Many people struggle with the concept of God, I did myself, and who can wonder why? God is mind boggleing! How do we wrap our heads around a loving, father figure, all powerful God who breathed the world into existance and counted and named each star personally before placing it gingerly in the sky? How to we begin to understand how this same God breathed life into each of us and knew our names and life stories before we were ever even thought of by our parents on earth? How do we digest that He can forgive anything, ANYTHING, and that he loves us all the same as he did Jesus? Thats a lot to take in.
But I know its true.
I know He is very real, and is love and grace and mercy are absolute.
I know it because I'm living it.
I feel it each and every day when I wake up and when I go to bed.
Many people wonder how I can believe in and trust in God after losing Everett and after having so many prayers go unanswered. What I don't know is how to tell them that for those very reasons I believe in God. Because I lost Everett and had unanswered prayers, I believe in God. Because I felt pain so severe I thought it might kill me. Because I cried so many tears I thought I might dry up inside. Because I felt loneliness so deep I felt hollow inside, I believe in God.
Because he eased my pain.
Dried my tears.
And promised I am never alone.
He is faithful. And since opening my mind and my heart, and telling my brain that I don't need to understand it all, God has blessed me and my family time and time again with his love and mercy and kindness, and second chances, and love in abundance.
I miss my baby, deeply and constantly, and if I could have him back right now you can bet I would jump at the chance to do so.
But I can't.
But I have Elvis, and Avery and Landon.
I have my parents and sisters.
My precious nephew.
Grandmothers.
Cousins and their kids.
My inlaws, so many inlaws, sisters, brothers, parents, and nieces and nephews.
I have friends, online and in real life.
I have God.
I have comfort and love and faith and eventually I'll have Heaven.
How could I not believe.
Yesterday was the two year anniversary of Everett's passing. Being that we were in NYC and very busy, I didn't have time to fall to pieces. From time to time I wanted to. I felt the tears rise up behind my eyes and I felt my heart grow heavy. But I made it from sun up to sun down without falling to pieces and I feel okay about that. There was a time when I NEEDED to crumble and drown myself in tears, but now I have something to hold on to when the sadness comes, because I no longer wonder where Everett is, nor do I worry if I will see him again, because 1 Thessalonians 4:13 says
"And regarding the questions, friends, that has come up about those already dead and burried, we don't want you in the dark any longer. First off, you must not carry on over them like people who have nothing to look forward to [no hope], as if the grave were the last word."
The most precious thing God has given me, aside from comfort and salvation, is hope.
Something to look forward to, that non believers just don't have. I have the hope of a sweet reunion one day, which keeps me going each and every time my heart breaks again and I want to fall to pieces.
I know He is real, and I am so thankful for Him and the blessings he doles out, at not cost to me at all.
Katie
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, December 7, 2009
The unhappiest anniversary......
Its been two years since we said goodbye to Everett.
Two years since our world imploded.
Two years since our hearts broke into a million pieces.
And it feels like yesterday.
I can still remember how it felt to leave Sick Kids without Everett, to have to hand him back over to the nurse and leave him, and to know that the next time I saw him, it would be at his funeral.
I can still rememeber picking out what he would wear for his funeral, picking out what he would wear for the very first, and very last time. I can remember sitting across from the funeral director at his desk, with tears flowing so hard and fast I couldn't see through them, like right now.
I can't believe its been two years since I had both my boys together. Two years since my world felt right and made sense. Two years since I felt like I wasn't a statistic or the worst case scenario. Two years since my family was whole.
We're in NYC visiting family today, and I can't decide if the distraction is good or not. I can't decide if its good that I can't dive right into all the hurt and sadness and remembering, because I feel like I should, I feel like I need to. I feel like I need to devote this time to hurting and missing him, but I can't because we're staying with family and supposed to be having fun and making this time special.
I don't want to drag them down.
I don't want Elvis to hurt if he's not already hurting.
I don't want to confuse my kids.
But I want to crawl into a whole and just let it come. And then maybe be done for the day. rather then delay the inevitable and fall apart later.
Two years feels like two minutes.
I still want my baby back more then anything.
Katie
Two years since our world imploded.
Two years since our hearts broke into a million pieces.
And it feels like yesterday.
I can still remember how it felt to leave Sick Kids without Everett, to have to hand him back over to the nurse and leave him, and to know that the next time I saw him, it would be at his funeral.
I can still rememeber picking out what he would wear for his funeral, picking out what he would wear for the very first, and very last time. I can remember sitting across from the funeral director at his desk, with tears flowing so hard and fast I couldn't see through them, like right now.
I can't believe its been two years since I had both my boys together. Two years since my world felt right and made sense. Two years since I felt like I wasn't a statistic or the worst case scenario. Two years since my family was whole.
We're in NYC visiting family today, and I can't decide if the distraction is good or not. I can't decide if its good that I can't dive right into all the hurt and sadness and remembering, because I feel like I should, I feel like I need to. I feel like I need to devote this time to hurting and missing him, but I can't because we're staying with family and supposed to be having fun and making this time special.
I don't want to drag them down.
I don't want Elvis to hurt if he's not already hurting.
I don't want to confuse my kids.
But I want to crawl into a whole and just let it come. And then maybe be done for the day. rather then delay the inevitable and fall apart later.
Two years feels like two minutes.
I still want my baby back more then anything.
Katie
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Nearly two years ago....
The day is fast approaching. This time two years ago, we knew we were in the midst of the fight for Everett's life, and we knew we were losing it. Whether we wanted to admit it or not, we knew any efforts made at this point were last ditch efforts. The writing was on the wall. And the butterfly was on the IV pole.
The pretty, gauzy butterfly dangling from the IV pole. The unspoken signal that this baby wasn't going to make it. They didn't want to say that's what it was, and they didn't need to. "We know to sign the butterfly when we see it" says it all really. And then there was the lady who came to cast his foot, without a word to us from the nurses she was coming, we hadn't asked, but she was summoned none the less, to create a momento for us, because everyone knew his battle was nearly lost.
We knew it, but we couldn't accept it. We knew it was over, and we knew that as soon as we let go, he would go, but we could not face it. Instead we prayed, we retreated to quiet rooms and corridors and bathrooms at Sick Kids and prayed and pleaded that God would heal him, and that we wouldn't have to actually say goodbye. And we whispered in Everett's ear, encouraging words, and desperate words, and I begged him to stay with me, I begged him not to go.
The day before he died, we spent the day with Landon, clinging to the last little bit of hope we had, that he was having a day of rest after another proceedure, and when we returned, we'd have good news, and he will have turned a corner and all would be well.
The next day we sat at his bedside during a routine head ultrasound, and we read the look on the ultrasound technicians face, crystal clear. It was over. "I'll go talk to your Dr. he'll be over to see you". The Dr's face said it too, and he refered us to yet another Dr. who explained to us what we already knew, because we knew what they were looking for. He confirmed to us that Everett had a brain bleed, a side effect of his ECMO, which was saving his life and taking it all at once.
Later that day, we called family to his bedside, and had him baptized, and then we took him off his life support and we held our breath waiting to see if he would breath on his own, or if his heart could do the work itself, and then he died. The Dr's handed him to us as quickly as possible and the earth fell away from our feet. I've never known such pain and such crippling loss. The world stopped making any sort of sense.
Its been two years, but it feels like yesterday. And as this anniversary approaches, suddenly its on us, I have no idea what to do or how to cope. We'll be visiting family in New York City this year, so I'll be away from the familiar, his things, his grave, my bed. And I wonder how I'll cope without having a place to hide and withdraw and break into pieces if need be. I can only pray that God will be with us and give us comfort, and that our family will understand our need for space and sensitivity, and will cut us some slack when we seem like we've lost our heads.
We haven't, our heads are just fine...
We lost our son, and that won't ever be okay.
Katie
'
The pretty, gauzy butterfly dangling from the IV pole. The unspoken signal that this baby wasn't going to make it. They didn't want to say that's what it was, and they didn't need to. "We know to sign the butterfly when we see it" says it all really. And then there was the lady who came to cast his foot, without a word to us from the nurses she was coming, we hadn't asked, but she was summoned none the less, to create a momento for us, because everyone knew his battle was nearly lost.
We knew it, but we couldn't accept it. We knew it was over, and we knew that as soon as we let go, he would go, but we could not face it. Instead we prayed, we retreated to quiet rooms and corridors and bathrooms at Sick Kids and prayed and pleaded that God would heal him, and that we wouldn't have to actually say goodbye. And we whispered in Everett's ear, encouraging words, and desperate words, and I begged him to stay with me, I begged him not to go.
The day before he died, we spent the day with Landon, clinging to the last little bit of hope we had, that he was having a day of rest after another proceedure, and when we returned, we'd have good news, and he will have turned a corner and all would be well.
The next day we sat at his bedside during a routine head ultrasound, and we read the look on the ultrasound technicians face, crystal clear. It was over. "I'll go talk to your Dr. he'll be over to see you". The Dr's face said it too, and he refered us to yet another Dr. who explained to us what we already knew, because we knew what they were looking for. He confirmed to us that Everett had a brain bleed, a side effect of his ECMO, which was saving his life and taking it all at once.
Later that day, we called family to his bedside, and had him baptized, and then we took him off his life support and we held our breath waiting to see if he would breath on his own, or if his heart could do the work itself, and then he died. The Dr's handed him to us as quickly as possible and the earth fell away from our feet. I've never known such pain and such crippling loss. The world stopped making any sort of sense.
Its been two years, but it feels like yesterday. And as this anniversary approaches, suddenly its on us, I have no idea what to do or how to cope. We'll be visiting family in New York City this year, so I'll be away from the familiar, his things, his grave, my bed. And I wonder how I'll cope without having a place to hide and withdraw and break into pieces if need be. I can only pray that God will be with us and give us comfort, and that our family will understand our need for space and sensitivity, and will cut us some slack when we seem like we've lost our heads.
We haven't, our heads are just fine...
We lost our son, and that won't ever be okay.
Katie
'
Monday, November 23, 2009
Seeking answers.....
The instant Everett died, and we held him in our arms, and marveled over his beautiful face and his incredible fight, we wondered why.
Why?
What sort of world do we live in, where seemingly perfect new born babies die from hidden birth defects? What sort of God allows such suffering and heart break? We wondered this intensely then. And when wondering and searching brought forth no answers, we were frustrated, and angry, and turned our backs on God, who we imagined could not, or would not help us and our baby.
When our grief lessened in intensity and our anger waned, a tiny opening was made for Christs love and His peace to enter our lives. And we were immediately comforted. Life was never been the same. We have been changed and for the better and we see our loss and our grief with new eyes.
At the time, we felt abandoned by God. We had made it up in our minds that God had either decided against helping Everett, or that he couldn't help him, and we were lost and angry and in the midst of despair so deep we couldn't see clearly.
And then one day it cleared. And, I can only speak for myself, but I felt driven to find our more about God and His love and comfort and mercy. And as soon as I was receptive to it, I had it. Comfort after months of agony.
We found a great church with a fabulous community and jumped in with both feet and open hearts and the blessings just kept coming.
The pain is still there, and it flares up from time to time, especially at this time of year, but His comfort quickly follows. Because we know this:
Lamentations 3:31-33
or grief to the children of men.
He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men.
He didn't do it.
He didn't want it.
He didn't allow it.
It happened.
And though we won't ever really and truly understand why, the Bible offers up this explanation...
John 9:2-3
2 His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
3 “Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.
THIS happened, so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.
In Everett's life.
Everett was born with a heart so afflicted it could not be healed by all of our amazing technology, so that God's work could be displayed through his life.
He died so that the good of God could be demonstrated through his life.
Everett's 20 day life, and our heart break, happened so that something God could be done or achieved in God's name.
So, does this then mean that grief is to be my ministry?
I'm living in a perpetual state of grief over Everett and what should have been. It waxes and wanes but the pain is always there. And it happened to him, and to us, so that we could demonstrate God's good works through our experience? If this is true, which I don't doubt it is, then I have a job to do. Everett has done all he can and the rest is up to us. To show the world that it has worked for our good, that comfort came with the pain and that good has followed the bad, and the God has been at work in this.
An interesting ministry indeed.
Katie
Why?
What sort of world do we live in, where seemingly perfect new born babies die from hidden birth defects? What sort of God allows such suffering and heart break? We wondered this intensely then. And when wondering and searching brought forth no answers, we were frustrated, and angry, and turned our backs on God, who we imagined could not, or would not help us and our baby.
When our grief lessened in intensity and our anger waned, a tiny opening was made for Christs love and His peace to enter our lives. And we were immediately comforted. Life was never been the same. We have been changed and for the better and we see our loss and our grief with new eyes.
At the time, we felt abandoned by God. We had made it up in our minds that God had either decided against helping Everett, or that he couldn't help him, and we were lost and angry and in the midst of despair so deep we couldn't see clearly.
And then one day it cleared. And, I can only speak for myself, but I felt driven to find our more about God and His love and comfort and mercy. And as soon as I was receptive to it, I had it. Comfort after months of agony.
We found a great church with a fabulous community and jumped in with both feet and open hearts and the blessings just kept coming.
The pain is still there, and it flares up from time to time, especially at this time of year, but His comfort quickly follows. Because we know this:
Lamentations 3:31-33
31 For men are not cast off
by the Lord forever.
32 Though he brings grief, he will show compassion,
so great is his unfailing love.
or grief to the children of men.
He does not willingly bring affliction or grief to the children of men.
He didn't do it.
He didn't want it.
He didn't allow it.
It happened.
And though we won't ever really and truly understand why, the Bible offers up this explanation...
John 9:2-3
2 His disciples asked him, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”
3 “Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” said Jesus, “but this happened so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.
THIS happened, so that the work of God might be displayed in his life.
In Everett's life.
Everett was born with a heart so afflicted it could not be healed by all of our amazing technology, so that God's work could be displayed through his life.
He died so that the good of God could be demonstrated through his life.
Everett's 20 day life, and our heart break, happened so that something God could be done or achieved in God's name.
So, does this then mean that grief is to be my ministry?
I'm living in a perpetual state of grief over Everett and what should have been. It waxes and wanes but the pain is always there. And it happened to him, and to us, so that we could demonstrate God's good works through our experience? If this is true, which I don't doubt it is, then I have a job to do. Everett has done all he can and the rest is up to us. To show the world that it has worked for our good, that comfort came with the pain and that good has followed the bad, and the God has been at work in this.
An interesting ministry indeed.
Katie
Doing something stupid....
I'm remembering.
Two years ago today, both my new born baby boys were happily snuggled into bassinets at OSMH's NICU. If we went back in time and watched this day play out two years ago, we would see Everett's downward spiral. We would see a nurse notice a change in his breathing, we would see her move a little quicker then she had the rest of the day, and take out her stethascope and listen a little harder then usual. We'd see them move Everett from the bassinet to the isolette and see her make a call to the Dr. We'd see him struggle more and more for breath, we'd see his little chest heave and we'd see him use all his accessory muscles to draw sufficient breath. We'd see his color change too, and we'd see nursery staff making accommodations for what they knew what was coming, and we didn't.
We'd see the Dr. arrive and take two terrified parents aside into a quite room and explain what was happening, you'd hear talk of a suspected heart defect (not the one he actually had) and we'd see a helicopter transport team from Sick Kids arrive. You'd see Everett crash, badly. You'd see staff scramble to secure IV lines and you'd see him packed into his little transport device, and then we would be gone.
You'd see a frantic phone call made to supportive grandparents. You'd see a terrified Grandmother trying to be strong for her daughter make another frantic phone call to a sister more then an hour away, making a pleading request for her help. You'd see that sister say goodbye to her husband and kids and bundle up and make the drive to Orillia to help her brother and his wife get to Sick Kids to be with their desperately ill baby. You'd see shattered people in limbo, not knowing what was to come. You'd see tears and you'd hear sobbing and you'd see eyes staring out into space, totally in shock, totally blindsided by what has transpired.
You'd see helpless family members at home in the middle of the night laying awake thinking about Everett and about us and you'd hear praying, both silent and out loud, from believers and non believers alike.
You'd see pacing, and worried faces and nail biting and heart ache, if you went back two years ago today.
And still it would not be as bad as could and would get. You'd see a baby with a chest in tact. You'd see a baby breathing on his own. You'd see a baby with 10 perfect and kissable toes. And this is not what you would see a week later.
Remembering is nearly as painful as experiencing it as it happened.
I hate this time of year because I just feel like I'm walking through the nightmare all over again.
My memories bring me closer to the pain but not to my baby, but I can't help myself at all.
Life all around me is a constant reminder and irritant, just picking at the wound and making it ache all over again.
Katie
Two years ago today, both my new born baby boys were happily snuggled into bassinets at OSMH's NICU. If we went back in time and watched this day play out two years ago, we would see Everett's downward spiral. We would see a nurse notice a change in his breathing, we would see her move a little quicker then she had the rest of the day, and take out her stethascope and listen a little harder then usual. We'd see them move Everett from the bassinet to the isolette and see her make a call to the Dr. We'd see him struggle more and more for breath, we'd see his little chest heave and we'd see him use all his accessory muscles to draw sufficient breath. We'd see his color change too, and we'd see nursery staff making accommodations for what they knew what was coming, and we didn't.
We'd see the Dr. arrive and take two terrified parents aside into a quite room and explain what was happening, you'd hear talk of a suspected heart defect (not the one he actually had) and we'd see a helicopter transport team from Sick Kids arrive. You'd see Everett crash, badly. You'd see staff scramble to secure IV lines and you'd see him packed into his little transport device, and then we would be gone.
You'd see a frantic phone call made to supportive grandparents. You'd see a terrified Grandmother trying to be strong for her daughter make another frantic phone call to a sister more then an hour away, making a pleading request for her help. You'd see that sister say goodbye to her husband and kids and bundle up and make the drive to Orillia to help her brother and his wife get to Sick Kids to be with their desperately ill baby. You'd see shattered people in limbo, not knowing what was to come. You'd see tears and you'd hear sobbing and you'd see eyes staring out into space, totally in shock, totally blindsided by what has transpired.
You'd see helpless family members at home in the middle of the night laying awake thinking about Everett and about us and you'd hear praying, both silent and out loud, from believers and non believers alike.
You'd see pacing, and worried faces and nail biting and heart ache, if you went back two years ago today.
And still it would not be as bad as could and would get. You'd see a baby with a chest in tact. You'd see a baby breathing on his own. You'd see a baby with 10 perfect and kissable toes. And this is not what you would see a week later.
Remembering is nearly as painful as experiencing it as it happened.
I hate this time of year because I just feel like I'm walking through the nightmare all over again.
My memories bring me closer to the pain but not to my baby, but I can't help myself at all.
Life all around me is a constant reminder and irritant, just picking at the wound and making it ache all over again.
Katie
Monday, November 16, 2009
Falling into it....
Its 11:07pm. In a little more then 6 hours, my boys will be two years old.
My boys. Not just Landon, but Everett too. But outwardly, we'll be celebrating the birth of Landon, and those who don't know us, or even those who don't realize the depth and the significance of the day, will celebrate Landon alone.
I knew that the hurt was coming. I expected it. And now its here, and I'm falling into it. I decided a long time ago to not fight the hurt, or the grief. It only hurts more, builds up and explodes into something uncontrollable and messy. So, I'm giving into it and letting it be whatever its going to be.
I've been playing the boys birth over and over in my head and its so bizarre to vividly remembering giving birth to two babies, and then looking around at the kids playing in my living room, and just one of those boys is here in my home, playing with his big sister and enjoying his childhood. Of course its amazing that Landon is here with us, considering the fact that they are identical twins, it is miraculous that Landon was born with a completely perfect heart, and we'll celebrate that tomorrow, when we celebrate his birthday. But somehow I'll have to schedule in some time to silently mourn Everett, and his misfortune.
Poor unfortunate boy. One little cell that divided wrong changed the blueprints of his heart and like a row of domino's falling, it all went awry from there. From perfect to tragically flawed in the time it takes for a cell to divide. Poor baby. The Dr's at Sick Kids told us that his defect was probably formed by 9 weeks, by the time we first viewed them on an ultrasound screen, the damage was already done, and no one knew. We couldn't see it, no one knew how badly it was broken. Its hard to not imagine what life would be like if we could have seen it, if we had some advance warning that he was going to be born with a broken heart. Would we have been able to create a better situation for him to be born into? Would we have been able to treat it better and faster? Would we have been able to give him a fighting chance? Its verly likely that we could have, but we won't ever know it now.
I honestly don't know what to do with myself during this three week phase when my grief is amplified to a nearly unbearable intensity. I can't fall apart, I have to mother my other kids and I have to work. I can't stay in bed all day and eat myself into sweet oblivion, I have to be healthy and productive for my kids, and for me. But my mind hops from thought to thought, it flashes pictures of Everett in my head like a movie and sad songs play through my mind over and over. I can't focus, I get antsy at the sight of pregnant women and babies and the mention of the word twins. When someone mentions Landon's birthday, and they don't know any better, I scream in my head that Everett has a birthday too. I want to fall apart in my husbands arms at the end of the day like I always have when missing Everett gets too hard for me to bear, and I can't do that either. So I don't know what I'll do with myself.
Distractions can only go so far. Eventually night comes and my thoughts are free to run wild. I'll think things like "two years ago I was in the hospital with the boys, both were doing so well", and "two years ago right this second, Everett was on a helicopter on his way to Toronto", and like this, "two years ago right now, the Dr's unhooked all of his life support, and handed to us to hold, already gone, and our lives crumbled."
Its a rough anniversary to get through, spanning not one day, but three painful weeks of struggle and defeat, and the most agonizing loss anyone can experience. Saying goodbye to a baby before you ever even brought them home. Saying goodbye to your baby period. And we'll relive it year, after year, after year, until we're reunited by our own deaths.
I've got a fun day planned with Landon, I'll celebrate him, and I'll mean it, with all my heart, because he is a blessing and he pulled me through some very hard times. Having him to love has been a blessing beyond words, but I haven't found the balance yet, I haven't figured out how to celebrate and grieve at the same time. I don't know how to be joyous over their births, and mourn Everett's death, with grace, without making the day unhappy for Landon. I'm sure I'll get the hang of it with birthday's to come, but until then, I'll continue to face these next few weeks with great anxiety and apprehension. I wish it could be easier.
I'm tempted to go by Everett's grave tomorrow. It seems like the thing to do, but in all honesty, I don't want to. I don't like it there. I don't feel better there. It doesn't help me feel closer to him. All it does is make me hurt. It makes me cry. It makes me remember the day we placed him there, and it makes me want to turn and run the other way. I can't stand being so close to his body, knowing its just there beneath my feet, and knowing I'll never see him or hold him again. I can't tolerate knowing he's there and out of reach, and because I think of him like my living, breathing baby, the thought of him beneath my feet is horrific and more then my aching heart can handle. It may seem strange to some, but I couldn't bear the thought of cremation and I can't bear being at his grave, the truth is that I can't bear that he is dead.
I can't believe he is dead...
If you had seen him, heard him, held him, touched, him, you wouldn't believe it either.
Tomorrow is his second birthday. He never even celebrated a 1 month birthday. Tomorrow we'll celebrate the birth of our twins, without ever having known the joy of parenting twins. We'll look into Landon's gorgeous, beaming, energetic, healthy little face and see Everett there, because they were very much identical. I can see it in the pictures above, Landon and Everett would be spitting images and confuse anyone who didn't really know them well enough to tell them apart by anything other then their looks.
Life's too bittersweet sometimes.
Rough days ahead...
Katie
My boys. Not just Landon, but Everett too. But outwardly, we'll be celebrating the birth of Landon, and those who don't know us, or even those who don't realize the depth and the significance of the day, will celebrate Landon alone.
I knew that the hurt was coming. I expected it. And now its here, and I'm falling into it. I decided a long time ago to not fight the hurt, or the grief. It only hurts more, builds up and explodes into something uncontrollable and messy. So, I'm giving into it and letting it be whatever its going to be.
I've been playing the boys birth over and over in my head and its so bizarre to vividly remembering giving birth to two babies, and then looking around at the kids playing in my living room, and just one of those boys is here in my home, playing with his big sister and enjoying his childhood. Of course its amazing that Landon is here with us, considering the fact that they are identical twins, it is miraculous that Landon was born with a completely perfect heart, and we'll celebrate that tomorrow, when we celebrate his birthday. But somehow I'll have to schedule in some time to silently mourn Everett, and his misfortune.
Poor unfortunate boy. One little cell that divided wrong changed the blueprints of his heart and like a row of domino's falling, it all went awry from there. From perfect to tragically flawed in the time it takes for a cell to divide. Poor baby. The Dr's at Sick Kids told us that his defect was probably formed by 9 weeks, by the time we first viewed them on an ultrasound screen, the damage was already done, and no one knew. We couldn't see it, no one knew how badly it was broken. Its hard to not imagine what life would be like if we could have seen it, if we had some advance warning that he was going to be born with a broken heart. Would we have been able to create a better situation for him to be born into? Would we have been able to treat it better and faster? Would we have been able to give him a fighting chance? Its verly likely that we could have, but we won't ever know it now.
I honestly don't know what to do with myself during this three week phase when my grief is amplified to a nearly unbearable intensity. I can't fall apart, I have to mother my other kids and I have to work. I can't stay in bed all day and eat myself into sweet oblivion, I have to be healthy and productive for my kids, and for me. But my mind hops from thought to thought, it flashes pictures of Everett in my head like a movie and sad songs play through my mind over and over. I can't focus, I get antsy at the sight of pregnant women and babies and the mention of the word twins. When someone mentions Landon's birthday, and they don't know any better, I scream in my head that Everett has a birthday too. I want to fall apart in my husbands arms at the end of the day like I always have when missing Everett gets too hard for me to bear, and I can't do that either. So I don't know what I'll do with myself.
Distractions can only go so far. Eventually night comes and my thoughts are free to run wild. I'll think things like "two years ago I was in the hospital with the boys, both were doing so well", and "two years ago right this second, Everett was on a helicopter on his way to Toronto", and like this, "two years ago right now, the Dr's unhooked all of his life support, and handed to us to hold, already gone, and our lives crumbled."
Its a rough anniversary to get through, spanning not one day, but three painful weeks of struggle and defeat, and the most agonizing loss anyone can experience. Saying goodbye to a baby before you ever even brought them home. Saying goodbye to your baby period. And we'll relive it year, after year, after year, until we're reunited by our own deaths.
I've got a fun day planned with Landon, I'll celebrate him, and I'll mean it, with all my heart, because he is a blessing and he pulled me through some very hard times. Having him to love has been a blessing beyond words, but I haven't found the balance yet, I haven't figured out how to celebrate and grieve at the same time. I don't know how to be joyous over their births, and mourn Everett's death, with grace, without making the day unhappy for Landon. I'm sure I'll get the hang of it with birthday's to come, but until then, I'll continue to face these next few weeks with great anxiety and apprehension. I wish it could be easier.
I'm tempted to go by Everett's grave tomorrow. It seems like the thing to do, but in all honesty, I don't want to. I don't like it there. I don't feel better there. It doesn't help me feel closer to him. All it does is make me hurt. It makes me cry. It makes me remember the day we placed him there, and it makes me want to turn and run the other way. I can't stand being so close to his body, knowing its just there beneath my feet, and knowing I'll never see him or hold him again. I can't tolerate knowing he's there and out of reach, and because I think of him like my living, breathing baby, the thought of him beneath my feet is horrific and more then my aching heart can handle. It may seem strange to some, but I couldn't bear the thought of cremation and I can't bear being at his grave, the truth is that I can't bear that he is dead.
I can't believe he is dead...
If you had seen him, heard him, held him, touched, him, you wouldn't believe it either.Tomorrow is his second birthday. He never even celebrated a 1 month birthday. Tomorrow we'll celebrate the birth of our twins, without ever having known the joy of parenting twins. We'll look into Landon's gorgeous, beaming, energetic, healthy little face and see Everett there, because they were very much identical. I can see it in the pictures above, Landon and Everett would be spitting images and confuse anyone who didn't really know them well enough to tell them apart by anything other then their looks.
Life's too bittersweet sometimes.
Rough days ahead...
Katie
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Oh me of little faith...
When I was born, my life was uncomplicated and happy. I likely made it to the ripe old age of one or so before I realized that life had conflict and problems. It doesn't take us very long to realize that life is not perfect, not even close. We face problems constantly, from the small and manageable, to the large and life altering, the ones that make you laugh to look back on, and the ones that make your stomach hurt to even think about. A life riddled with problems is not the exception to the human experience, but rather its the rule.
There's no rhyme or reason to it. There's no method to how life's problems are divvied up among us. She gets hers, he gets his, I got mine, and none of of us got the issues we got because we deserved them more then someone else. Mary didn't get off easy because she was better then Bob, and Bob didn't get so much more to deal with because he was worse then Steve. That's not how it works. Our life's circumstances are not determined by whether or not we're deserving of them or not, if that were the case, we'd all have horrible, sad and tragic lives. Because none of us are deserving of perefect lives, none of us get them, but undoubtedly some of us get "better" lives then others, if we use suffering as a measuring stick. Some of us suffer so much more, and its easy to wonder why.
Why did that tornado take his house but not his neighbours?
Why did she lose pregnancy after pregnancy, and her co-worker has more kids then she wants or can handle?
Why did his wife die of breast cancer that was detected early and thought to be treatable, and his boss just survived an operation to remove an inoperable tumor?
Why did our baby die from a condition and surgery that many babies have survived before and since?
When we think like this, its easy to get panicked by the seemingly randomness of how suffering is handed out. Its easy to imagine that God isn't in control really, because surely if he were he'd realize how unfair life is, and how unequally the pain in the world is divided among us all. Millions starve in Africa, while millions are obese in North America, can't God see how strange it all seems? Yes. He can.
We make the assumption of believing its supposed to be fair.
Or that suffering should be shared.
That would be nice, in a perfect world.
But we don't live in a perfect world, we live in this one. And this world is full of imperfection, and hurt and sin, and tragedy, and suffering. Its the price we pay, for simply being human, descendants from the first tragically imperfect people. Life is inherently hard.
So he suffers, she doesn't, they hurt, their neighbours don't, they experience loss, and their best friends experience surplus. It's the way it is. But those who suffer are no less blessed then those who live a seemingly blessed life. God doesn't work like that. You can't tell how much God loves you by counting your material blessings, or by taking stock of your losses. He doesn't think like that. He doesn't sit down and plan your life, before you're ever concieved and think, "I really love Karen, so I'm going to give her everything she ever wants, I'll answer every prayer and bless her with many beautiful healthy children and a happy thriving mariage, because thats how much I love her". Conversely, he never says "I'm not going to be very impressed with Joe, I can see that now, so he'll lose his job, and his wife, and his kids will resent him, and I think he deserves that". That simply isn't how its done.
We're all loved the same by Him. He created each of us to love us, but he didn't dole out our suffering or our blessings, they just happen. And as he watches in Heaven, our lives unfold before us, he weeps when we weep, and he celebrates when we celebrate. And he is there. He walks beside us through each triumph and each trial. And this is where we are all truly blessed. The miracle we can all experience, whether our lives are happy and free from strife, or they are pocked with pain and loss, we can all experience His grace, and mercy, and comfort. We can all lean on Him for strength and love and he can grant us the courage and fortitude needed to endure anything, and I mean anything.
The answer to the question, "how much more can I take?" is this, "as much as you get". You can handle anything, and everything, with Him at your side.
You can endure and endure and endure some more, if you lean on Him when it hurts the most.
Nearly two years ago I gave birth to my precious boys. And when I learned that Everett was sick, very sick, I started to pray. We prayed harder then we ever prayed before. For healing, for a miracle, for Everett to recover and for our fears to be put to rest. We prayed that we would not have to experience the pain of losing him.
When we has 20 days old, Everett could take no more. His heart was sick and tired. His lungs were sick and tired. His body was so sick, and so very tired. And when he was 20 days old, leaning over his bedside, I prayed to God to not take him, and I whispered pleading words in Everett's ear and begged for him to not leave me. And when he was 20 days old, he left.
Crumbling into pieces as I left Sick Kids for the last time, with a bag of belongings to remind me of my boy, and a shattered heart and broken soul, I felt angry with and abandoned by God. He didn't answer my prayers, he didn't make him well, and he didn't spare me from my hurt. And in the following months after Everett's death, I was angry. I made it up in my mind that either there was no God at all, or He was unkind, and unfair, and that I didn't need to believe in either of those scenarios. There was no comfort in it.
But as the months went by and I turned by back on God who did me wrong, I felt lonely, and hollow, and pained beyond words. I felt agony that could not be relieved, and one day I heard Him whisper to me, "lean on me". It sounds crazy, but I heard it, over the sound of my own sobbing, I heard a call to come to Him and be comforted. And reluctantly, and with great skeptisim, I did. And I was relieved.
And that was the miracle I never prayed for.
Whether or not I believed that God was there and loved me, I was still grieving and missing my baby. That would have happened to me no matter what. God didn't do it, life did. I was dissapointed because I had misguided faith. My prayers werent' answered because I prayed for the wrong thing. Rather then pray for healing, and for the outcome that I wanted, I should have been praying for the strength and comfort to get through whatever happened, if I had have prayed for that I would have seen immediately that God was there and with us through it all.
Every day since that day, I have had endless amounts of comfort and grace and love available to me. Salve to my wounds. Medicine for my soul. Each and every day. When the pain hits, like it often does, He is there to bring relief, and that is a miracle we can all have if we pray for it.
How much more can I take? I used to wonder this.
I still wonder this.
And now I know this to be true, "If He leads you to it, He will get you through it"
Just ask.
Oh me of little faith, I should have known.
Katie
There's no rhyme or reason to it. There's no method to how life's problems are divvied up among us. She gets hers, he gets his, I got mine, and none of of us got the issues we got because we deserved them more then someone else. Mary didn't get off easy because she was better then Bob, and Bob didn't get so much more to deal with because he was worse then Steve. That's not how it works. Our life's circumstances are not determined by whether or not we're deserving of them or not, if that were the case, we'd all have horrible, sad and tragic lives. Because none of us are deserving of perefect lives, none of us get them, but undoubtedly some of us get "better" lives then others, if we use suffering as a measuring stick. Some of us suffer so much more, and its easy to wonder why.
Why did that tornado take his house but not his neighbours?
Why did she lose pregnancy after pregnancy, and her co-worker has more kids then she wants or can handle?
Why did his wife die of breast cancer that was detected early and thought to be treatable, and his boss just survived an operation to remove an inoperable tumor?
Why did our baby die from a condition and surgery that many babies have survived before and since?
When we think like this, its easy to get panicked by the seemingly randomness of how suffering is handed out. Its easy to imagine that God isn't in control really, because surely if he were he'd realize how unfair life is, and how unequally the pain in the world is divided among us all. Millions starve in Africa, while millions are obese in North America, can't God see how strange it all seems? Yes. He can.
We make the assumption of believing its supposed to be fair.
Or that suffering should be shared.
That would be nice, in a perfect world.
But we don't live in a perfect world, we live in this one. And this world is full of imperfection, and hurt and sin, and tragedy, and suffering. Its the price we pay, for simply being human, descendants from the first tragically imperfect people. Life is inherently hard.
So he suffers, she doesn't, they hurt, their neighbours don't, they experience loss, and their best friends experience surplus. It's the way it is. But those who suffer are no less blessed then those who live a seemingly blessed life. God doesn't work like that. You can't tell how much God loves you by counting your material blessings, or by taking stock of your losses. He doesn't think like that. He doesn't sit down and plan your life, before you're ever concieved and think, "I really love Karen, so I'm going to give her everything she ever wants, I'll answer every prayer and bless her with many beautiful healthy children and a happy thriving mariage, because thats how much I love her". Conversely, he never says "I'm not going to be very impressed with Joe, I can see that now, so he'll lose his job, and his wife, and his kids will resent him, and I think he deserves that". That simply isn't how its done.
We're all loved the same by Him. He created each of us to love us, but he didn't dole out our suffering or our blessings, they just happen. And as he watches in Heaven, our lives unfold before us, he weeps when we weep, and he celebrates when we celebrate. And he is there. He walks beside us through each triumph and each trial. And this is where we are all truly blessed. The miracle we can all experience, whether our lives are happy and free from strife, or they are pocked with pain and loss, we can all experience His grace, and mercy, and comfort. We can all lean on Him for strength and love and he can grant us the courage and fortitude needed to endure anything, and I mean anything.
The answer to the question, "how much more can I take?" is this, "as much as you get". You can handle anything, and everything, with Him at your side.
You can endure and endure and endure some more, if you lean on Him when it hurts the most.
Nearly two years ago I gave birth to my precious boys. And when I learned that Everett was sick, very sick, I started to pray. We prayed harder then we ever prayed before. For healing, for a miracle, for Everett to recover and for our fears to be put to rest. We prayed that we would not have to experience the pain of losing him.
When we has 20 days old, Everett could take no more. His heart was sick and tired. His lungs were sick and tired. His body was so sick, and so very tired. And when he was 20 days old, leaning over his bedside, I prayed to God to not take him, and I whispered pleading words in Everett's ear and begged for him to not leave me. And when he was 20 days old, he left.
Crumbling into pieces as I left Sick Kids for the last time, with a bag of belongings to remind me of my boy, and a shattered heart and broken soul, I felt angry with and abandoned by God. He didn't answer my prayers, he didn't make him well, and he didn't spare me from my hurt. And in the following months after Everett's death, I was angry. I made it up in my mind that either there was no God at all, or He was unkind, and unfair, and that I didn't need to believe in either of those scenarios. There was no comfort in it.
But as the months went by and I turned by back on God who did me wrong, I felt lonely, and hollow, and pained beyond words. I felt agony that could not be relieved, and one day I heard Him whisper to me, "lean on me". It sounds crazy, but I heard it, over the sound of my own sobbing, I heard a call to come to Him and be comforted. And reluctantly, and with great skeptisim, I did. And I was relieved.
And that was the miracle I never prayed for.
Whether or not I believed that God was there and loved me, I was still grieving and missing my baby. That would have happened to me no matter what. God didn't do it, life did. I was dissapointed because I had misguided faith. My prayers werent' answered because I prayed for the wrong thing. Rather then pray for healing, and for the outcome that I wanted, I should have been praying for the strength and comfort to get through whatever happened, if I had have prayed for that I would have seen immediately that God was there and with us through it all.
Every day since that day, I have had endless amounts of comfort and grace and love available to me. Salve to my wounds. Medicine for my soul. Each and every day. When the pain hits, like it often does, He is there to bring relief, and that is a miracle we can all have if we pray for it.
How much more can I take? I used to wonder this.
I still wonder this.
And now I know this to be true, "If He leads you to it, He will get you through it"
Just ask.
Oh me of little faith, I should have known.
Katie
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