enough to put everyone I loved through this again.  Dispair choked out the hope I had been painting, and most startling, faith dissolved into an ungraspable mist to reveal the truth that had been cementing itself all along… It’s a lot easier to believe when everything is fine.

In spite of myself, the sun came up again.  A nauseating blend of medications has pushed us back from the edge of danger, and the tiny little legs and arms continue to jostle and roll within my swollen belly.  Hope has taken root again, and faith dares to smooth the disrupted waters.