Craziness.

Have you ever looked at your recent history and thought, "Wow. I'm playing a part in a really bad tear-jerker"?

I was just thinking about Facebook and how so many of my friends from long ago have had no contact with me up until the last year. The Year of Hell, as we like to refer to it here in our humble abode. Our nephew's death, losing Hazel, a Chris's beloved Grandfather's death, my Dad's illness, Noah's lymphoma--all of these things look like they add up to a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad year.

And you know what? They do. In a lot of ways they do.

But, when you think of us, please don't just think about Hazel or Noah's illness. There's so much more to us than these losses and worries.

We're happy, in an odd sort of way. Our faith is secure. (Although I am not Job; give me a break, please!) Our friends, neighbors and family have been incredibly supportive; our community has held our grief and worry as their own. We've been shown love in ways that are beyond humbling. Today an older neighbor lady brought us a few bags of groceries. Fresh fruit, some hamburger, potatoes--good things for us!

We laugh, too, and we enjoy the humor that surrounds us. If you need a laugh, Englewood is the place to be; I've never before been around such gifted story tellers! On a side note, as much as we've enjoyed humor the last few months, I've learned that my Kevin Smith switch has been turned off. Kind of a bummer, really, but that last movie? Ick. I was looking forward to it, too; The girl's name was Miriam! Maybe I just need to watch Mallrats, again.

Noah James

We found out last week that Noah, our youngest living child, has lymphoma. Cancer. We've spent the last week finding a doctor, getting him into the children's hospital here and now the hard work will begin.

Tomorrow Noah has surgery to do several things: remove one of the nodes for a biopsy (we need to name the lymphoma--we think it's Hodgkin's, which would be good, as it's the most curable form), put in a central line--this allows access like an IV would, but remains under his skin for easy access, check his bone marrow--this is to help stage the cancer.

The Oncologist said he would like to be able to start treatment next week, so we need to name it, stage it and figure out how to cure it.

My baby has cancer.

On top of the obvious worries is my concern for my older 2 kids. They are definitely feeling the tension (especially Miriam, she is very much a girl in this respect. Alex knows we're worried, but he's thrilled to get to sleep over at a friend's house, spend the afternoon with his teacher, etc). Right now, here at the beginning, there is some fun stuff--the aforementioned sleep overs, hanging out at friend's houses--but I know this will get old. And Noah is getting TONS of attention, which is helpful in some ways. But Noah is already getting "touched out". And Miriam and Alex need attention, too. They are worried, too.

Cancer sucks.

Goodbye 2008, Hello 2009

I have weird feelings about saying goodbye to this year. It's been terrible in a lot of ways, but also pretty amazing. I've watched others deal with a lot of shit, honestly, and do it well. I've learned I can handle more than I thought possible.

As much as I've been telling myself that having experienced The Worst Year of My Life doesn't guarantee that I won't have another terrible year (we carry our grief, we bear our mourning, we wear our black into the new year)...I also (paradoxically?) find myself feeling more than a little sad that I'm entering into a year with no Hazel in it. Does that sound strange? Memories, yes, but not my actual little girl.

We had a wonderfully calm, warm, festive get together tonight with Matthew and Jena and their family. I had a lovely time. "Warm" is the right word. I felt warmed, literally, by the spirits imbibed, but also figuratively, surrounded by friends and family who care. It was good.

At one point, Matthew asked me if I was making any resolutions. Up until then, I hadn't planned to--I never keep them, why make them to begin with? But I've been thinking about it the rest of the evening and now have some general, live-up-to-able, resolutions to share.

1-Be healthier. I've been terrible about my health since Hazel's death. I figure it should be pretty easy to meet this one. Shoot, if I drink a few less cokes and eat a few less sugary treats, I'm good! Really, though, my goal is to start making some healthier choices. To move more. Eat more good stuff, etc.

2-Get more organized. I'm making a list. Adding things from here and here. I'm trying not to get caught up in making my binder look cute and then never actually getting it organized.

2a-Make a list of projects I really plan to complete. And try to complete it. By projects, I mean things like--the doll for Miriam and the cookbook for our church that had been languishing for year. sigh. I do better with a list--so I need to make that list!

3-Play more with my kids. I'm around them a lot. Listen a lot, but they don't "need" me to join in their play because they usually just play together...but I think I may need to join in their play. I need some space to quit worrying about grown up stuff and just play. My brother, Jared, decided not to play "grown up games" with us last week because he really just wanted to hang out with his kiddos and watch them play. I want to want that, too! (How's that for one doozy of a sentence?)

So general resolutions they are. Easy to rationalize away. We'll see how it goes.

Jena said she heard today that July 4th should be the day for resolutions (declarations of independence, yk?), so maybe that will be my chosen to day to check in a reevaluate.

Sad news...

This season, the season of celebrating the birth of the most miraculous, scandalous Baby in history is going to make me think of my own baby who is not with us. My own little stillborn Hazel. We miss her and although I anticipated some grief during this season (Last year, at this time, I was growing big and switched to maternity clothes. Last year, at this time, we announced her coming birth), it's not unbearable.

The season will be nearly unbearable for friends of ours, who will be going to the hospital on Monday to deliver their own stillborn child. If you are a praying person, please pray for them and their other two children. If you've been through this--honestly even if you have perfectly healthy babies--you can imagine what hell they are going through.

Pray peace for these parents as the see their baby. Pray that they will feel peaceful about all the myriad decisions that they need to make (and don't want to have to be making!!)

One thing I've learned is when loss hits you like this, you make the best decisions you can in the moment and then later, when you doubt yourself, you need to remind yourself of that. Over the next few months, while these parents go through their own fresh mourning, I would like for them to not doubt their decisions, but to feel peace in those, at least.

Lord have mercy on us. Christ have mercy on us. Lord have mercy on us.

And bring us peace.

Hallowe'en

We had a great Hallowe'en this year. Alex and Miriam are both old enough to really get into their own costumes. Noah had definite ideas of what he wanted to be (a knight) and what he wanted as part of his costume (a helmet that went "up and down" and a sword.)

It was fun just hanging out with the kids and planning their costumes. I'm so glad we didn't just buy them something. And can I say that where knights are concerned, duct tape is a wonderful thing?

Miriam said from the get-go that she wanted to be Fancy Nancy. She simply picked out her "most fancy" outfit and chose accessories from the dress up box. I knitted her a boa and she was set.

There was great debate within Noah, that slowly came out as we talked. He kept saying he wanted to be a "mean might" (his "n" sound is nearly always "m"). When I asked why, he said "I want a sword." Miriam explained to him "Good knights carry swords, too, Noah. They just only fight with bad knights." After talking this through a bit, he decided he would be a good knight after all. He also decided that I should be a bad knight, so I'm getting an inkling of what his feelings toward ME must be right now.

Alex vacillated between three things: A superhero of his own creation, an astronaut, an airplane. All of them were great ideas. We even gathered the supplies to make the airplane. I was thrilled when he decided on the superhero, because I thought it was so creative. He was "Weatherman". He could make it rainy or sunny. The only thing he came up with that we couldn't do was draw a sun on one palm and rain drops on the other (b/c I couldn't figure out a way to keep them from smudging and getting all over everything).

It was a warm, sunny evening and I had fun playing with the camera. Miriam was a goof, as usual, Alex was super into his "character" and Noah was practicing smiling a real smile instead of the grimace he usually supplies when asked for a smile.

April 18, 2008

If you had asked me one year ago if I could be strong enough to get through the stillbirth of my child, I would have said, "No way." My heart aches for Hazel pretty much every day. I look at her pictures every day; I look at her mementos often (They are never enough). I miss her immensely.

But I am living through this.

It took months for the numbness to wear off completely, for me to be able to go to sleep with out the sleepiness brought by Benadryl. Now, just six months after Hazel's sill birth, I am still keenly mourning Hazel, but I am also enjoying my life and my other children. Things seem darker--or a little less bright, but I am still enjoying things. I cry, I wonder why, I wish it had been different, but I do not wallow.

And honestly, I can't belive it. I thought Hazel's death would fell me, would ruin me. But I live, balancing my grief for her, my desire to hold her with my love of life, my husband, my other children.

I do not believe God did this to me. I do not believe my Hazel grew wings or became an angel. I don't proclaim to know what Heaven will be like or how we will be united to her again. But I do believe that God has provided strength, the ability to face this grief, and the courage to trust.

Six months.

Six months ago, April 15th my baby died; my life changed; my family's life changed. Six months ago I still didn't know if the baby I was already grieving was a boy or a girl. (I don't know if I'll ever completely forgive myself for not finding out gender--that one "exciting" decision kept me in mourning limbo for 3 days; I couldn't name my baby; I didn't know for whom I was longing.)

We now speak words we never dreamed, have pain we never imagined. My children relate to things in ways I never wanted. Yesterday. in response to "I love you, my sweet baby" Noah said, "I'm not your baby, Mama, your baby died."

I suppose it's good that this kind of language feels natural and not scary to him, but I feel a mother's deep sadness every time I'm reminded of their strange grief.

This is the time that is supposed to be hardest. The sixth month mark. Half a year. It was one year ago that I got that first faint-faint positive on the pregnancy test. One year ago that I told a friend the nervous-making secret.

I had a dream last week that I was pregnant. I spent half the next day feeling ill and overwhelmed, trying to get my body to understand that it was just a dream. I was a nervous wreck nearly all day because of a dream.

I still can't hold the little babies at church. It makes me ache. It makes me feel selfish and self-indulgent in all the worst ways.

Our lives would be so very different if our baby had lived. One of the most guilt-inducing things about this loss is when I think "wow! I would never have been able to do THIS with a baby". But for every one of those moments there are 10 moments of longing and wishful thinking.

Midnight. No movement.
Lying next to Noah.
Still no sleep there.
An incision.
Numbness.
Still, the numbness.

Etc, Whatever

I am without consistent internet access, thus the serious lack of consistent blogging. I miss it, though.

We've been invited to take part in a memorial walk/ceremony for babies lost this year through miscarraige, still birth and early infant loss. I'm conflicted about what to do. I feel as if I've done enough ceremonies. But, the catch for me is that they are reading the babies' names aloud, if parents wish. I would get to hear her perfect, beloved name.

We can also write a poem or remembrance for our little one, our Hazel. I asked Chris if he wanted to, but he declined, so I've been working on one over the last few days. It's very imperfect. I'm too emotional about losing Hazel to write something dispassionate or observant, so it's just raw, I guess.

We knew how to prepare for you:
Clothes and diapers washed,
Room rearranged,
Siblings excited.

But we don't know how to mourn you:
Memorials? Walks? Tears?
Gardens? Jewelry? Books?
Poetry? Talk? More Talk?

How can we even begin to mourn you?
Your curls, your chubby legs, your stubborn kicks.
But we learn, we cry, we even smile.
We live with your loss,
our sweet baby girl, born still.

Today marks 5 months since Hazel's death, nearly 5 months since her birth day. Getting this invite in the mail has made the last few days very difficult. I'm weepy and on edge again. But we are living, pretty fully I must say, and I suppose part of that is allowing ourselves to feel grief when it comes up.

Feast of Lanterns.

A few of us from church participated in an artist's booth at Feast of Lanterns. I freezer-paper stencils some reclaimed T-shirts and mini-totes. I also made a few Pillowcase Dress/tops. I (finally, after about 8 years of thinking about it) made my first Buckwheat Hull Pillows. (I need to add lavender or other dried goodies/essential oils and make varied sizes). Of course, I have no pictures because I completely forgot the camera!

It was a miserably, miserably hot day. Miserable. BUT, it was great fun to hang out with friends, watch my kiddos play and see the other things people had on display.

Jena and I were happy to find the booth by Candice Hartsough McDonald and Sally Harless. Alas, I had no $$ to spend, but was quite thrilled to discover local artists that I really, really like doing things similar to what I've been drooling over online.

Happy Day.

First Day of School!

My two olders started kindergarten today. Last night I wondered where my tears and nostalgia for baby years were…I found them this morning. I got all choked up when I walked away from their classroom door with just Noah.

They used their backpacks from their Grandparents and wore the outfits picked out for them by Meemaw and Pappy.

This is Miriam when I asked her to take just one more picture:

This is Miriam when I reminded her that Sophia and Nanzi and Peyton would be in her class:

Noah and I went to the store and library. I think Noah enjoyed getting the little kid computer all to himself. He played on it the entire 1.5 hours we were at the library. Noah and I picked the two Kinders up at noon and they had much to tell me. They played and worked on letters and did puzzles made from their names. Alex said, “We have to go back tomorrow, though!”

Here they are with their teacher, Mrs Aldrich:

And they are off and running!

Healthy Apathy.

I'm listening to one of my most favorite Over the Rhine songs Latter Days. Before Chris and I married, I struggled hard with anxiety and indecision. Not about him, not even about getting married; there was just so much going on at the time. When my struggle was the ugliest, Chris would sing songs to me. Etc, Whatever, a song we had in our wedding, was the main song. It contains the lines, "We're gonna be alright, you can close your eyes tonight, 'cause we're gonna be alright".

Chris has always had an incredible ability to Trust. Through those simple lines he was reminding me to trust. Just trust. We're gonna be alright.

After Hazel died, Chris whisper-sang those same lines to me over and over. In the hospital, while we were holding our precious dead child, while we were preparing to leave her forever, while we buried her ashes, while I cried in fear of losing faith.

And, even just 4 months later, I feel, not exactly alright, but a sense of survival. I've made it this far. I'm even happy sometimes.

These lines are written on my heart. I've always felt the truth of them, now I'm living them and I know they are True:

So come on now,
I can almost see
that place
on a distant shore.
And courage is a weapon we must use
to find some life you can’t refuse...
etcetera. Whatever. I guess all I really mean
is we’re gonna be alright.
Yeah, we’re gonna be alright.
You can close your eyes tonight,
‘cause we’re gonna be alright.
All that I can see is your eyes.
Close your eyes.
Close your eyes.
--Etc, Whatever

What a beautiful piece of heartache this has all turned out to be.
Lord knows we’ve learned the hard way all about healthy apathy.
And I use these words pretty loosely.
There’s so much more to life than words.

There is a me you would not recognize, dear. Call it the shadow of myself.
And if the music starts before I get there dance without me. You dance so gracefully.
I really think I’ll be o.k. They’ve taken their toll these latter days.

Nothin’ like sleepin’ on a bed of nails. Nothin’ much here but our broken dreams.
Ah, but baby if all else fails, nothin’ is ever quite what it seems.
And I’m dyin’ inside to leave you with more than just cliches.
--Latter Days

Welcome, Welcome Zion Liya!

My sister, Janelle, gave birth to her second little one, Zion, on Saturday evening. Janelle's already out running errands and visiting family. She's got the hang of this second child thing! Seriously, though, it sounds as if little Zion is a nice, calm baby, which makes big brother Moses (and probably daddy Adrian) quite happy! I know it makes Janelle happy.

Our good friend Kiyomi had her little girl, Audrey, yesterday, on my wedding anniversary.

Both of these labors went very quickly and smoothly. I can't handle hearing details of birth right now, but I'm thrilled that both Mamas got to have great birth experiences.

All of these lovely little girls make my heart ache. I'm happy, happy for the families, but I ache for my little girl, who should have been around to welcome her friends.

Hazel Irene, we miss you so much. These little girls would have grown up with you, played with you, fought with you, hugged you, painted nails with you. How is it possible that those things will never happen?

This strange grief...

I've been reading lots of books about grief. Specifically about pregnancy loss, stillbirth or early infant death. One thing that keeps getting mentioned in each book is that most people don't have friends that stand by them. People get freaked out and uncomfortable with grief. This topic--the desertion of friends--has been mentioned in every single book.

I'm so grateful that my experience has been so very different. Sure, I have stories of insensitivity to tell. Sure, I have a couple of friends who I considered incredibly close that are obviously uncomfortable and don't know how to deal with me or my loss. But the vast majority of people know exactly what to do: listen. Hang out with me. If I'm sad, let me be sad. If I'm happy, let me be happy. Don't expect me to be "over it."

My advice to anyone who has grieving friends is this: Listen, and try not to look frightened when the topic comes up.

I'm grateful to each and every one of you who have supported me and my family and who continue to do so. My story (OUR story, because it is our shared story,now) is one of hope, healing and the amazing strength of Christian Community.

Miriam's comments...

On her first sewing project.

"Mom, help me; this is rather a mess."

Remembering the First.

5 years ago I was cuddling the most beautiful baby in the world! I had no idea what a earth shifting moment having a child would be; I don't think either Chris or I was prepared for the momentous changes in our lives, emotions, responsibilities. But how glad we were! How much we don't regret it! How priviledged we are to be Miriam's parents!


Miriam...
started her first sewing project yesterday.
self-corrects her grammar, but still says "Jophes" for "Joseph".
throws award winning temper tantrums.
gives amazing hugs and kisses.
loves her hair, but hates to brush it or put anything in it.
plans her birthday parties for months in advance.
is so perceptive is freaks me out sometimes.
loves her brothers so much, she defends them when I discipline them...
and then will turn around and pinch them.
can be incredibly self-absorbed (what 5 year olds aren't??), but still notices when others are sad or when others are having a bad day.
has changed my life.


Happy Birthday, my sweet little girl!

I remember

I have been trying to remember that night in bits and pieces, but everytime I let myself think about it too much, I start to feel physically ill. Recently I was able to sit down and let myself remember things, not detailed, but more detailed that I had been willing to remember before. There is still so much--curling up in bed next to Noah and realizing the baby wasn't moving--that I can't think about in detail, because I feel light-headed, dizzy and rather faint (that seems so ridiculously melodramatic, but I promise you it is how I feel).

This is what came out when I just let myself writing, putting down whatever memory came next:

I remember that night. Sitting on the big orange rocker, tears rolling down my face—hoping HOPING *HOPING* that all was well, when I knew it was not. She was not moving. I put the heaviest book I could find (Harry Potter) on my stomach willing, begging her to kick it off, begging her to wake up from whatever sleep she was in. But she did not move.

I remember pushing, prodding my stomach. Picking up my large belly and letting it sort of drop back down, again willing her to awaken.

I remember getting in the car, already in shock, begging God that they would find the hearbeat and I’d be back home in minutes (but knowing it wouldn’t happen). I remember driving myself to the hospital (waking someone up to stay with the kids would be acknowledging what I already knew—that something was terribly, terribly wrong), my belly rubbing against the steering wheel. Again, no response from her.

I remember wishing I didn’t have to park in the garage.

I remember no heartbeat.

I remember them not showing me the ultrasound.

I remember them looking for such a long time—and I knew without them telling me.

I remember the Dr. hugging me, saying, “I’m so sorry.”

I remember crying then.

I remember thinking I was just crying because it's what she expected.

I remember wanting to SCREAM.

I remember consciously fighting that feeling down.

I remember wishing them all away from me so I could phone Chris, my parents, his parents, everyone in the world.

I remember my need to say it out loud over and over, “my baby’s dead, my baby’s dead, my baby’s dead”.

And then I remember never wanting to have to say it again.

I remember walking to my room, hoping no one would see me.

I remember waiting for Chris, for my doctor, for anyone who knew me.

I remember the nurse crying with us.

I remember wondering why I wasn't more upset.

I remember.

What it has taken away.

My joy in meeting new people.

My love of watching little babies, especially little girls. (This is especially of strangers—those babies I know and love I enjoy, even take solace in spending time with—but how I dread meeting new mamas of little girls!)

My joy in remembering the births of my other children. All I can think about is how terrible and heartbreaking birth is now. I can’t even remember Miriam’s birth (my only non-cesarean birth)—my first! My entry into motherhood!—without thinking of my other little girl and her birth.

Memories are tainted with sadness (as above, other memories seem darker—especially of the 7 months before her death).

What has come.

Awareness, ever increasing, of how much we are loved.

The chance to go away overnight, sans children.

The opportunity to participate in the happenings at church.

The joy of taking my children to splash in the local pool.

The knowledge that I can, in fact, survive the thing I would never let myself imagine.

3 Months and 1 Day Ago

On April 15th, my baby's heart stopped beating.
On April 18th, I delivered her.

Those days in between are a blurr.
These days since have been terrible, lovely, heartbreaking, heartening, lonely and full.

A friend last night reminded me that what is simply is. Thinking about what should be or what I should be doing will really serve no purpose.

But I still miss her.

Omer, our community's dear friend and member, died last week. There is much rejoicing that his life was 90 years full and that his death was not dragged out for longer than a few rough months. We will miss him.

His memorial service was yesterday. Grief is selfish in its very nature and my grief is no exception. While remembering this loved man, I couldn't help but remember our wished-for child. For a second I wished that she would have lived 90 years, that she would have touched so many lives, that she would have had family and friends gather to remember her with such love. And then...She didn't live 90 years, only 7 short months in my womb, but, BUT, she was loved. She did have friends and family gather to remember her and grieve her loss. She did touch people; her loss touched people. Our grief and how we choose to bear it continues to makes its mark.

Grief is selfish, but I am not alone in my grief.
I am not alone.
We are not alone.

The Bees Knees.

This last week has been rough. This weekend, especially. I was exhausted, incredibly emotional...crying at the drop of a hat, getting completely and easily overwhelmed. I know some days, some stretches of days, maybe even some weeks will be like this, but I'm not prepared for it. I seem to hit the rough patches just as I feel I'm getting a handle on things again.

Writing has been good for me. Even though I feel like crawling under a rock and hiding for a while, I think the discipline of writing, even if it's unrelated to Hazel, is good, healing and even rejuvenating.

A month or so ago, I had a conversation with some women online who are doing some interesting homesteading experiments. I shared a bit about what we (Englewood) are doing in the city of Indianapolis. One of the things I find most fascinating is the beekeeping. Our friends Mary and Debbie took a beekeeping course and purchased a hive. The bees are kept on the roof of our church building.

The bees have access to all sorts of plants. We have fruit trees(apples, pears, peaches, cherries) planted throughout the neighborhood. We also have a community garden that has a variety of veggies and flowers. And, of course, all the green grass is accompanied by clover...so the bees seem quite content here.

Mary uses the beeswax to make lip balm and hand cream. Debbie and Mary also extract honey from the hives for our use, as well.

Even though we're not a rural community, we are trying to do a little urban homesteading as we're able. Pretty neat, huh?