Dear Everett,
Tomorrow is a dedicated day of remembering for grieving parents everywhere. Tomorrow is a dedicated day to awknowledgement, for how many parents out there have a child, or children in heaven, but you should know, I remember you every single day. In fact, I remember you every single second of every single day. You're on my mind constantly. Your face flashes through my mind non stop. You face stares back at me every single time I look at your brother. My heart beats your name, Everett-Everett-Everett-Everett. Your pictures are on the wall, you hands and feet are tattooed near mine. I take you with me EVERYWHERE, I speak your name and tell your story at every opportunity I get.
I don't need a dedicated day to remember and awknowledge you, but on the eve of a very significant day for so many families, I find myself even more eager to share your name, your picture, your memory, your story, with the world. I want them to know you, to see you, to hear you, and to understand that you are still so much a part of our lives, and how the loss still echoes through us. We're still grieving you, I know we always will, and though outwardly we seem to be living our lives and doing well, there are still so many moments, so many silent moments of awknowledgment between your dad and me, or your aunt Courtney and me, or your Gramma and me, where we don't need to say a thing, but we know our hearts are still aching, still breaking for you.
You should know that Landon knows you. He may not ever remember being near you, but something inside of him KNOWS you. That bond, that brotherly bond, that twin bond, it wasn't broken with your death. His heart beats your name too, you are significant to him, even though he doesn't know why just yet. He talks about you now, and it's an indescribable pain, and joy to hear your name spoken in his young and innocent voice. He's grappling with the concept of heaven too, he doesn't get it all, someday he will, but I think I like it best this way, because he's not sad at all, he doesn't know that there's sadness attached to you, and I think that's good, he just knows you're his brother.
Avery gets it, and sometimes she's sad about you, but mostly she just remembers you, and includes you EVERY time she tells people who's in her family. She's a very smart girl, she knows too much for her age, and she sounds so worldly and mature whens he explains to someone that she has a brother in heaven. She loves you and misses you, but heaven scares her, because she understands that you can't come back from heaven. I feel bad, because she's aware of death and it scares her. That's not your fault, it's mine, I fell apart too many times in front of her, she knows there's pain attached to loss.
I'm sure you know of Stella, maybe she met you in heaven prior to her departure to earth. I like to believe that. I like to think we all start there, then return in the end, I like to imagine you two knew each other before she joined us here, and no one will ever disprove it for me, so I'll hold on to that thought because it comforts me some.
I still struggle so much, daily, the aftermath of losing you is chaotic. Tonight I was fine, and then I started looking through your pictures on the computer, and in a random folder I found a misplaced video, one I hadn't seen in a while, and I did the foolish thing, and I played it, and within seconds grief consumed me, like a vaccuum, I was swallowed up in pain and tears. Irrationaly I fought against the reality of you being gone, and pleaded for you to be returned to me, my thoughts demanded that the injustice of your death be reversed, and I knew it was ridiculous to think such things, but it can't be helped. I watched you breathe on that video, I watched your little stomach heave as you labored for each breath. I watched your eyes open ever so slightly as I spoke to you. I saw you live again. And it was agony, because I WANT YOU. I want you in my arms, I want to hold you and kiss you and stroke your soft skin and hair, I want to hear you cry, I want to mother you, I want to do all the things that your death robbed from us both. I want to change your diapers and dress you and nurse you and comfort you and nap with you on the couch, and I never will. This stings in a way I won't ever be able to describe.
You should know that we miss you and love you and that we wish that things had gone differently every single moment of the day. You should know we tell the world about you and that we love you every day along with your brother and your sister. You should know you made us better people. You should know that we're doing good things with your memory and with our grief. You should know that I tattooed your hand by my hand and your feet by my feet, but God tattooed you on my heart, and you and I are never apart. I don't know what I believe about your experience in heaven, I'm not sure if you can see us or not, I'm not sure if you think about us or not, I suspect the glory of heaven is more then a little distracting, but I pray with my whole heart that you feel me up there, that you can feel my love for you always, and that we are not truly seperated at all, but that our love is a bond that remains unchanged even though we are not together.
I miss you so much, and as silly as it sounds, I wish you could write back.
I'm confidant though, that you're in good company there, in heaven, because sadly my pain mirrors the pain of so many other moms and dads, and you likely have many other baby companions up there with you.
I love you more then words can tell,
I thought you should know
Mama
Friday, October 14, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Discussions of grief can arise unexpectedly
Yesterday we took our children to see The Lion King in 3D at our local theatre. They were excited and so was I, because I loved that move when it first came out and I was eager to watch it again with fresh eyes, and to see my kids enjoy it for the very first time. We all had a great time and rode home in the car talking about our favorite parts and our favorite characters, it was a really great family outing.
Later in the day though I was standing at the kitchen counter and Avery came up to me, a little more subdued, and asked some more serious questions.
"What happened to Mufasa, Simba's dad?"
He fell I told her, and died.
"Ya, and went to heaven too, and then talked to Simba in the clouds, and lived in Simba forever"
That's right I told her, nice observation. One of the lines of the movie, was "he lives in you," when explaining to Simba that his father will never truly leave him, because his strength and courgage and love live on in him.
Avery continued, "Everett lives in me, because I remember him too, but he's not in the clouds".
Silence.
You're right, I told her, he lives in all of us, because we are all so full of love for him. I went on to point out that perhaps we might see him in the clouds, or the sky, we've never really looked. Satisfied, she went on her way, but she left me standing there amazed at how often she ponders Heaven, and Everett, and God, and the logistics of it all. She gives in genuine thought, she mulls it over and asks such insightful questions, she really does want to figure it all out.
Since she clearly thinks about what happens to us after we die, and she clearly wonders about the capabilities we have once in Heaven, to interact with our loved ones on earth, I may need to share this quote with her, it may just "click" with her bright little mind.
“Perhaps they are not stars, but rather openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.”
Katie
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Going back...
The night Everett died, we walked out of Sick Kids (The Hospital for Sick Children), with empty arms and shattered hearts. We were broken people, and in our broken state, we felt overwhelmed with anger and pain and grief, and needed something, someone, or someplace to put all those feelings on. We took our anger and we put it on God, who we thought should have saved him, should have cured him, but didn't. We took our anger and our grief and built walls with it, trying to block out the rest of the world, who seemed to carry on normally when our world had fallen to pieces. We took our love and we put it on our surviving children, who were like salve to a burn, they soothed and healed and took away some of the sting. And we took the unnamed negative feelings, the negative associations, the memories of what Everett endured in his time on earth, and we put them on Sick Kids. Though they did so much for us, and for him, and though they treated him so amazingly well and we were so grateful for how hard they tried to save him, we came to associate them with death, with pain, with loss and with the moment we had to leave Everett behind and go home without him.
For years, I lived in fear of having to return to Sick Kids, for any reason. Their commercials on TV made my heart race, and seeing pictures of the hospital, even happy pictures, made me panic. I developed a full aversion to the place my son died, even though I had fundraised for them and believed in their work and their staff, to me, it was the place my baby died, and I couldn't bring myself to reconcile to it.
The other day I made a trip to Toronto with a friend, for a day of fun with her and my new baby daughter. Plans changed unexpectedly when my friend, who works at Sick Kids, had to made a stop in to work, and I panicked at the prospect of having to go with her, even for a short while. I panicked imagining us driving on the streets near the hospital, I imagined the familiar scenery and my heart beat faster. I imagined the parking garage, the elevators, the cafeteria, the murals on the walls, and I cried at the very thought of it. My friend and I decided that to avoid any discomfort for me, I would wait at a nearby coffee shop for her, but as we drove closer to Sick Kids, I found I wasn't panicking, my heart wasn't racing, and I made the huge decision, to go in with her. I made it through the parking garage, through the elevators, through the hallways, through the cafeteria, and I was shocked at what I felt.
Not pain.
Not sadness.
Not panic.
Not grief.
More like relief. More like a pleasant familiarity. Something near to comfort. Some much like peace. How incredibly strange.
I sat in the cafe, just like I had years before, it was exactly as it was back then. I watched the people come and go, Dr's, nurses, patients, parents, volunteers, I watched the elevators go up and down, and I stared up at the floor that Everett was on. I stared up at the spot that we had stood at and stared down from so many times during Everett's stay at Sick Kids. I held Stella and looked around wide eyed, and it was all so much the same, but I felt like I was seeing it all for the very first time. My eyes never welled with tears, and my heart never raced, my breathing never quickened, and sadness never overcame me.
And I felt like some divine plan was falling into place before my eyes, and that I was supposed to come back to this place, at this time, with my baby girl in my arms, to teach me something about healing, and to help me see our experience here at Sick Kids with new eyes.
For more then three years I dreaded ever setting foot in Sick Kids again, because it was the place where Everett died.
Now I saw it as the place where Everett last LIVED!
I used to see it as the place we lost our faith.
Now I see it as the place God used to really lay the ground work to build on it.
I had been thinking of Sick Kids as the site of the event that sent our lives spiraling out of control, and sitting there again, years later, I could see that God used it to set us upon a new course, perhaps a painful one at times, but one that would ultimately teach us so much about love and faith and grace and the importance of cherishing life.
Driving to Toronto with my friend, I wrongly assumed that it would be so difficult to set foot inside that building, but sitting there alone with my baby, surrounded in familiar sights and sounds, and memories, I realized that it would be so much harder to leave it. The pain would come from walking out the doors again, not in. Because there in the cafeteria of Sick Kids, I felt closer to Everett then I ever had in the past three and some years. I felt near to him, and more peaceful and content in his memory then I could have ever imagined. Leaving felt like walking away from him again, but this time it didn't make me fall to pieces, and it did not bring me tears. And this time I did not walk out hoping to never go back again, but rather looking forward to a time when I could go back, and feel that closeness once again.
When Everett was alive and being treated there, I bought myself a necklace in the gift shop, a Bravery Beads necklace with a bright red glass heart pendant. And on my return trip there this week, I went back to the gift shop and bought myself the matching bracelet, it only seemed fitting that I not walk out empty handed, and I walk out with another piece of "bravery" jewelry, to reward myself for taking the monumental step I took, and facing a fear I had been holding onto for too long.
So here's to doing things I never imagined I could do.
Here's to feeling things I never imagined I could feel.
And here is to Everett, who continues to change my heart and my life, each and every day!
Katie
For years, I lived in fear of having to return to Sick Kids, for any reason. Their commercials on TV made my heart race, and seeing pictures of the hospital, even happy pictures, made me panic. I developed a full aversion to the place my son died, even though I had fundraised for them and believed in their work and their staff, to me, it was the place my baby died, and I couldn't bring myself to reconcile to it.
The other day I made a trip to Toronto with a friend, for a day of fun with her and my new baby daughter. Plans changed unexpectedly when my friend, who works at Sick Kids, had to made a stop in to work, and I panicked at the prospect of having to go with her, even for a short while. I panicked imagining us driving on the streets near the hospital, I imagined the familiar scenery and my heart beat faster. I imagined the parking garage, the elevators, the cafeteria, the murals on the walls, and I cried at the very thought of it. My friend and I decided that to avoid any discomfort for me, I would wait at a nearby coffee shop for her, but as we drove closer to Sick Kids, I found I wasn't panicking, my heart wasn't racing, and I made the huge decision, to go in with her. I made it through the parking garage, through the elevators, through the hallways, through the cafeteria, and I was shocked at what I felt.
Not pain.
Not sadness.
Not panic.
Not grief.
More like relief. More like a pleasant familiarity. Something near to comfort. Some much like peace. How incredibly strange.
I sat in the cafe, just like I had years before, it was exactly as it was back then. I watched the people come and go, Dr's, nurses, patients, parents, volunteers, I watched the elevators go up and down, and I stared up at the floor that Everett was on. I stared up at the spot that we had stood at and stared down from so many times during Everett's stay at Sick Kids. I held Stella and looked around wide eyed, and it was all so much the same, but I felt like I was seeing it all for the very first time. My eyes never welled with tears, and my heart never raced, my breathing never quickened, and sadness never overcame me.
And I felt like some divine plan was falling into place before my eyes, and that I was supposed to come back to this place, at this time, with my baby girl in my arms, to teach me something about healing, and to help me see our experience here at Sick Kids with new eyes.
For more then three years I dreaded ever setting foot in Sick Kids again, because it was the place where Everett died.
Now I saw it as the place where Everett last LIVED!
I used to see it as the place we lost our faith.
Now I see it as the place God used to really lay the ground work to build on it.
I had been thinking of Sick Kids as the site of the event that sent our lives spiraling out of control, and sitting there again, years later, I could see that God used it to set us upon a new course, perhaps a painful one at times, but one that would ultimately teach us so much about love and faith and grace and the importance of cherishing life.
Driving to Toronto with my friend, I wrongly assumed that it would be so difficult to set foot inside that building, but sitting there alone with my baby, surrounded in familiar sights and sounds, and memories, I realized that it would be so much harder to leave it. The pain would come from walking out the doors again, not in. Because there in the cafeteria of Sick Kids, I felt closer to Everett then I ever had in the past three and some years. I felt near to him, and more peaceful and content in his memory then I could have ever imagined. Leaving felt like walking away from him again, but this time it didn't make me fall to pieces, and it did not bring me tears. And this time I did not walk out hoping to never go back again, but rather looking forward to a time when I could go back, and feel that closeness once again.
When Everett was alive and being treated there, I bought myself a necklace in the gift shop, a Bravery Beads necklace with a bright red glass heart pendant. And on my return trip there this week, I went back to the gift shop and bought myself the matching bracelet, it only seemed fitting that I not walk out empty handed, and I walk out with another piece of "bravery" jewelry, to reward myself for taking the monumental step I took, and facing a fear I had been holding onto for too long.
So here's to doing things I never imagined I could do.
Here's to feeling things I never imagined I could feel.
And here is to Everett, who continues to change my heart and my life, each and every day!
Katie
Monday, August 29, 2011
I'm thinking of you....
I'm thinking of you today Everett. I do every day, but today, my thoughts refuse to leave you.
I remembered something painful, and I can't get it from my mind. I can see it in my head when I close my eyes, and it hurts as badly as it did when it first happened.
I pictured handing you over to the nurse at Sick Kids, when the time had finally come to leave, and through tears and sobbing, I uttered the words "Bye Everett", I could barely get them out. I can see myself that day, I can see the agony, and I can hear the grief in my voice, it's like I'm watching someone else. And I still just can't believe that was you and me.
I'm so sorry you had to go, and if I made your departure harder by holding on too tight, I am so sorry for that. I remember I whispered in your ear and begged you not to leave me, as if you ever had a choice. I'm sorry if understood that your leaving would hurt me so badly, I'm sorry if you had awareness that you would leave a hole behind. I hope you left with comfort, and assurance from God that he would take care of us left behind.
Oh God how I miss you, today and always. My arms still long for you, and your memory, your picture, your name, they all still bring me to tears, though that's not a bad thing, those tears bring me closer to you I think.
God knows how losing you has changed and shaped my heart and life, God knows how badly I still grieve, but you should know I'm striving to take that pain and use it to lessen the pain of others, in some small way. You should know that though I hurt, we are all the better because of you. You should know I pour myself into grieving you, just to feel such intense emotion, such intense love, it feels like we're together while the tears are streaming down. It hurts, but that's the point.
I'm thinking of you Everett, each and every moment of each and every day, and I promise I always will.
I love you so much more then I have the words to tell, and I pray I can feel you near when I need it the most.
Love your Mama, always
I remembered something painful, and I can't get it from my mind. I can see it in my head when I close my eyes, and it hurts as badly as it did when it first happened.
I pictured handing you over to the nurse at Sick Kids, when the time had finally come to leave, and through tears and sobbing, I uttered the words "Bye Everett", I could barely get them out. I can see myself that day, I can see the agony, and I can hear the grief in my voice, it's like I'm watching someone else. And I still just can't believe that was you and me.
I'm so sorry you had to go, and if I made your departure harder by holding on too tight, I am so sorry for that. I remember I whispered in your ear and begged you not to leave me, as if you ever had a choice. I'm sorry if understood that your leaving would hurt me so badly, I'm sorry if you had awareness that you would leave a hole behind. I hope you left with comfort, and assurance from God that he would take care of us left behind.
Oh God how I miss you, today and always. My arms still long for you, and your memory, your picture, your name, they all still bring me to tears, though that's not a bad thing, those tears bring me closer to you I think.
God knows how losing you has changed and shaped my heart and life, God knows how badly I still grieve, but you should know I'm striving to take that pain and use it to lessen the pain of others, in some small way. You should know that though I hurt, we are all the better because of you. You should know I pour myself into grieving you, just to feel such intense emotion, such intense love, it feels like we're together while the tears are streaming down. It hurts, but that's the point.
I'm thinking of you Everett, each and every moment of each and every day, and I promise I always will.
I love you so much more then I have the words to tell, and I pray I can feel you near when I need it the most.
Love your Mama, always
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
In the name of love....
How do you parent a child you never get to see?
How do you show your love for a child you never get to hold? Never get to kiss? Never get to tuck in at night?
How do you pour out your heart and your gratitude for a child God gave then took away?
These are questions that plague me, and all parent who have lost a child I suspect.
How can I keep Everett a part of my daily life? How can I love him like I love his sisters and brother? How can I continue to parent him? How can I still be his mother and help make the best of his life?
The answer? It's complicated.
I got his name and his footprints tattooed on my ankle. His handprint is tattooed on my wrist.
His picture hangs on the wall in the livingroom, there are tiny memorials to him sprinkled throughout the house.
He has a baby book.
I made him a Shutterfly photobook just I like I did for the other kids.
We made him a memorial garden in our backyard.
We planted a tree in his honor.
I think of him every hour of every day.
But it still doesn't feel right.
I can't take him to school with his brother.
I dont' get to kiss him goodnight.
I don't know how it feels to rock him to sleep.
I've never put a bandaid on his boo-boos
I've never seen his name on a birthday cake.
I've never watched him unwrap a Christmas present I just knew he would love.
I've never read him a bedtime story.
I don't get to be his mother in the way I want to, physically, tangibly.
There aren't too many ways I get to show the world my son, the one who died but I still love dearly. But I've found a way that feels good, as good as grieving can feel, and I've decided the best way I can show the world my love for Everett, and make the best of his life, is to fundraise in his memory.
It's awkward though, to implore people, the ones you know and the ones they don't, to support my cause, which doesn't mean the same to them as it does to me. It feels strange to ask for money to honor him, and I worry that I just can't communicate properly to them the how's and why's of our efforts.
But I can't NOT ask you to support me in this. I can't NOT tell you how important your support is. I can't NOT want you to attend, because I love Everett, and this is important to us. It's one very small way we can show him, you, God, and ourselves, that we have figured out how to cope with losing our baby, that we know a good way to take that pain and make it beneficial in some way.
I'm motivated by my grief, to make some good from it. I'm eager to take the scenario that broke my heart and use it to touch others. I want him to break your heart, I want you to feel a pang of something for him and for us, and then I want you to take that little something you feel and help us do something with it.
The NICU is full of babies. Some will have short stays and go home healthy. Some will have longer more complicated stayes. Some will never go home.
Then there are their parents. Mother's, newly post partum, who have found themselves parked in the NICU beside an isolette instead of resting in their hospital rooms having guests fuss over their new baby. Mothers who are pumping breastmilk every 2 hours and bringing it to the NICU so it can be given to their baby via naso-gastric feedings, rather then nursing in that glider rocker in their nursery at home. There are mothers and fathers sleeping on cots and pull out chairs in waiting rooms and at bedsides, while they wait to hear how their child did in surgery. There are parents who finally leave the hospital, babyless and broken hearted, like we did.
And I can help. In some small way, we can help them.
Our donation, no matter how small, can do good. Last year we had a charity Stella & Dot trunk show, just like the one we're doing this year, and we raised appx. $800 for the NICU. We took that money and we had two beautiful custom rocking chairs for them. And at this very moment, some new mother is being handed her baby for it's first feeding at the breast, some dad may be getting his very first cuddle with his baby, maybe their sleeping in one of our chairs at night while they hold their bedside vigil.
Our chairs helped. Our intentions helped. Our loss has helped, and therefore has become more then just a painful experience to us, but something more. We can see it now as part of a grander plan, we can see now that we are, and Everett was, part of a complicated weaving of lives knit together. We can't see how it all fits together, but we know it does.
On June 18th we're fundraising again. Same format, because it was so successful last year. But I'm afraid. I'm worried we won't be successful again. I'm worried that people aren't being touched by Everett the way they were, I'm worried his memory, and his impact are fading out. I'm worried that I'm not doing my job as his mother and honoring him and his life the way I should. Because if people aren't moved and inspired by him, I am not doing my job right.
I'm praying God leads hearts to support us. I'm praying my backyard will be full of supporters on June 18th, and I'm praying we'll be able to help in some small way, parents and babies in the NICU, by giving a donation in Everett's honor.
It's what I have to do, in the name of love.
Katie
How do you show your love for a child you never get to hold? Never get to kiss? Never get to tuck in at night?
How do you pour out your heart and your gratitude for a child God gave then took away?
These are questions that plague me, and all parent who have lost a child I suspect.
How can I keep Everett a part of my daily life? How can I love him like I love his sisters and brother? How can I continue to parent him? How can I still be his mother and help make the best of his life?
The answer? It's complicated.
I got his name and his footprints tattooed on my ankle. His handprint is tattooed on my wrist.
His picture hangs on the wall in the livingroom, there are tiny memorials to him sprinkled throughout the house.
He has a baby book.
I made him a Shutterfly photobook just I like I did for the other kids.
We made him a memorial garden in our backyard.
We planted a tree in his honor.
I think of him every hour of every day.
But it still doesn't feel right.
I can't take him to school with his brother.
I dont' get to kiss him goodnight.
I don't know how it feels to rock him to sleep.
I've never put a bandaid on his boo-boos
I've never seen his name on a birthday cake.
I've never watched him unwrap a Christmas present I just knew he would love.
I've never read him a bedtime story.
I don't get to be his mother in the way I want to, physically, tangibly.
There aren't too many ways I get to show the world my son, the one who died but I still love dearly. But I've found a way that feels good, as good as grieving can feel, and I've decided the best way I can show the world my love for Everett, and make the best of his life, is to fundraise in his memory.
It's awkward though, to implore people, the ones you know and the ones they don't, to support my cause, which doesn't mean the same to them as it does to me. It feels strange to ask for money to honor him, and I worry that I just can't communicate properly to them the how's and why's of our efforts.
But I can't NOT ask you to support me in this. I can't NOT tell you how important your support is. I can't NOT want you to attend, because I love Everett, and this is important to us. It's one very small way we can show him, you, God, and ourselves, that we have figured out how to cope with losing our baby, that we know a good way to take that pain and make it beneficial in some way.
I'm motivated by my grief, to make some good from it. I'm eager to take the scenario that broke my heart and use it to touch others. I want him to break your heart, I want you to feel a pang of something for him and for us, and then I want you to take that little something you feel and help us do something with it.
The NICU is full of babies. Some will have short stays and go home healthy. Some will have longer more complicated stayes. Some will never go home.
Then there are their parents. Mother's, newly post partum, who have found themselves parked in the NICU beside an isolette instead of resting in their hospital rooms having guests fuss over their new baby. Mothers who are pumping breastmilk every 2 hours and bringing it to the NICU so it can be given to their baby via naso-gastric feedings, rather then nursing in that glider rocker in their nursery at home. There are mothers and fathers sleeping on cots and pull out chairs in waiting rooms and at bedsides, while they wait to hear how their child did in surgery. There are parents who finally leave the hospital, babyless and broken hearted, like we did.
And I can help. In some small way, we can help them.
Our donation, no matter how small, can do good. Last year we had a charity Stella & Dot trunk show, just like the one we're doing this year, and we raised appx. $800 for the NICU. We took that money and we had two beautiful custom rocking chairs for them. And at this very moment, some new mother is being handed her baby for it's first feeding at the breast, some dad may be getting his very first cuddle with his baby, maybe their sleeping in one of our chairs at night while they hold their bedside vigil.
Our chairs helped. Our intentions helped. Our loss has helped, and therefore has become more then just a painful experience to us, but something more. We can see it now as part of a grander plan, we can see now that we are, and Everett was, part of a complicated weaving of lives knit together. We can't see how it all fits together, but we know it does.
On June 18th we're fundraising again. Same format, because it was so successful last year. But I'm afraid. I'm worried we won't be successful again. I'm worried that people aren't being touched by Everett the way they were, I'm worried his memory, and his impact are fading out. I'm worried that I'm not doing my job as his mother and honoring him and his life the way I should. Because if people aren't moved and inspired by him, I am not doing my job right.
I'm praying God leads hearts to support us. I'm praying my backyard will be full of supporters on June 18th, and I'm praying we'll be able to help in some small way, parents and babies in the NICU, by giving a donation in Everett's honor.
It's what I have to do, in the name of love.
Katie
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
What is there to do now..............
But quote Joe Purdy, and his sentiment "hard times, they last too long"
In fact it would seem at times, they are never ending, or that at the very least, they never completely dissapear.
Hard times are still marching on.
Sometimes we forget they're there, but they rest beneath the surface of our temporary peace and serenity, always bound to resurface. Always.
I'd like to tell you friends that in time grief itself passes away, but it simply is not true. Grief is invincible, it never dies, it can't be killed. The very best you can hope for is that you can endure your life with grief riding on your back, and that from time to time it will hop off for a spell and grant you a temporary sensation of relief. But grief I have learned, will always hop back on.
It's been three years since grief moved into my heart, well, nearly three years, just a few short weeks to go now before our anniversary, and I can't report to you all, grief and I are still going strong, our relationship has been consistant and dependable. Grief it seems will never leave me, no matter how much I wish it would.
Three years ago tomorrow, my identical twin sons were born. At 5:33 and 5:40am, pink and wailing with heads capped with dark brown hair and precious little features. Three years ago a dream came true. And in just a few weeks we'll solomnly remember that 20 days after our beautiful sons were born, one died. He spent his entire life struggling, he endured too many medical interventions and procedures to list, and he died. The next day we brought just one baby home, one baby, and grief who would fill up every empty space in our home and our hearts.
There's a part of me who is deeply ashamed of the mixed emotions I've been balancing since December 7th 2007. I've been trying to host joy and anguish in my heart simultaneously for just about three years, and it's an incredibly unnatural sensation to try and be loyal to both. I am joyous for Landon who has brought warmth, love and peace beyond measure into our family and into my badly broken heart. He is a miracle, it is by God's grace alone he is alive and perfect and lighting our lives each day. But at the same time, I cannot pretend that life is all sunshine and roses and rainbows just because I have two very lovely and amazing children I would not change for this world. I cannot deny that I grieve. I cannot deny that I long for the one that God took back. I cannot deny that my heart shattered and splintered and has never been restored. I cannot tell you I do not hurt. It would be disloyal to Everett to deny that his birth and his death have impacted my life like a meteor, leaving a giant crater on my soul.
I can't devote myself to joy entirely.
I can't devote myself to grief entirely.
I am a woman divided.
Counting my blessings.
Counting my losses.
Praising the God who gives, struggling with that I am supposed to also praise him when he takes away.
And I am often ashamed, that I can't figure out how to love and honor both boys with the perfection they deserve.
At 5:33am on November 17th 2007, Everett came into his life. He was 17 inches long and weighed 5 pounds and 4 ounces. Landon joined him seven minutes later, at 5:40am, he was also 17 inches long, he weighed 5 pounds and 6 ounces. They were perfection.
On December 7th 2007, sometime after 8pm, Everett left his life. He was 20 days old. He was 17 inches long and I estimate somewhere in the range of 4 pounds when he left us. He was perfection.
On December 8th 2007, Landon came home alone. He was 17 inches long, weighed 5 pounds and 11 ounces. He was lovely. He was like salve to a burn.
What am I to do now?
What reality to I embrace, what reality do I deny? Can I have them both simultaneously?
Will you understand when I am in tears on the day I celebrate Landon's birth? Will you allow me to celebrate the gift they were together and the joy Landon is now, while at the same time allowing my heart to break over the loss of Everett, who was also a gift and as much a source of joy as his death was a source of pain?
Will you remember on this happy day, now that years have passed, that it's not just Landon's birthday, but rather a season of confusion and hope and fear and desperation, of loss and of grief. Will you be mindful that grief lives here still?
Because I cannot forget.
Even in good times, hard times persist.
Even in joy, pain still exists.
Katie
In fact it would seem at times, they are never ending, or that at the very least, they never completely dissapear.
Hard times are still marching on.
Sometimes we forget they're there, but they rest beneath the surface of our temporary peace and serenity, always bound to resurface. Always.
I'd like to tell you friends that in time grief itself passes away, but it simply is not true. Grief is invincible, it never dies, it can't be killed. The very best you can hope for is that you can endure your life with grief riding on your back, and that from time to time it will hop off for a spell and grant you a temporary sensation of relief. But grief I have learned, will always hop back on.
It's been three years since grief moved into my heart, well, nearly three years, just a few short weeks to go now before our anniversary, and I can't report to you all, grief and I are still going strong, our relationship has been consistant and dependable. Grief it seems will never leave me, no matter how much I wish it would.
Three years ago tomorrow, my identical twin sons were born. At 5:33 and 5:40am, pink and wailing with heads capped with dark brown hair and precious little features. Three years ago a dream came true. And in just a few weeks we'll solomnly remember that 20 days after our beautiful sons were born, one died. He spent his entire life struggling, he endured too many medical interventions and procedures to list, and he died. The next day we brought just one baby home, one baby, and grief who would fill up every empty space in our home and our hearts.
There's a part of me who is deeply ashamed of the mixed emotions I've been balancing since December 7th 2007. I've been trying to host joy and anguish in my heart simultaneously for just about three years, and it's an incredibly unnatural sensation to try and be loyal to both. I am joyous for Landon who has brought warmth, love and peace beyond measure into our family and into my badly broken heart. He is a miracle, it is by God's grace alone he is alive and perfect and lighting our lives each day. But at the same time, I cannot pretend that life is all sunshine and roses and rainbows just because I have two very lovely and amazing children I would not change for this world. I cannot deny that I grieve. I cannot deny that I long for the one that God took back. I cannot deny that my heart shattered and splintered and has never been restored. I cannot tell you I do not hurt. It would be disloyal to Everett to deny that his birth and his death have impacted my life like a meteor, leaving a giant crater on my soul.
I can't devote myself to joy entirely.
I can't devote myself to grief entirely.
I am a woman divided.
Counting my blessings.
Counting my losses.
Praising the God who gives, struggling with that I am supposed to also praise him when he takes away.
And I am often ashamed, that I can't figure out how to love and honor both boys with the perfection they deserve.
At 5:33am on November 17th 2007, Everett came into his life. He was 17 inches long and weighed 5 pounds and 4 ounces. Landon joined him seven minutes later, at 5:40am, he was also 17 inches long, he weighed 5 pounds and 6 ounces. They were perfection.
On December 7th 2007, sometime after 8pm, Everett left his life. He was 20 days old. He was 17 inches long and I estimate somewhere in the range of 4 pounds when he left us. He was perfection.
On December 8th 2007, Landon came home alone. He was 17 inches long, weighed 5 pounds and 11 ounces. He was lovely. He was like salve to a burn.
What am I to do now?
What reality to I embrace, what reality do I deny? Can I have them both simultaneously?
Will you understand when I am in tears on the day I celebrate Landon's birth? Will you allow me to celebrate the gift they were together and the joy Landon is now, while at the same time allowing my heart to break over the loss of Everett, who was also a gift and as much a source of joy as his death was a source of pain?
Will you remember on this happy day, now that years have passed, that it's not just Landon's birthday, but rather a season of confusion and hope and fear and desperation, of loss and of grief. Will you be mindful that grief lives here still?
Because I cannot forget.
Even in good times, hard times persist.
Even in joy, pain still exists.
Katie
Thursday, November 11, 2010
It's that time of year again......
How bittersweet it is.
In just a few days, the birthday celebrations will begin. First comes Avery, we'll celebrate her turning five years old. Then comes Landon, who will be three, and Everett, who will never be more then 20 days old. It just hit me that past few days, why I had been experiencing an increase in tears, aside from being pregnant, my subconsious has been aware this time was approaching, even if I didn't let myself become aware until just now. Now it's time.
Time to balance sweet celebration with bittersweet memories of birth and death intertwined. Time to remember the joy of the delivery of my beautiful twin babies and to relive the sorrow of saying goodbye to one forever, just 20 short days later. Time to celebrate the lives of two of my children, while mourning the loss of the third. Time to put on a happy face for the party and the public, and cry until my tears dry up in private.
From November 17th to December 11th I walk an emotional tight rope. Reliving the most surreal and unbelievable weeks of my life. Birthing babies, sweet tiny babies with pink skin and dark brown hair and beautiful and unending potential. Then sick baby, small, weak, frail baby. Great big surgery on tiny little sick baby. Blood and tubes and bandanges and nurses and doctors, and terror. Fear unending. Driving. Crying. Pumping. Snuggling healthy babies ,barely touching sick baby, can't pick him up, can't hold him, can't change his diaper, can't help him. Tears. More surgery. More tubes, more blood, more fear. Prayers. Mad, frantic prayers. Denial. Brain bleed. Despair. Meeting death face to face. Goodbye baby.
Time to fake my way through this time of year again. Somehow I always manage to do it. I'm not exactly sure how. My sweet beautiful brown eyed children, boistrous, lively, spirited and smart, they most surely help me through. Just as certain as I have something to mourn, I have something to celebrate. They are the life savers that keep me afloat when my grief threatens to drag me beneath the surface.
Happy Birthday to all my babies.
Katie
In just a few days, the birthday celebrations will begin. First comes Avery, we'll celebrate her turning five years old. Then comes Landon, who will be three, and Everett, who will never be more then 20 days old. It just hit me that past few days, why I had been experiencing an increase in tears, aside from being pregnant, my subconsious has been aware this time was approaching, even if I didn't let myself become aware until just now. Now it's time.
Time to balance sweet celebration with bittersweet memories of birth and death intertwined. Time to remember the joy of the delivery of my beautiful twin babies and to relive the sorrow of saying goodbye to one forever, just 20 short days later. Time to celebrate the lives of two of my children, while mourning the loss of the third. Time to put on a happy face for the party and the public, and cry until my tears dry up in private.
From November 17th to December 11th I walk an emotional tight rope. Reliving the most surreal and unbelievable weeks of my life. Birthing babies, sweet tiny babies with pink skin and dark brown hair and beautiful and unending potential. Then sick baby, small, weak, frail baby. Great big surgery on tiny little sick baby. Blood and tubes and bandanges and nurses and doctors, and terror. Fear unending. Driving. Crying. Pumping. Snuggling healthy babies ,barely touching sick baby, can't pick him up, can't hold him, can't change his diaper, can't help him. Tears. More surgery. More tubes, more blood, more fear. Prayers. Mad, frantic prayers. Denial. Brain bleed. Despair. Meeting death face to face. Goodbye baby.
Time to fake my way through this time of year again. Somehow I always manage to do it. I'm not exactly sure how. My sweet beautiful brown eyed children, boistrous, lively, spirited and smart, they most surely help me through. Just as certain as I have something to mourn, I have something to celebrate. They are the life savers that keep me afloat when my grief threatens to drag me beneath the surface.
Happy Birthday to all my babies.
Katie
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