Final ceremony

My heart and mind are full tonight, but my hands have been so busy.  Right now I can't give all the details of the day; partly I'm still processing all my emotions.  But it was good and beautiful to spend a day honoring my little ones.  I know they shared in our joy.

At the Japanese lantern release, the one with Perpetua's name was sent up first.  She flew up faster and farther than any of them, speeding towards the heavens to blend into the glorious clouds.

Of course, I cried.  While taking pictures, naturally.

I thought of each one of you who has had a loss, and said a prayer for you all today as I watched the lanterns melt into the sky.  "Love never fails." 1 Corinthians 13:8

Edge of the comfort zone

Prelude: I'm writing surrounded by five yelling children (picked up a cute extra), who occasionally lean over me to drip a messy snack onto my keyboard or call for assistance with finding a toy.  Yo Gabba Gabba is blaring as a useless decoy in the background.  This is about my least favorite way to try to accomplish anything.  But the post must go on, for no reason other than writing helps me think, though getting paid to do this at some point would be swell.  Feel free to send me leads anytime.  :)

So back to my return trip: had a smashing time in DC with the coolest sisters-in-law there are, and then was taken to Union Station for my non-eventful bus ride to Port Authority Terminal NYC.  Non-eventful, that is, until it became clear to the ladies of Long Island that their bus driver had taken the wrong turn, and was hopelessly circling Manhattan.

(Me, bored and taking self-portraits in hopelessly circling bus):

"Are you KIDDIN' ME??!!" was the most printable of the comments made from this stalwart band of females who knew their city thoroughly and realized, beyond a doubt, that the hapless driver was dead wrong in his GPS programming decisions.  I should have taken a video of the crowd around the poor man, who looked penitent and terrified as women alternately shouted new directions at him and offered profanities and hand gestures to the traffic on his behalf.

In the end, we were an hour late.  I had missed my connecting bus at 10 PM.  The next bus I was informed, without apology, was at 7:30.  AM.  The one accomodation I was given for the complete lack of the second leg of a full trip I'd pre-purchased was a $10 meal voucher which was useful from 6:30 AM on.

I was unhappy.  I was scared.  Port Authority boasts the most aggressive panhandlers I've ever seen, who seem to outnumber security by at least half.   As I walked with a lady and her four children who were in the same predicament I was, we were accompanied by people alternately asking for change and swearing at us for no apparent reason.  One gentlemen had told us (rather firmly) to ask for information at a certain kiosk, and when we decided to go a different route we were followed by him, insisting he did not like how we were "disrespectin'" him.

With 18% charge left on my cell, I called my husband. (The "Greyhound" bus had turned out to be an "Eire" bus from the early 90's, with no cup-holders or seat pockets, shades instead of tinted windows, and most assuredly no outlets to charge devices.)  When you're panicky and lost, Dan's about the best person on the planet for a solution: he can find a way to get from point A to point B from just about any start point.  In more than one continent too.  There's got to be a way to market this ability... :)

"Okay Katie, go out to the subway.  Take it to Grand Central Station.  The last train to New Haven is leaving in about 10 minutes."  It was almost midnight.

Growing up, my dad wasn't keen on my mom driving around the block solo after dark.  I have some such residual hesitance in my blood.  And growing up, "Grand Central Station" was an expression meaning "insanity."  Such as, "Kids, you coming in and out the door like that makes me feel like I'm in Grand Central Station."

I had never actually seen "Grand Central Station."  But I was about to.  Alone, and after midnight.

Deciding whatever awaited me on New York's subways was preferable to finding a corner of filthy carpet to sleep on in the current zoo, I bid farewell and blessings to the family I had been with, gave them my voucher, and ran like mad to catch the next subway, dodging a couple guys muttering to themselves, luggage bumping behind me.

It's hot, muggy, and dirty in the subways.  Like a lot.  Using what I taught my own girls about approaching strangers (i.e. the only time I shamelessly stereotype), I just kept looking for safe-looking people to ask for advice.  Where do you get a ticket?  Like this?  Which train? Oh thank you...  I found an aspiring filmmaker who talked to me about her fictional film about a drug addict until she abruptly said, "Oh! Here's your stop! Jump off and go left!"  And then she and the subway was gone in a rush, and I was left on an empty, dimly lit platform, far underground, alone with my luggage.

Lord, I know you are helping me find the edge of my comfort zone these days, but golly gee.  Really?  But hey, I made it.  Found the right escalator, found a young couple to follow, found Grand Central Station to be immense and beautiful (not at all what I expected, I had imagined it more as Port Authority) and anything but busy, an abandoned marbled hall.

I made the last train by four minutes.  It was an old one, and jogged and shook aggressively down the tracks. I knew I wouldn't sleep with all the racket, so I just sat there numbly, purse on the seat beside me.  Until I woke up to "Newww Haven."  And no purse.

Dan and four sleepy kids were ready for me with our mini van at 3:30 AM.  I canceled the cards in the morning, chalking up the cash I lost to almsgiving, since I hadn't had time or courage to do any while lost in New York.

Traveling alone.  Writing a blog.  Losing a baby.  This has definitely been the year of going to my edge, and trying to become a better person in the process...

Thank you Lord for Your guidance and protection, Your presence with us every step of the way as we encounter our depths and heights.  Without You, there is nothing.  With You, we have everything: every strength we need, every grace we require.

"Let all who take refuge in You rejoice."  Psalm 5:11

What's better: top or bottom?

This was the entirely innocent question I asked before boarding my first Megabus, a double-decker vehicle bound for DC and my unsuspecting, beloved sister-in-law. Surrounded by college students, this statement was greeted with much, in their dialect: lol, rofl, and lmao.  Very embarrassed, I weakly thanked the winking responder--who assured me a little too enthusiastically that the top was definitely best--and dragged my luggage up the narrow, steep stairs to the upper floor of the bus.

The place was a sardine can.  Complete with yelling babies, as my luck would have it.  Having been at the back of the line, my choices were limited to the following: sit beside a younger guy or an older guy.  But definitely a guy.

Looking over my options, I went for the older guy playing solitaire on his phone.  Eager for a nice, quiet overnight ride, I slid my luggage on the top shelf, awkwardly waited while the gentleman struggled up to let me to the window seat, and tried to make myself and my pillow as small as possible.  I pinched my earplugs in place, and settled to ignore the guy, who had apparently finished his game and was producing a tall thermos.

"Woo yoo lie um?"

I removed my earplugs.  "Pardon me?"

"Would you like some?"  He grinned, brandishing a plastic mug.  "Unfortunately, I only have this one cup, but I'd love to share."

It wasn't coffee.  It was chardonnay.

Figuring I really might as well find out a little more about the person I was about to sleep with on this journey, I asked his name, and where he was from.  I was delighted to hear he had a wife, and a daughter my age, who also had four children.  Whew.

Turns out, drinking made him quite gregarious.  A truly captive audience, I resigned myself to hear whatever stories he wished to tell me for the next six hours till his stop in Philly.  At least the noisy engine had finally started, and the a/c was very slowly dispelling the muggy atmosphere.

"Ed" was a evangelical Christian.  His story was the Gospel.  A story which got louder and more enthusiastic the emptier his thermos got.  A story which continued while the rest of the bus fell asleep.

Don't get me wrong: I'd really wanted to sleep.  I'm a mom.  I'm always low on sleep.  This was a long-awaited adventure for me, one I wanted to share with my own thoughts and enjoy with my own slumber.

But somehow, I didn't mind.  I thought of how my youngest delights in the continual re-reading of "Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do you see?"  She will sit in rapt attention while you read it to her, then slide off your lap to go book in hand to all the literate members of the household, each of them having a turn to read about what these absurdly colored animals see.

I'm a theology major.  I know about creation, and the fall, and redemption.  I know how the Old Testament foreshadowed the new.

I loved hearing it again anyway.  Too tired to trot out what I knew myself, I just let Ed tell me again.  How Jesus loved us, and laid His life down to save us.  How we would live with Him forever.  The comfort of the eternal story, forever old, forever new.

And suddenly, the conversation turned very personal.

"You know, I lost a child years ago.  She was seven.  Born with a brain tumor, went into remission, but then it just came back, you know?  We did everything we could.  Practically lived with her in the hospital those final months..."

I was wide awake now.  He told me how he and his wife, both musicians, would play music for the terminally ill children of the ward to fall asleep to.  She on a dulcimer, he on a muted violin.  He explained how he was angry with God, but later came to terms with the Love that is stronger than death.  He told me his conversion story.

"What about you?  You're a young mom... did you ever have a moment when you knew God was working in you, even though things outwardly were awful?"

I told him how sorry I was for his loss, and how I hadn't had that type of sorrow.  But I'd had Pepper.

We talked of Heaven long into the night.  Right up till the rest stop at McDonald's, when the lights clicked on and the passengers stretched and yawned and the babies cried and we got 2 AM smoothies that we totally didn't need or really want.

Quite tiring and inspiring.  Neat to think how God had saved me the right seat.  Much better than my bus ride home, where I had a seat to myself but was left stranded at midnight in Port Authority, NYC.  But I promised short posts, so maybe I'll write on that later.  For now, a scripture with the month's theme :)

"'Were not our hearts burning within us, 

while He spoke with us on the road and explained the Scriptures to us?'" 

Luke 24:32

Seeking escape

I made a big mistake.  In hindsight, that is.  I made darn sure that, unlike with my other five pregnancies, I would not be traveling or "going on vacation" while preggo.  No sir.  Done with that.  

My first pregnancy I was maneuvering overnight trains in Italy, in whatever is Italian for "just abova cattle class." My second pregnancy, I drove down to Florida with a one year old to sing at a wedding during an active hurricane season.  In all the subsequent pregnancies, I've driven down to VA at least once to stay with inlaws, one of whom was friendly enough to call me selfish for sleeping in when I was 8 months pregnant.  While visiting her.  In July. With limited a/c.  But I digress...

So been there, done that.  And this time, when I discovered the two lines, I made darn sure I wouldn't leave this house till the fall.

I still haven't moved.  In all of our last minute desperate attempts to find a way to get away, I've been foiled.  By April, the time shares we typically use were booked up for the summer.  Even when I've attempted to get the first week of September before we really give up on summer, it hasn't worked.

I've never wanted to be pregnant more.  I've never been so terrified of that idea.  I've never been so desperate to get away from it all.  From the room she would have been in.  From the bed that still has ginger chews and Zofran in the little drawer.  From the shower where I've watched my belly shrink.  (Never thought I'd be sad about something like that.)  I don't even understand why today is a "sad" day, but from the moment I woke up, it just was.  Probably because I'm leaving Phase 1 on my NFP chart.  Bleeding now would have meant she was on her way.  Bleeding now just means she is gone.

"My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord; 

my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God." Psalm 84:2

Addendum:  So I tap out the above tearjerker, shove the laptop towards my husband with a mumbled, "I hope I'll feel better now," and wander off to redo my makeup.  He read it, picked up the phone, and called our time share company just one more time.  Last night, there was nothing available.  But today, right after I'd written this, there was a beautiful two bedroom place, close to both destinations my husband and I wanted (I wanted lakes, he wanted mountains) in Bethel.  Familiar with any Hebrew?    That's just too cool...



God... thank You.

Better

I'm here!  I'm here I'm here I'm here.  Okay good.  Wow.  I will try not to mention that I have locked myself in the bathroom to write...  Finally.

And I'm okay!  I had an awful day, blogged, and then totally left this on a downer.  Geesh.

Here's some things that perked up my mood: 

1. I've gotten more child care.  I had to.  It is good for my sanity.  I love my kids, but I need more quiet these days. 

 End of story.

2. Here's a weird one: guess what was on the bottom of my jewelry box?

Duh, you say.  But here's the catch: I was wearing it in MA, at the MASS Hope conference for homeschoolers.  And at a playground.  I remember debating whether to wear it that morning, and going with it.  I remember playing with it on my neck in the van.  My husband--my compass of sanity these days--remembers it on me that day.  I remember reaching up to my neck later and gasping because it was bare.

And... it's right here, back again.  So... either my husband and I are getting crazy and forgetful with all the stress or... huh.  Let's just say that's cool, and I must have someone looking out for me these days... :)

3. After much hassle with babysitters canceling and other heroes stepping in to fill the gap last minute, Dan and I got childcare for a day and took a long drive to New Hampshire.  Didn't talk much, just absorbed the quiet and some non-kiddie CD's, including the "sound track" to my honeymoon.  Wanna guess?  Pep Shop Boys.  Yes, I am totally embarrassed, thanks.  But I found their songs both catchy and hysterical when I was a young bride of 23, and while we drove to California for untold hours and ate beef jerky out of bags (yeah, eww) Dan and I listened to "Go West!"  I was going to post the link but it's even more cringe-worthy that way... ha...

The weather was lovely, and we drove up to the White Mountains,

and then back around Lake Winnipesaukee.  I first saw the Lake when I was 14 and just fell in love... granted, I hadn't traveled further than Cape Cod till that point.  My siblings and I were swimming and I dove right in the icy water and swam straight to the furthest dock.  This greatly upset my Dad... poor Dad's had a fear of the water since his brother almost drowned in Spring Lake as a boy...  But he didn't, and one day he explained to my father the meaning of John 3:16... and then, quite suddenly, my family became serious about faith.  Which I'm really glad about you know, these days...

Anyway... mountains, lake, and ocean!  We stopped to walk by the surf and wade (well, I did... other people don't like sand on their feet, hee hee), watching fog rising off the cold water and the crazy surfers.

The sea reminds me so much of its Creator, and just seems big enough to absorb all of my sadness.  My greatest comfort is knowing how very well she is doing now in the hands of my God. 

We never put the top down... oh, I forgot to mention my husband had rented a convertible, a vehicle I've only been in for like an hour before...  They are like... way cool. :)

Note the blanket. :)  Last minute, we realized we probably should wear hats to preserve our youthful skin, so we stole some of the kids and looked... less than cool.  Luckily, my server will not allow me to download those photos at this time... :D  As the evening wore on into upper 50's territory, we removed the caps but continued to look like absolute idiots, being blown around by cold wind while wrapped in coats... :) As we drove home, I looked at the sky for hours--longer than I ever have I think--watching the cloud shapes melting into each other, layers of filmy white on purest blue.

After dark, I watched the stars... if you just look straight up, it looks like the sky is rotating while the car is still. "Isn't it beautiful, Pepper?"

In my heart, I felt her whisper back from perfect joy, "Mom, wait till you see it from here!" :)

Just sad

A stream of profanities issued from behind the laptop--suspiciously from where my husband was sitting--while I sighed and shook my head, staring into my mug as though hoping to find the answer in my tea.

"This isn't fair!  This isn't right!  What happened?!?  What went wrong?!?  Grr..."

No, we were not discussing the loss of our daughter, but the loss of my last post.  Yeah, I kept hitting save... but Blogger was ornery I guess.  It just wasn't there when I hit publish, the post I'd made using the only current hours I have: the ones before and after midnight.  After I drank a coffee at 10 PM so I could be clear-headed enough to do it.  It stinks to only have time for one post this week, but you know, it's easier losing anything that isn't a baby these days. Not as bad as going through the worst months of pregnancy with nothing to hold afterwards. 

It has been acutely painful not to have time to write and to think this week. My babysitter had been on vacation, my parents have been busy, my husband's work continues apace, and I haven't had much opportunity to sort through this dull grey that seems to surround me. 

I fear I am being negative, huh? Well, on a small positive note, the loss has made organizing much simpler for me.  Puts things very much in perspective.  Makes cyberspace eating a nice writing session less painful. And now I can totally get rid of this extra teapot I've been hanging on to for, I dunno, in case I need to drink two gallons of tea all at once... could happen, right? :)  And I'll just write something else... Let's see...  I know I had included the following quote in my former post:

you grew in me

and I grew too

you were you

and I was me

but we were one

our lives flowing

weaving

entwined in each other

daughter

mother

connected with love

with tissue and blood

in body

and soul

and then

the end.

impossible

how can it be that one

so young

so full of life

waiting to burst into this world

slipped out so quietly

over before even one breath

you slipped away in the night

you didn't even wake me

you left me there sleeping

left me there all alone

waiting

for what would never come

Those words were written by Stephanie Cole, in her poem "Untitled II," which commemorates the loss of her daughter Madeleine.  She was kind enough to send me a copy of her book "Still." While desperately sad, her writing and poetry captures the feelings well, so I find it oddly comforting to read them.  And yes, you may bill me for the tissues.

So the answer to, "Hey Katie, how are you?" is currently, "Hanging in there, thanks!"  I'm going through the motions of normal child care and driving to lessons and stuff, but you know that commercial where this little cloud is following you around?  Except I'm in the cloud.  But this isn't some plain old depression; it's just part of the roller-coaster called grief.  I'm strapped in for this ride for a bit... and yeah, I did hope I'd just be writing humorous posts on current events and witty moments of motherhood at this point.  But I'm kinda stuck here for now.  This ride is going around again... yay.  Thanks for bearing with me.  :)

There are still delightfully absurd moments of motherhood to enjoy over here.  Like when I last picked up my little ones from child care at the gym, I found Cecilia surrounded by all the plastic dinosaurs in the place, officiating a wedding between a brontosaurus and a T-Rex.  Because that's just her.  She greeted me with, "Mom!  It's almost my BIWTHDAY!" (mid-September) "Then I will be BIG!  Then I can dwive a BULLDOZER! And my cake will be wery, wery PINK!" 

Oy.  She's fun.  They all are fun.  But oddly enough, I usually have a hard time enjoying them these days.  Oddly enough, I'm missing the baby I would have had too much, sometimes, to listen clearly to the kid who is wailing about a broken crayon.  I would have been 25 weeks this Wednesday, as my pregnancy app reminds me.  That's just about viable.  No, I don't keep it to make me sad, but to remind me that it was real, that I programmed the app for her.  I think she deserves to at least have an app blindly and happily remembering what would have been.

On Tuesday, a mom's group friend of mine announced that she was having a boy on my erstwhile due date.  I am truly happy for her.  I'm just really sad for me, and my family.  Despite the fact that four seems like a vast number of children to have these days.  She's wearing maternity clothes openly now, while I try to lose pregnancy weight with nothing to show for it.  I'm still seeking to answer the question "How many kids do you have?" in a way that feels right and okay.

I'm making efforts to get more sleep, which will help.  I had a nap yesterday, unfortunately at the same time someone had driven out to try to drop off a meal I had completely forgotten about.  Sorry! :( I need post-it notes taped to my wrists these days for reminders.  Somewhere between the nightmare du nuit, and a recent trend where all children under five continually (after being put back in bed, yup) return to sleep in their parents' bed perpendicularly: feet in mom's side, head on dad's chest, and a zillion different combinations therein... somehow I'm not sleeping quiet enough.  It doesn't help that I seem to need about two hours to get myself to bed, trying to make sure I'm so tired that I won't be up thinking about sad, distressing things. 

Like on Mother's Day.  And I actually had a great day, thanks; hope you did too!  My sister and mom took me out to some beautiful gardens, and to lunch.  I spent time with my children and uncles and aunts and grandmother, who has been a mother for over 70 years now, whew! :)  I went to bed congratulating myself on getting through the day without getting weepy, then realized I was crying because--somewhere in all the rush and business--I hadn't made it to her grave yesterday.  And at 11 PM, that was crushing.

So on Monday, we went.  We brought sampling of every flower that is in her backyard, and from what would have been her playground.

Apparently we also provided Cecilia with the opportunity of carting off other grave decorations... I didn't notice she had done this till I looked at this photo later.  See that big bouquet she's walking off with?  Yeah, not ours.  Oh dear.  Where did it come from, where did it go... haven't a clue. :S  I will leash them next time I think... they love "Babyland" with all the pretty décor.  It really is a peaceful place, with lots of birds and butterflies, which I'm glad of.

I'm also grateful for the way my little angel has highlighted all the angels already in my life.  For all of you who are patiently praying me through this.  And recently, for the dear friend, after a full day of teaching school, who came over to watch my kids so I could go to a baby-loss support group.

Never been to those before, you know.  You'd think it would be depressing, but it is comforting to acknowledge the short lives of these children, and the love that survives them.

I had been trying to "talk myself out" of being quite so sad for a bit... like, it could have been worse, right?  I have heard stories of stillbirth and SIDS and losing children to cancer that would break anyone's heart.  But in the end, I find grief comparisons useless. To be extremely non-profound: it is what it is.  Losing a child at any stage is a loss to be acknowledged, processed, and grown through in ways as individual as each unique human heart. 

Today, I'm just trying to get through all this... hanging on to my faith in God, my hope for heaven, my love for my little ones.  Wishing both you and I a peaceful, beautiful weekend.

"The Lord is close to the brokenhearted,

and those who are crushed in spirit He saves." Psalm 34:18

The whole is greater than the sum of its parts

Which do you want first: the good news or the bad news?

The good news: we learned the autopsy results.  The bad news: we learned the autopsy results.  They weren't good.  Then again, are autopsy results ever really "good"? 

One real positive thing: I can officially tell you pregnant mommas who've been brave enough to keep reading all this that--as far as what happened to Perpetua--you have nothing to worry about.  Because, as it turns out, it was all me.

We were escorted to an office, a different one than before, with a shiny desk adorned with the remnants of a KFC snack bowl and medium beverage, condensation dripping down the side. "Oh.  Sorry about the clutter."  The doctor plopped into her wheeling chair, looked at her papers, sighed, and delivered the following:

"The results were significant.  Not that you are to blame, but your placenta... basically you had preeclampsia.  I've never seen it this early, so I assume it's caused by an underlying medical issue you have.  Possibly lupus.  Anyway, the fetus was normal, but was eventually not able to get enough oxygen due to the placental issues.  But don't worry... were you to get pregnant again, the solution may be as simple as a daily baby aspirin to help thin your blood and prevent clotting..."

I've never been in a free fall, but I think I kinda know how it feels now: I'm thinking that it gets really quiet from the rushing of the wind past your ears like white noise.  That you feel numb from the chill of the speed of your fall.  That it's cold, and numb, and quiet, and you wonder when it will stop.

I know it's not "my fault."  I know I didn't intend it, and would have done anything to prevent it.  But for the record, baby girl: Momma is so very, very sorry that her body failed yours.  I'm so sad I didn't know in time to fix it, if I could have.  I'm so sorry I didn't know that you were quietly getting too sleepy to survive and live to be my baby here, like I'd hoped you could...

As for my "free fall" comment, I actually stayed in my chair... couldn't have moved if I wanted to.  I really did think (and hope) the problem was some genetic fluke that meant the baby couldn't progress further than she did due to an inherent error in her chromosomes.  In other words, that she'd lived as long as she could.  I guess I wasn't prepared to hear the baby was normal, and I was not.

I believe I was calm and monotone as I asked my questions, and requested copies of the pathology report.  The write-up's almost incomprehensible, every other word a complex medical term you feel you need a college course to understand.  Ever feel like you majored in the wrong thing?  Golly.  I've still been trying, Googling every word separately and in phrases to try to understand better.  Mostly getting studies on rat embryos, nothing particularly helpful.  Try these out for size: "Severe decidual vasculopathy." "Fibrinoid necrosis."  "Avascular villi." "Pervillous fibrin deposition." 

Now trying saying those in an accent. :)  Sigh...

And then there's the stuff that's easy to understand: "Markedly abnormal placental tissue."  And what I guess is typical pathology report style: a moment by moment description of what the researcher was doing.  Color, texture, weight in grams of everything... great appetite reduction literature really.  X-rays had been done.  Apparently there were pictures taken of her after all.  (!)  The baby was completely normal.  But concluding the perinatal report: "Severe preeclampsia with marked maternal vascular disease."

My friends, I will be going to doctor's appointments for a lonnng time it seems, blood tests, MRI's, the works... trying to find out what bizarre disease (if that's actually what it is) I have that can cause problems like this, or blood clots in me, to find out what happened with this pregnancy and how I should proceed for my own health.  In the doctor's words: "I've never seen anything like this, preeclampsia so early on, without high blood pressure or anything..."  Shhwell.

Wow.  I really did take my fertility for granted before all this.  It is just so darn easy for me to get pregnant.  (No, I didn't mean it that way... oh never mind. :)  After my second unplanned pregnancy within two years of marriage, I had been completely convinced that "Dancause" may as well be "Duggar," at least until I actually learned Natural Family Planning. :)  And overall, I really did think, that if I had two strong lines on a stick, and had awful morning sickness, and didn't smoke or drink or eat too much tuna, and made it to 17 weeks... that everything really was going to be okay. That it made more sense, at that point, to worry about getting struck by lightning.  But I was wrong.

We aren't in control, no matter how much we want to be, no matter how often we think we are.  Ultimately, we are wearing seatbelts on a sphere spinning through space, upheld by a Power far beyond our reckoning.  I'm grateful I have a personal relationship with that Power, and that He loves me.

I'm still not mad at Him.  I'm kinda surprised about that, waiting for the rage at the "unfairness" of it all to hit and me to go through the motions of trying to blame my Creator.  Who knows, maybe it will at some point.  I don't blame the people who are mad at Him; He can handle it and guide them on their own journey...  I mean, I was plenty mad during my first miscarriage: the early one, Gabriel.  I felt completely betrayed by God then.  The weight of the unanswered "why" was too great.  It took time to get through that and to let go of that primal anger at losing a child I was "supposed" to have. 

But now somehow it just seems that I don't have to know the "why" right now.  I have the medical "why" I wanted, or the beginnings of it, but the "why" of God allowing it... I'm leaving that to Him.  I am leaning on my faith that the God who loved my child into existence hasn't changed His mind about that at all.  She still exists.  And He still loves her.  And we'll all be together again someday, gloriously happy in eternity, the Whole that is greater than the sum of all the fragmented earthly parts of a much bigger and better plan.  Because hey, if this life is all there is, there is simply not nearly enough chocolate to keep me happy... I'm just gonna say it, cuz we're all thinking it.  :)

I was the careful mom that stayed far from the edge and yet fell off a cliff.  But somehow, God has been there to catch me.  Somehow, I love and appreciate Him more than ever.  Partly because this has been so awful that I've really had to "give" this whole situation to Him, because I just couldn't bear this on my own.  Even being cynical: doesn't it make sense for me to keep working on a relationship with Him, since He has full custody? :)

With all the sad things that can happen in this world, either the universe is a cruel joke run by a blind Deity, or our losses here are all part of a greater gain.  Even the shortest lives here are ultimately too precious to be a waste, too important not to matter. 

Nothing good is ever truly or permanently lost.  More than ever, every day, I remember what I have to look forward to.  More than ever, every day, I'm thankful

for the blessings

I got to keep.

Then the Lord answered Job out of the whirlwind, and said,

'Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth?
Tell me, if you have understanding.

When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?

Have you ever given orders to the morning or assigned a place for the dawn?

What is the way to the place where light lives?'

And Job answered, 'Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,

things too wonderful for me to know.'"

Job 38:1,4,7,12;42:3

One burning question...

Wow. Two nights by myself in a hotel room. Highly recommend it. Moms, for your next birthday; go see just in case it might work! :)  2.5 star hotel somewhere nearby to sleep, swim solo, read and write, watch your very own show, eat slowly while sitting down: very unique experience. I'm not sure I will check out... hmm... :)

Well I managed to check out, been working on this post for days you see.  Apparently it nearly killed me to leave though; I have a accidentally photo from my phone of the light at the end of the tunnel!  :)  Okay, hallway.  You see? Hee hee.

ANYway, as I have been gradually recovering from the shock of my experience (um no, not leaving the hotel), I have found myself left with one pressing question...  My mom never had a miscarriage that she knew of, and if anyone in my family did I'll never know, as the bloodline I was born into simply does not talk about unpleasant things. 

But my mother had close friends who did have this awful experience. And from the age of 9 I just knew, as I saw these women hug and cry their hearts out, that I could never handle such a loss.

Thus ever since I was a kid who had no clue how babies arrived on this earth, through my teens and into my young adulthood, my most constant request to God was a very specific prayer, asked in the greatest faith and trust: that I never would have a miscarriage or a stillborn. It was my greatest fear.  Second to that was sharks of course, but as I saw no chance of me becoming an oceanographer who handfed steaks to Great Whites for a living, it wasn't a continual prayer of mine, though I'm sure it occasionally made the list...:)

Now I find myself having had one of each (well as close to having a stillborn as I want to get). And my heart is asking why.

At the very time when it has never been more necessary for me, and all the while feeling surrounded and upheld by the prayers of many like never before, and in the very midst of experiencing much more peace and calm and even quiet joy then the situation required, and in weeks where I have felt the grace of God more keenly than ever: I still find myself calling the whole process into question.

Namely, what is the value of prayer, of asking God for something, if He is simply going to do His own will anyway?

And not just doing His will, but in this!!! To separate a mother from her child. To have a tiny child die, possibly to have suffered. To have a mother grieve this loss and feel this absence for the rest of her days. To know no family picture, travel, or holiday will ever be really complete. To wonder "what if" and "what would have been," to call to mind so many questions with no answers. As a dear friend of mine recently put it: Lord, why send a child only to take them away?

Why?

I got out my Bible. I thought about everything I'd learned about God's antecedent and consequent will.  Went back to what the Summa says based on 1 Timothy 2:4, that God wants all men to be saved and come to know the truth, but since this doesn't happen, what does this say of God's will?  Seems scholars of Scripture have claimed that this verse expresses God's "antecedent" will, which is the sort of willing expressed prior to considering all the facts of a particular situation. (These terms are used in law, I believe). But what actually occurs at times is God's "consequent" will, which takes all facts into account (such as man's free will).

Naw, that didn't help much, other than to reassure me that God does not like death, that what happened to me wasn't the perfect plan for mankind He had in mind in the beginning.  Just like I'm sure the awful Boston Marathon bombings weren't in the antecedent will of God; it just came to be consequently from the diseased mind of some hapless soul.  At any rate, the study part made tremendous sense when I was in college. But now it's mostly "baby is gone; want baby back." So later I picked up a rosary, and started to pray the first sorrowful mystery, reflecting on Christ's Agony in the Garden.

And I thought of Jesus perfectly praying, three times, very specifically, in great trust and faith and blood-sweating earnestness to the all-good and all-loving Father: "Let this cup pass. Yet not as I will, but as You will."

You know, when I did have the time to study theology back in the day, I wrote my thesis on the "fiat" of Mary, where in response to hearing God's incomprehensible will for her, she said to the angel Gabriel: "Be it done unto me."  The title I used was "Fiat: The Word That Made Man Higher Than Angels."  I was all studious and non-emotional about it at the time.  "Be it done unto me. Not as I will, but as You will."

When Jesus prayed "Let this cup pass" the night before His death, it didn't "work." And He didn't want something that was bad. And He wasn't asking the wrong way. And we wasn't at all lacking in the faith that could move mountains.  And He probably knew the answer anyway, which is way more than any of us do when we pray...

So then why did He bother asking?

With this question nipping at the back of my brain for days, I went to a study session on a book by Priscilla Shirer.  This awesome Baptist church down the road has Bible studies with child care that I recently started attending again.  Child care and coffee.  Frankly, I think I might come to a study on the Cat in the Hat with that setup, but fortunately it was on Scripture. Listening to the video segment, I heard Ms. Shirer talk about how everything that concerns us concerns Him, and then she hadta go straight to talking about the sparrow scripture, and I got all choked up of course, and I'm trying to hide it, and I don't have a tissue, so I sneak out....

After I got back with a tissue and checked to make sure my eye makeup wasn't approaching late Goth, the video had moved on to to Ephesians 3:20-21: "Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen."

Priscilla reflected that however big a miracle we could ever dream up, that God can do way better than that miracle. The discussion revolved around the indisputable fact that God is able to do all things; He can, but sometimes He won't.   That it is our business to believe He can do anything, while it is His job to decide what will ultimately be for our greatest good.  That it all boils down to trust: if God does not do what you ask of Him, do you trust that He has something better in mind?  And He does; He has tremendous "Kingdom" purposes we can't see from this earth. 'He is way past, my way past," Priscilla kept saying.  His best interests for me are way better and beyond what my best interests are for me.  That's for sure... 

I was in the right place at the right time.  I started furiously writing my own notes, the kind I write so fast I can't read them later because my handwriting is atrocious.  But scanning back over them I was saying something about how on Good Friday, the "good" thing which no one could see as a good thing at the time myseriously was the death of God.   Because He foresaw the resurrection.  I scribbled about Jeremiah 29:11, and was thinking that all things are not good, but all things are worked out for my good because I love Him. That if one stops praying, it doesn't limit God, but being closed off in our communication, and our lacking in faith and trust, does indeed limit how we receive from Him.

No I'm not saying "I completely get it now"; prayer is still mysterious to me, with God's plan prevailing overall, yet with Him taking what we ask into account, somehow.  But I know we are tremendously valuable to God, so it stands to reason that our thoughts and desires and words to Him matter too. Scripture tells us He holds every one of our tears (Psalm 56:8). That He loves us, and sings over us (Zeph 3:17). We are paradoxically always safe in his hands while still on the great and unpredictable adventure called a lifetime, the journey we don't get out of alive. After which, we are immortal. Not a bad deal, that last part.

Don't get me wrong: I have not reached some magical place of total peace at a second trimester loss.  I haven't.  I'm deeply saddened, and on this earth I never will fully understand why this happened.  But I believe I will someday understand.  And I trust in the truth of one of my favorite verses from the Lord: "For I know the plans I have for you  . . . plans to prosper you and not to harm you: to give you hope and a future." (Jer. 29:11)  I still don't get how Samuel's mother Hannah, after her years of infertility, had the courage to give her son up to a life of service in the temple. (1 Sam. 1:22) But I can believe that Perpetua was called to a life far better than one I could give her here, and that she has a meaningful purpose, summoned to serve in the courts of the Lord. 

In the end, I'm realizing more that prayer is a profound expression of trust, not a list to Santa. And as we trust and talk to God in prayer, by pouring out our hearts to a God who knows us intimately and loves us deeply and feels our smallest suffering: having this conversation keeps us open to grace. Knowing He can do all things, we ask for what we want and need. Knowing that the price is paid and the bill is taken care of, we are very free to ask for any good thing. But while I pray to my God for what I believe I need in good faith, I can confidently add at the end, "Do that, or something better." I want to have that courageous trust in my Father, even while I remind Him to go gentler on me.  To remain open not only to what I, in my limitedness, think is good, but to a good so good as to be beyond my wildest dreams.

Lord, I trust that You love, You care, and You know better than I.  Not my will, but yours be done. Fiat.

For in the end, sometimes, if the cup passes like we ask, we could miss the Holy Grail.

"When you pray, say:

Father, hallowed be thy name.

Thy kingdom come.

Give us this day our daily bread. 

And forgive us our sins,

for we also forgive every one that is indebted to us.

And lead us not into temptation." Luke 11:2-4

**************
(Linked to http://www.catholicbloggersnetwork.com/p/link-up-blitz.html)

The glad game

Darn it.  I really wanted to be blogging about the ridiculous weather, and our awesome Pope (who's living in a hotel!  And just embraced the son of a friend of mine, a boy who has CP!  So much to talk about...)

But I still feel lost in all this.  The "lost" feeling has been making me stare blankly a lot. Anywhere and everywhere I am.  I feel like I'm misplaced... That I should really be somewhere else. It's very similar to the uncomfortable, kinda itchy feeling you have when you go on an errand without your infant for the first time. Feels great to be away and get a break, but you're also antsy. 

I feel that way all the time. Like I really must be going, because its high time to get back.  Except I don't know how to get back, and I don't know where I'm going.

I really miss her. 

There are so many triggers! Hiding under the bathroom sink in the form of a stick with two dark and definitive lines. In the restaurant with the sappy music that would make you cry if you lost an umbrella let alone a baby.  Mailed in a cemetery plot deed that came today.  Discovered in notes your kid was writing:

("That's so sweet... sob...")  Inside the grocery store where--last time you were there--you were morning sick and craving butternut squash. And speaking of food, it is awfully hard to remember that snacking in the middle of the night no longer means I'll be less nauseated later.  Darn this awesome candy, and millions of friends who can actually cook...  And as if on queue, a certain Sarah just dropped off soup and pizza... I'm being so spoiled.  And I will get very fat... oh dear... :)

And I'm having dreams.  Some are really great and helpful.  In one dream, I was crying that I had not set up her coffin better, done more for her burial, something like that.  And then this statuesque, strong, beautiful sixteen year old with brown hair and the kindest blue eyes said, "Mom, are you kidding me?"  With such gentle playfulness, and so sheerly, delightfully alive.  Yep, I dreamt a teenage Perpetua was sassing me.  Heck, I'll let her.  She's seen the Beatific Vision of God... I haven't.  So in some ways, she's older and wiser than me.  Outside of time.  Time here is linear: you have to grow from a baby to a toddler and potty train and all that... not so in Heaven.  C.S. Lewis writes some about that... somewhere.  I mean, why can't she be sixteen if she wants, and then be a baby at night rocked to sleep by angels?  I'm sure there are, oh, a bazillion delightful options available to the citizens of heaven that haven't crossed our one track, 24-7 minds yet. 

Then I had another dream that I woke shaking from: I could hear a baby screaming for help, but could not find her and could not get to her.  After I woke, I reasoned that this fear probably stemmed from the poor animal side of my brain of a mommy that can no longer tend to her young.  I then went back to sleep and dreamt there was an axe-welding contest a bunch of women were entering where the winner would get free breast augmentation surgery.  I can't make that up; thank my crazed subconscious.  No, I'm not even going to try to figure out where that came from... :S

And I'm scared.  I'm supposed to find out results tomorrow at my OB appointment, when I have to go back to the office I first heard the awful news at.  I'm afraid they will find out that--somehow--this could have been prevented, and then I will have to fend off the inevitable guilty feelings, no matter how I didn't "intend" or "try" to do anything to hurt her.  I'm also afraid I will find out nothing at all, or that it could not have been prevented... because then, how could I feel "safe" if there is a "next time"??

Ugh.  Pray for me. 

But there's more to life than death. Thus, it's time to engage in the world's most annoying pastime: the glad game. Hey at the very least, it would make certain family members very happy to know that I tried the technique.  Particularly the ones who keep reminding me that what happened was definitely for the best and that Perpetua being in heaven will prove to be such a blessing to me. (These constant reminders may be entirely accurate, but they are equally unhelpful.)

Anyway: the glad game! From a beloved classic book and movie, you know: "PolluANNa! Come out 'n play!  PollyANNa!" etc.

I can be glad because... :D

• I have been reunited with my one true liquid love: iced coffee. So helpful when you can never seem to get enough sleep, so useful to get more done.
• I'm shrinking, and now fit into real clothes.  Well more slowly than I should be, because there is so much CHOCOLATE around... Hmm.  That's bad and glad, so going ahead... 

• I discovered my misplaced ultrasound pics of Perpetua sucking her thumb. Okay that was sad and glad, so moving on....
• I found a place with zero triggers: Twin River Casino. (Yep, that's what I did last time I got babysitting: gambling.) Running a 2-cent slot while getting pickled in the second-hand smoke of a despondent elderly lady is just about close to perfect right now. So completely non-norm and unfamily friendly. And I doubled my money. 10 to 20 bucks. The rush, my friends. The rush.
• I'm becoming noticeably more agile climbing through the driver's side to get to the passenger's side. Yeah, because the mini van door doesn't work with the dent caused by the guy who spun into me whom the accident report says _I_ hit. Okay that's mad and glad... so moving on.
• I have adorable kids, a caring husband, awesome friends, and an Almighty Father in heaven. That's super.  

"And the peace of God, which surpasseth all understanding,

keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus."  Philippians 4:7

  

The empty tomb

I spent Easter with my husband and kids, my mom and dad, my uncle, my cousin, and his new girlfriend.  :) We then returned to the gravesite for the first time since the burial; it's covered with some nice grass seed now.  Put up a couple of little angel statues, but I'm man I'm far from keeping up with these new neighbors.  Huge palm crosses, tons of plants and pinwheels, rows of lollipops, Easter eggs on sticks, oh yeah and solar-powered lights and toys.  My friends, the crazy "competition" about "who is the best mom" continues beyond death. :) Though in this case, I think the mothers of section 29 at St. Ann's, at the newest section of "Babyland," definitely have a soft spot for each other. I threw some extra petals on nearby graves. I'm tempted to leave my number on a business cards at nearby spots, or my Facebook contact info, just something to connect with those who mourn beside me.

It's been the most deeply meaningful Easter I've ever had, by a long shot. I've never had a grave I thought of daily before. I never understood in such a personal way how amazing the Resurrection story was before: that a tomb that was occupied is empty, and the person was alive.  I can now get the piercing joy of that thought.

(That's the tomb of the Lord in Israel, above.)  I have been carried by all your prayers, so that the great sadness is still mingled with great hope and joy. I am so grateful.

I am both eager to turn the calendar page tomorrow, and terribly sad to do so.  Perpetua was alive and with me this month; she will not be in April.  But I am being gently drawn away from the past, even now. I need to love her and move on, into the next beautiful full month of spring, while knowing part of me will always stay in March, 2013.

It is Easter, and I took time today by the grave to think of the strange moments of beauty in this terrible journey. The moments where death and sorrow touched eternal joy:

• Seeing the beautiful ultrasound one last time, my baby so perfectly formed even in that terrible stillness.
• My wonderful nurse Catherine J, who told me everything my panicked mind needed to hear: that I was doing nothing to hurt my baby.  Assured me that I had done my job, which was to carry Perpetua her entire short life.  That now I just needed to put her to rest.
• Dan taking my hand after the surgery, while I was still dressed in a faded, blood-stained hospital gown, and asking me to marry him again when he gave me back my diamond. He then gravely and grandly recited that he was "hereby endowing me with all his considerable earthly goods, cattle, lands, etc." and I managed my first real smile since I found out.
• Hearing on the phone--while alone at my dining room table--from the funeral director, that I had a little girl.  Chuckling because, well, I have girls!
• Having to quickly come up with a name for girl number five, both of us rushing so it could be put on her coffin plaque.  Finding one quickly that felt exactly right.
• Having my daughters come up with an awesomely cute nickname for her: "Pepper."
• Finally, finally, finally being able to see her, shower her with love, and say goodbye.  Being able to walk away peacefully, knowing it was time to do so.
• Having gorgeous, warm, sunny weather at last for the funeral and burial. Seeing my first two butterflies of the season flying right past my face. Finding tiny white flowers already in bloom at her open grave. Hearing so many birds after the sparrow sermon given for her.
• Having my girls here around me.  And also having them away from me, :) being cared for by wonderful friends so I could be alone with my thoughts of those in heaven.
• Deeply experiencing God's love through the extremely kind attentions of all of you.  Stumbling home in tears from some morbid chore to see a meal and flowers on my porch, beautiful cards in the mailbox, offers for babysitting on my phone.

I hope you've all had beautiful Easters with your families. I truly have, with both my earthly and heavenly ones.

I know tomorrow, the moment I need it, I will find the courage I don't have right now: to turn from this tumultuous but so precious March to an emptier but more peaceful April. One day at a time...

"O death, where is your victory?  O death, where is your sting? 

Thanks be to God, who has given us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ."

1 Corinthians 15:55,57

Where all sparrows get to fly

I'm writing this post on my daughter's burial (a couple hours ago) from my husband's work. Naturally. It's a small company, and they really need him, you see. Heap big meeting tomorrow morning and all.   Since a couple of very good friends have (again) taken initiative to watch my kids so we could recover from the events of the day, I figured the least I could do is go to the office with Dan and make everyone feel blisteringly uncomfortable by my quiet grieving presence. I'm in a rule-breaking mood anyway. Though hubby was able to talk me out of serenely telling his co-workers that I was on suicide watch and could not be left alone; nor was I allowed to start wailing in the elevator on the way up to the top floor downtown. Too bad... It seemed pretty funny to me. It's hard not to take advantage of such rich opportunities for practical jokes to create something to smile about.

To be fair, there were genuine smiles today. It was the first day of spring weather in Cranston, first that I had noticed anyway.  I wasn't looking for it; it was just there. Warm sun. Singing birds. My first sighting of butterflies this year. Two flickered right in front of my face, so close I heard their wings. Of course I took it as a sign... How could I not?

I admit I woke this morning in a cold sweat.  Doing something tragic every day for the past five days has taken its toll.  But I was quickly distracted by a bustling morning of breakfast for six, five darker blue and purple dresses and one suit (okay, four darkish dresses... Cecilia, who is happy as a clam in this atmosphere of extra outings and attention, announced "The baby wants me to wear pink! PINK!!" I wasn't going to argue.)  I put on makeup wondering why the heck I bothered when I knew I was going to cry it all off anyway. But on it went, because hope springs eternal. 

Our arrival at the cemetery chapel only five minutes late (a miracle in itself), met up with my parents, and finally found our chapel was Chapel 4 (with all the saints in heaven, you use numbers, really?? Okay fine.) We entered an empty stone chapel with all of two chairs, and a small table before an enormous crucifix.  And then without warning or ceremony, the funeral personnel walked in carrying a familiar white box and placed it on the table.  And then departed.

The priest was late.  Perpetua was there.  My kids were curious, and immediately dumped all their prepared artwork on top of the coffin. Cecilia was attempting to climb the crucifix.

So what do you do? Take pictures with your iPhone of course! A time-honored ritual for grieving.  Gosh, it's hard to know what's right to do when everything feels so wrong... I kept trying to document whatever I would wish I had done looking back when I'm 70 and thinking of the little one I lost. I hope I did it. Golly, I sure tried.

Fr. Wilson finally came, the same priest who had baptized my oldest when she was born at 32 weeks. So glad he could come! Prayerful and compassionate, he began the prayers for the dead; subsection, the death of a child.

The comfort of the familiar ritual was blessedly soothing. Greeting each other with "the Lord be with you; and with your spirit." The prayers for comfort of the bereaved parents, with a slight hiccup when he prayed for "Katie and Paul" (naturally my husband chimed in, "Uh Katie, who's Paul?") Then the reading of the scripture of how not a sparrow falls without the Father's notice.

The pastor then spoke to my children about how much much more we are worth than sparrows. How it is sad when a sparrow dies, especially before it could fly. How we all wished Perpetua could have had her chance to "fly" in this world. But how she was meant for heaven, was born into heaven, to fly in heaven and live the life God has planned for her.

Gosh I'm glad we believe in heaven.

The short service was ended.  I would have had a Mass said if I knew we had a chapel to use, but everything has been so rushed... and perhaps it's for the best since Cecilia would have most certainly scaled the crucifix.  I asked if I could take Perpetua to her final resting place.  The coffin was small, easily portable, the gravesite a stone's throw away.  But naturally, regulations said no. Thankfully it was the last time they could mess with her. I sighed, picking her up for the last time in a quick hug.

Then we made our way to the burial site at the children's section, a.k.a. "Babyland."  (Yep, "Babyland." Good grief.... Filled with spots which, to any child, were awesome outdoor play stations.

  

Well if you're 18 months old, I can see where the confusion set in.  Then Cecilia (extremely proud of herself) found lollipops.  Yes, apparently, from grave decorations.  I found out a bit late... Oh.  Dear.

Assuring nothing else was broken or swapped from grave to grave kept me distracted till the truck came with this enormous cement box, with a hook and crane to transport it.  Perpetua did fly for a couple moments there, from the truck bed to the earth, and swung to her final resting place. Finally.

What a huge box! "I didn't put diamonds in there" I tried to joke to the crew, then was instantly sad again because she's much more precious.

Yes, it was sad to see my child in a box on the ground. But I had to chuckle at the immensity of the hole and iron security of the huge box for my little baby. And I was glad at the amount of respect she was being shown. This was what every baby at any stage deserved if they left this world too soon. I was happy Perpetua got that.

FYI, grave digging and filling seems like a great job. Unionized, you know. They take their time. An hour to place the coffin, and another hour to get the dirt. While we waited, we had a blanket spread over the absurdly huge box, and strew petals from my roses.  

I didn't mind waiting. It was the last earthly waiting I could do for her. I'd expected to do so much more waiting for this baby: in pediatrician's offices, to come out of the bathroom, to get out of class, to call me on the phone. As it was, all I could wait for now was to see she was covered up while I watched and loved her. I was happy to wait for Perpetua.

A visitor came to the gravesite my kids had apparently dubbed "Most Entertaining" due to the collection of cool solar powered little animals that wiggled their ears and arms.  Cecilia was imitating them and if I'd been in a different mood, I would totally have filmed it.  The grave was for a baby named Faith, and her mom had come with flowers.  She saw me by the open grave and so naturally we hugged each other on sight. Yes that's what women do. We briefly shared our stories. Hers is, in some way, twice as sad as mine... Faith was lost at 34 weeks due to "fetal distress" which is apparently a catch-all term for "we really don't know." The woman insisted I call her and gave me her phone number, because it would "help her to help me."

I know exactly as she feels. After this experience, I want my number to be considered a miscarriage hotline. Seriously. Women should have someone to call when they are in all kinds of mental and physical pain, bleeding and praying their baby "stays in," instead of calling in to a nurse who just says "come in if you soak two pads."  There is no good reason anyone should suffer this alone. I'm grateful that at least this time, as awful as this loss has been, I was never alone. Thanks in part, to all of you.

Soon came Cecilia's favorite part in what was--for her--a pretty entertaining day: the dump truck. "Oh wow!" She kept shouting. Oddly enough, I felt some of her joy and a strange relief when the roar of dirt and rocks fell over the cement box. I actually managed a faint "Woo hoo!"  Perpetua was at rest in every way. I had done all I could. Now to go home to tend to the kids who still need me here before Felicity robbed any more graves or the preschooler had to go potty, and time to start saving up for a headstone...

And that's when the biggest sister broke down in long, aching sobs.  "Mommy, it's just so sad seeing my little sister get buried!" Damn straight Annemarie.  This is sad.  This has all been so sad. Dan and I sat her down on the bench and hugged her tight and spoke of things eternal. And cool grave decorations with holiday themes.

I know this grief and the grieving of my family will be a process never fully completed.  And I don't ever want to be completely "over it."  Part of me is "lost" to heaven now... funny how that actually doesn't sound so bad, come to think of it?  Nothing is ever truly lost with the Lord.  I thank you all for being here with me on this journey. I appreciate that others have suffered with me, and many more than me. I will be really reflecting on the sufferings of Jesus these next few days, and recalling how He conquered death so that we don't have to fear it. How He did all this because He loves little Perpetua. And me.

"Oh my people, I will open your graves and have you rise from them, and bring you into the land of Israel... I will put my Spirit in you and you will live, and I will settle you in your own land.  Then you shall know that I am the Lord." Ezekiel 37:12,14

Being honest

"Richard, I want you to be honest with me."

"Uh okay.  Uh.  Yeah.  It's Katie, right?  Yeah.  Katie, I've got to be honest with you..."

"Excellent Richard.  Thank you.  Just be upfront and tell me.  I've got a pretty good idea.."

"Now look, I'm afraid I have to be honest with you..."

I couldn't help but smile.  And I feel badly!  For someone who loves to make people laugh (yes, that would be me) I have been making so many people nervous lately.  Or suddenly sad.  Or cry on sight.  Or simply stare.  I wonder if it's written on my forehead... but no, that can't be.  When I'm not crying, people seem normal.  Like the guy who shouted at me, "HEY!  Did you nick my car?" when my open van door barely touched his.  (It hadn't.)

But back to Richard.  I'm glad the undertaker got over falling over himself to be honest with me.  He was.  Which was good, because I needed to know.  I was preparing to say goodbye, to place mementos in a beautifully white arms-length coffin, and arrange a tiny pink blanket.  And I knew a D&C and autopsy was no beauty treatment for a little baby.

I know many would disagree with me, and you would have nurses and surgeons and undertakers on your side: Why put yourself through that Katie?  Just let the professionals "handle it."  But I could not live with that, because I am the mother.  And this child, that had been stolen so suddenly by the hospital and then claimed by the funeral home ever since it left my body was finally to be back in my possession for a few brief moments of care.  And I needed that to make all this real.  To have my baby handled by a mom who loved it rather than all the specialists that have been poking and prodding her for days.

Let me put it this way: suppose you were an artist (okay fine, I'm flattering myself :) who'd been working on a masterpiece, daily, for months.  You thought about it all the time.  You poured your heart and soul into improving and protecting it.  You ached all over from working on every angle of it.  The fumes from the paint made you sick most of the time, but it was worth it for what you were creating. 

And then there was an unexpected flood and somehow, your beloved work was ruined.  Completely destroyed. 

You are told this by a third party.  You are devastated, and ask to see what happened.  But you are told that "it is inadvisable."  That it was impossible.  That it was not allowed, for your own good.

Wouldn't you be like "What the h---??  But it's mine.  I made it, not you.  It's crucial to my happiness, but it means nothing to you... I understand what this was, not you.  I know how best to deal with this, not you.  Why are you trying to protect me from my precious work?"

Well, that would be my reaction anyway, and you are entitled to your own and I will certainly respect it.  But for me, after this most precious work had been removed and stored and examined and tested and transferred... then, and only then, I was finally allowed to review the damage. 

So what do you say when you finally see your beloved work in this condition?

You... sigh.  And start to cry.  And try to sing a lullaby, but settle for a whisper.  You place a little lamb, a tiny angel, a sweet little cross nearby.  You tuck her in the very softest blanket that your husband had just cut to perfect size.  You place the gentlest kiss on the quiet face.  "I'll see you in heaven, sweet thing."  And you slowly close the lid with trembling fingers, and trace a cross on the casket as it snaps shut.

Then, you pull the rest of the tissues out of this weird ivory box, sniffle and blot and dry, and look at the two copper lamps beside the cross that are emitting a strange amber glow.  "Dan, we gotta get us some of these for our living room.  Very uplifting.  A true mood enhancer." You notice that the coffin has a faint golden "Made in Canada" sticker on the side.  "Abundantly untrue," so you peel that off.  You pray a bit in the large room of empty chairs and plush carpet, and then prepare to leave.

The funeral director escorts you to the front door, looking at you as though you are a stick of dynamite near an open flame.  "Please accept my deepest condolences." 

"No.  I cannot accept them.  Oh okay, fine.  Maybe one.  If it's chocolate."

You drive straight to Pinkberry, and get a large.

"For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb....your works are wonderful, I know that full well." Psalm 139:13,14