The story I don't want to tell

This is the story I don't want to share.

The story I want to tell you is the story where I was on a retreat, grieving Lily and still hurt and angry that she wasn't in my arms. But in the midst of all of that I heard God say, "I have a baby for you."

The story I want to share is how I found out I was pregnant, finally, after nine grueling months of negative tests and 15 months of missing my girl.

The story I want to share is how I found out I was pregnant on Good Friday...and the Feast of the Annunciation. Two feasts that will never coincide again in our lifetime. And that I read this sweet blog just after I found out. And that finding out on this day filled me with unspeakable  peace I haven't felt since I held Lily in my arms.

The story I want to share is that this baby was due around Thanksgiving, just two weeks after Lily's second birthday. What normally is such a hard time of the year for us, was going to be filled with redeeming grace as we welcomed Ted and Lily's little sister or brother. We were going to have holidays we could look forward to.

The story I want to share is where I tried and tried to put up a shield and not love this baby with all my heart, but failed instantly. A story where I was already making plans and dreaming big for this little love of mine. A story where I could already envision Ted sharing sweet moments with this sweet baby when we visit Lily.

The story I want to share is I was almost starting to feel normal again. The story where the eight week ultrasound wasn't on my radar because those always go as planned. 

The story I wanted to share with you includes a cute announcement on Instagram of Ted and Lily sharing they were getting a new brother and sister this year.

But this is the part of the story I don't want to share.

A story that is once again filled with despair instead of hope. A story where we were once again left with a stranger telling us we don't get to keep our precious child.

A story where I couldn't even look at my husband because I was so afraid to see the hurt in his eyes. Once again we had to beg the question WHY? And this "why" cuts so much deeper than the first.

This is the part where people tell me how brave and strong I am, but honestly, I've never felt more broken or more weak. This is the part where people tell me how my faith will carry me through things and all I want to do is scream and cry at a God who could allow this type of loss to happen twice to anyone.

This is the part where I had to once again put on a brave face to celebrate my son's birthday, all the while feeling like I am dying inside. 

This is the part where I have to learn to silently forgive every single person who says the wrong thing because they have no idea what to say. The part where I want to burst into tears whenever I hear a sentence that begins with, "At least..."

There is no at least. There is no "at least you weren't far along" or "at least you didn't get too attached" because the truth is I was...I still am. I love this little person with all of my being the same way I love Ted and Lily. 

There is no "you can have more babies" because honestly no one knows that any more than I do. Rainbows are not a guarantee of any storm, let alone the storm of child loss. And more importantly, I wanted this baby...this sweet and perfect child. This irreplaceable, and unrepeatable, unique soul. 

But even harder than forgiving an ignorant comment is forgiving silence. The painful silence when you see someone for the first time after you lost yet another child. A silence that screams you weren't that far along. A silence that screams your child doesn't matter. The silence hurts so much more than any ignorant comment. Because the truth is, if you are eager to celebrate a new life growing inside of me, then you need to be willing to mourn that loss with me too. 

A week ago I was pregnant and today I am not. It's so surreal. Usually people say that with a smile on their face and a baby in their arms. I have said it now twice with tears in my eyes and empty arms.

I wish I had some positive spin for this post to turn on, but the truth is, right now, I don't. 

I have nothing. I am empty. I am broken.

I am without two of my children.

I miss my babies.

You are my sunshine

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

You make me happy when skies are grey.

You'll never know dear how much I love you

Please don't take my sunshine away."

I started singing this song to Ted before he was even born and I have sang it to him almost every night since. So much that I could never shut his door anymore without him asking "Mama, Sunshine Song?" just. one. more. time.

I don't know who wrote this song or if there is meaning behind these sweet lyrics. I always thought it was a man serenading the love of his life, but after losing Lily I often wonder if the author of this song has a story more like mine.

Many people know in the loss community that a child after a loss is often referred to as their "rainbow baby". A rainbow is an effect of a storm. In fact, a rainbow cannot exist without a storm. When the storm is still on the horizon, sometimes you just may see a brilliant rainbow. 

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

Understandable how it is a metaphor for loss. You never seem to feel like you are out of this storm of loss, but you learn there can be beauty a midst it. We are still waiting for our rainbow...some ray of light and beauty a midst this storm of missing Lily oh so very much. A rainbow can never replace her. She is irreplaceable, but it can provide some comfort during this endless storm of loss.

But what many people may not know is that any child you have before a loss is often referred to as your "sunshine" child/ren. They are the light before the storm. They are the warmth your heart needs when you feel cold, empty, and broken. They are that streak of God's light you see emerging through the dark storm clouds that seem to swallow you whole. Sometimes they are the only reason you ever get out of bed that day. They remind you there is hope when the despair leaves you gasping for breath. And they bring so much light to your heartbroken soul.

Ted is my sunshine...my only sunshine.

What Christmas looked like

I don't know why it's taken me so long to document Christmas, or anything else really. I have lots to say and lots of posts brewing in my mind, but I just haven't been able to get it all out. Part of it is someone has decided they don't need to nap anymore. The other part, the bigger part is just being afraid to truly share where my heart is. Because truth be told friends, it isn't pretty right now. 

The holidays were hard. Really hard. Every single minute of it. And it was so much more difficult than last year. 

You know a newborn sleeps through Christmas. Their only memory is the pictures we take and the stories we tell. But a one year old? They start to see the magic. Their eyes light up when they see Christmas lights. They either smile, or scream and cry, at Santa. They get to dress up as little angels for the Nativity play and show off their adorable Christmas jammies at the end of the night. They let their big brother open all of their gifts and they fall asleep in your lap because they are just too exhausted from all the fun they had with their dozens and dozens of cousins. So as much as my heart was aching that she missed her newborn Christmas, it aches all the more for her one year old Christmas.

One afternoon before Christmas, Ted and I went to the mall to return something. We stopped at the play area so he could get some energy out. I was sitting in the corner watching him play and my eyes started to scan the play area. I don't know why I do this, because it always leads to tears. I can see little ones who are just starting to toddle and walk and I know they are Lily's age. I just sat there with the tears flowing down my cheeks knowing for the first time in that moment, I'm not just missing Lily in my arms...I am missing her from my life. She would have been 13 months old around Christmas. Maybe walking, maybe not, but either way, she wouldn't just be in my arms. She would be out with Ted, following him around, trying to keep up with her big brother. When I try really hard I can see her right next to him. I see her staring up at him, smiling and laughing at him. Right then and there it really hit me...I didn't just lose my baby, I lost my daughter.

This was really just the beginning of how hard the holidays were for us. Every single, sweet moment with Ted was sprinkled with heartache missing Lily. It took me all of Advent to get around to decorating her tree. I don't know why, but I just couldn't do it. Maybe it's because that's it. That's all I get. A stupid tree to decorate for her. I don't get to buy her baby dolls or her first Pottery Barn chair, I get a tree. A stupid, fake, tree to decorate for my daughter. I hate thinking that and I really hate saying it out loud. We have been gifted with some beautiful decorations for Lily's tree from family and friends and I really do love them. But when you really think about it, how much does it just suck that that's all I get with my daughter? I just get to decorate a tree for her...

oh, and her grave. Which leads me to my other self-pity Christmas story. When we were buying decorations for her birthday, I saw a lot of Christmas stuff and I started planning in my head what I wanted to do for Christmas for her grave. I finally got around to buying it and when I went back to the store, everything I had wanted to buy was gone. All of it. I didn't know what to do. I felt so helpless and so broken in that moment. I just stood in the middle of the aisle and started crying. Big, ugly, fat crying tears and I couldn't stop. All I could think about was how unfair all of this is. How I shouldn't be buying grave decorations at all, I should be buying her first baby doll and stroller. But instead I'm faced with this nightmare of a reality. My daughter is dead. My son doesn't get to have Christmas with his sister. My arms are empty. I miss my daughter. 

(Side note: if you really want to be humbled about what really matters at Christmas, go visit the infant section of a cemetery during Christmas. I've never seen so many decorations for so many little loves who are missed all year long, but especially during the holidays.)

It was all just so much more than I ever imagined. And I usually LOVE Christmas. It is one of my favorite times of the year. I have a big, wonderful, loving family in Iowa that loves to celebrate and I just couldn't face them this year. I couldn't really face anyone but Jason and Ted. I couldn't fake a smile when I felt like I was dying inside. And I couldn't celebrate a big, wonderful family Christmas without Lily. 

So we stayed here and made the most of it. We decorated our house...very slowly. We took the whole season of Advent to decorate each room of our house. I actually loved that part. I could savor the simplicity and I could recognize what this season is all about - finding ourselves ready and preparing for the true gift of Christmas. I finally got around to decorating Lily's tree and it was so beautiful, I couldn't take it down until this past week (just before Lent!). We took Ted to see all the Christmas lights and he loved it! We celebrated Christmas Eve with just us. We went to Mass and we watched with delight as Ted opened his gifts on Christmas morning.

And I smiled and cried and cried and smiled. I smiled that Ted was in awe of the season. And cried missing my daughter. I cried that Ted woke up by himself on Christmas morning instead of with his sister. And I smiled knowing that Lily knows the true meaning of this season better than anyone because she isn't awaiting her King...she's dancing with Him. 

Such is this life, smiles and tears, smiles and tears, somewhere between Heaven and Earth.

 

 

 

Lily's month

As I said before, when we received Lily's diagnosis, I feared every day she would come early. I remember being so happy when we made it to October, we made it to her birth month...and then all of a sudden it was October 31st and she made it quite known she was not ready. I wasn't either, but honestly, I was never going to be ready.

And almost one year later...I'm still not ready for this. I'm still not ready to live the rest of this life without her.

We are painfully aware every single day of all the milestones we are missing. If you have kids, you know. If you've filled a baby book, you know how overstuffed it should be right now...overflowing with all of your child's firsts. Her first roll over, first scoot, first crawl. Her first foods, teeth, and car rides. Her first smile,  her first giggle and words...her first "mama" and "dada".

All of these firsts that we've missed are so painful and heart wrenching, but the one I'm really not ready for is coming up fast. In 11 days it will be Lily's first birthday and I'm really not ready for that. I feel the world nudging me, telling me "it's been a year, you should be better now." While it feels like eternity since she's been in my arms, the pain and raw emotions feel very fresh. This wound hasn't even began to scab over.

Somehow, by the grace of God, we made it back here. Back to her birth month, one year later. I know people will want it to get easier for us from here on out. After all, we've already had our first everythings without her. We've had a first Thanksgiving, Christmas, our birthdays, and trips to Iowa, but it doesn't feel that way. Not even a little bit. It all still feels like the first day she was missing from my arms. It feels like that every day.

This morning I woke up dreading this month. This month that I once loved because it almost finally feels like Fall. A month that reminds us of all that we have to be thankful for. A month that begins with recognizing all the wonderful saints of our Church. The month I finally held my daughter in my arms after waiting so long.

But it's also the month I had to hand her over to a stranger. The month where I watched my husband smile through tears as he held his little girl. The month where Ted peeked over to get his only glimpse of his sister in this life. The month where the casket closed much too quickly. A month where I pretend to be thankful for all these precious moments, but truthfully I'm screaming inside at how unfair it all really is. 

And for the rest of my life, a month where I will be decorating a grave instead of a cake. A month where I will be picking out flowers instead of a birthday dress. A month where I only get to remember the few firsts I got instead of watching new ones each year. A month where I will be celebrating my daughter's first birthday without her in my arms...and everyone after.

How is it possible to ever be ready for that?