A Long December

There were times in the past year where I found myself jotting down emotions and thoughts through those darker, harder moments. I've smushed them all together to make a post for anyone going through a difficult journey. We all walk different paths and our darkness can look different, but the one constant is that the Light and our faith are able to take precedence in the hardest of times. 

____________

____________

And it's been a long December

And there's reason to believe

Maybe this year will be better than the last


December 2014.

That month seemed to carry on long after all the calendars were thrown away and forgotten. A couple weeks following their birth it was a new year, but nothing felt new. Nothing changed. There were no resolutions and no excitement. It was just another day. 




The weeks following December 15, 2014 felt like a bad dream - the kind where you know what's going on. You can see it all, but everything around you is blurred and dark. Except the fear in front of you. There's a spotlight shining down on that so you don't forget about it. All of your pain and fear is illuminated. And even worse than that, there is no escape. 




During that time, I feared this feeling would linger far longer than I wanted or could even handle. That the darkness that continuously hovered and hung over my shoulders would never lift away. It was difficult to see ahead because the fear and pain were blinding. Hope seemed out of my grasp. 

Shamefully, I was scared to love my daughter. Of course I loved her, but readily giving her any large part of myself seemed careless because the fear of losing her was greater than anything else in my small world. I wasn't capable of losing another child. I couldn’t do it. Fear took over my faith and life was miserable. 

Looking back and attempting to captivate the emotions I felt during this time is a bit overwhelming. My life had become the perfect storm for pain. The present was devastating and the future was unpredictable, but worse than being unpredictable, it was mostly grim. Those emotions and memories will forever be so vivid in my mind. When I think back, it becomes a feeling that I will always remember. The memories hit me in the gut and I remember what it felt like to have my life shattered into pieces just lying around me – out of reach and unrepairable. 

Those feelings, the sounds, the smells, the view of my fragile baby, and the wondering of my own thoughts, when revived in my mind, hurt just as badly as they did at the time, but coming out on the other side makes them bearable when I do go back to that time.

I've mentioned before I try to never question God. That's not my role. But I do specifically remember the drive to the funeral home. It was two days after the girls' birth and Mary Elliott's death. Chris and I were in the car alone. Hand in hand. It was dark and cloudy with a slight mist in the air. The weather seemed to mirror our emotions. As we turned off our street, I verbalized the cold truth. We were 30 years old and driving to the funeral home to discuss the plans for our late daughter. At that moment I confessed to God that I just didn't understand. Why are we driving to see and kiss our baby girl for the last time? With the gift of time, I’ve come to realize that trying to comprehend the whys in life isn’t always necessarily my role. It’s easy to worry yourself to the point of sickness when you dwell on trying to figure out everything. Thankfully, my faith has allowed me to have peace and trust in God’s reasons – it’s not always easy, but it is enough. 

The smell of hospitals in winter

And the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls

All at once you look across a crowed room

To see the way that light attaches to a girl

Being in the hospital in winter - through the holiday and through the new year - it's a very eerie feeling. Something you don't want to experience. It's sad. Not just for the reasons you are there, but also for the unknown reasons everyone you pass is in there. It's uncomfortable. Like being homesick. There was nowhere else we would have been, but it also felt like being a prisoner. 

Despite the chilling sounds of monitors, the spotlight shining down on my fragile, weak daughter, and grim updates from doctors in those first few weeks, as time passed and I was able to pull myself together, deep in my heart, I had peace. I had this undeniable feeling that our daughter would leave that NICU perfectly healthy. All statistics were against her, but I was beginning to see a beautiful outcome - a healthy one we wanted for our daughter before she was even conceived. 

I've never talked about this feeling of peace I had, but it was very present. It wasn't immediate, but it wasn't long after the start of her journey. We hadn't received much good news and she wasn't close to passing any milestones, but I knew. 

I specifically remember hearing from nurses or other professionals different possible scenarios - “preemies usually have… this or that... to deal with throughout the rest of their lives.” I received the information as something to possibly prepare us for if/when that time came, but I also remember, a lot of the time, thinking not our Sadie Ann, she’s strong and is an overcomer. Her story is different. I felt like her being a micropreemie was more so a means to an end. And that’s what my mindset became. This was the peace that passed all understanding (Philippians 4:7). It never made the journey easy, but it restored all my hope and did help me make it through those hard days. 

And that peace I had proved to be her story. 

____________

____________

So it finally feels like that year is over. 

I'm thankful to put this past year behind me. I didn't know if it would ever end and then it was over before I could catch my breath. This year has been so significant in my life - it's has strengthened my faith, strengthened my relationship with my husband, it has taught me that even in the depths of great sorrow, great pain, great fear, and unpredictable futures there can be light. There can be significant lessons learned. It is possible to walk out of a storm better off and stronger than you ever imagined. 

Although the pain of loss carries on for a lifetime, the joy of children and motherhood (whether they are in your arms or not) also carries on. And it's a gift I’ll treasure for the rest of my life. 

Despite an undesirable year, we are thankful. 

We move forward. 

And we can laugh again.

She is clothed with strength and dignity, and she laughs without fear of the future.

Proverbs 31:25

A Letter to My Daughter on Her First Heavenly Birthday

Our sweet, precious Mary Elliott,

First and foremost, what an undeserved pleasure it was to be hand picked by our Lord to be your earthly mommy. Your time here was fleeting and painfully short, but oh, so significant - and I have the privilege to call you mine. We get to call you ours.

You were such a strong little girl here on earth. How you managed to stay stay inside of me for seven weeks after losing all your fluid, and never retaining it, I will never know or completely comprehend. But you did it. You stayed still and strong. God was undoubtedly with you.

The days following your short life here on earth, I continuously held on to the loss of you. I contemplated why you were placed inside of me and then taken away so quickly. When I was pregnant, I'd spend days dreaming about holding you in your nursery, watching you play and giggle with your sister, and enjoying each day as you grow. Then, in the blink of an eye, all those precious moments I looked forward to were stolen. They would never happen. And after your untimely exit, in those first few weeks, I couldn't help but focus on all of those daydreams never playing out. They were stripped away from my life.

As time passed, I continued to pray for you and think about you daily; I then considered that you were never meant to stay in this world. Maybe you were never meant to grow up in front of me. Those daydreams of you and your sister together would only ever be memories I created on my own - and while this is a painful reality, it's also beautiful. As I made this realization, I began to wonder why exactly you were placed inside of me? Why would a precious life be given to me and then taken away before I could even grasp the reality that you were gone?

I've thought of a thousand different scenarios and I will never really know until I can ask the Lord. But for right now, while I continue to graze this world with my simple mind, I will clutch onto the most beautiful reason I can imagine. A reason that makes it all bearable.

You were placed inside of me to save your sister's life. 

It all makes a little more sense this way - and hurts a bit less. Since your conception and early days inside of me were so closely monitored, I know that you came along a couple days after Sadie Ann. I imagine God foreseeing a rupture during my pregnancy. He sent you along to be the lower baby and to take the rupture that would not heal. He gave you strength to remain inside of me for seven weeks. Until you and your sister were 23 weeks and 2 days - possibly the exact gestational age your sister needed to be to then survive outside of my womb. This, I imagine, is why you were given to me and why you were placed inside of me. Your purpose in this life.

Whether this is the reason or not, you still saved your sister's life through your strength. She's here with us because you held on each day following your rupture. Each morning that I had an ultrasound and we didn't see any fluid around you my heart broke a bit more, but I was always thankful you were hanging in there despite the undesirable circumstances. So today I not only admire your strength, but thank you for your strength. Because of it, I do get to hold your little sister each and every day. I do get to watch her play, learn, and giggle. I've watched her over the past year smash statistics, beat odds, and show the world what a miracle baby looks like. And I thank you for that. You helped provide her with that chance. 

So here we are, a year later. It still hurts. I still cry. I never know when it will hit me, but when it does, it hits hard. I'm confused all over again; I'm angry, in incredible pain, and I lose myself in the uncontrollable tears. I want to drop to my knees and scream because it hurts so bad. This is something I've come to grips with over the past year and that I will experience for the rest of my life. I will forever grieve the loss of you because there's no getting over the loss of a child - no matter how long or short their lives here were.

On the day you were born, after the chaos of the room cleared out and I was rolled away to a quiet and empty post-pardum room, I had so many of my sweet L&D and antepartum nurses come by to express their sorrow and sympathy for our loss and the new situation that was in front of us. That afternoon was easily a blur, but there was one conversation I remember so vividly. A nurse came in my room, sat on my bed with me, and held my hand. She told me:

You haven't lost anything if you know where it is.

It was so profound and exactly
what I needed to hear. It gave me hope in that dreadful situation and it's something I've reminded myself of countless times in the past year. I haven't lost you because I know exactly where you are. My faith gives me hope and confidence that one day I will hold you again. Your eyes will be open, your lungs will be strong, and the tears that fall from my face onto yours will be tears of complete joy. Oh I look forward to that day.

Until then… Every day I think of you, but especially this week and on December 16th. Your beauty and purpose puts a smile on my face despite the pain of not having you here. I love you, oh, so much! I miss you daily, but I know you will have the most incredible day celebrating your first year in heaven! I can only imagine what it must be like. I love you. Happy First Heavenly Birthday, sweet girl! 

Love,
Mommy

Mary Elliott

December 16, 2014

1lb 3oz, 12.5" long

Thoughts on the Night Before Our First Halloween a Year Later

Tonight in this household, we go to bed with heavy hearts and a lump in our throats.  

A year ago, I woke the following morning and everything changed; Halloween 2014 was the epitome of everything can change in an instant - because it did. The situation changed. Our lives changed. The course of the life we pictured changed. My faith changed. Everything in my head changed.

Reliving the fear of that moment and that day doesn't get easier. It continues to be the most chilling, terrifying moment of my life up to that point. Within seconds of waking up, and going about my morning the same way I had for the past several weeks, I was screaming in fear. It felt like a gallon of fluid left my body and was now a puddle on my bathroom floor. I was helpless. Desperate for it to be a dream. I was certain I was hours, even minutes, away from losing my twins. As a woman, a mother, a soon to be mother... when your water breaks at 16 weeks 5 days you immediately think the worse. We hadn't even had time within this pregnancy to come up with a game plan in case of an emergency. What was next? Do I wait and see my doctor Monday morning? Do I rush to the hospital? Am I in labor? Call an ambulance? Accept that at this point in the pregnancy that the babies may already be gone? There was no emergency plan for 16 weeks gestation. There were no pre-packed bags to grab on the way out. There was no calm moment to take in our home one last time, just the two of us. There was only panic and fear. Complete chaos dancing in my mind.

In some ways this day was more frightening than the day I delivered at just 23 weeks. I'm not sure why. Perhaps because there was no warning. There was no mental preparation or plan for this moment. When you enter into a situation that wasn't planned and poses great tragedy, there's almost no recovering from the initial shock. In this particular moment, my fear was bigger than my faith. I could not remove my eyes or thoughts from what had happened and what it meant for the future of our daughters.

In these tough, scary, and challenging situations, people are quick to advise you that God will never give you more than you can handle. It sounds nice, but this is not true. There is no verse in the Bible that says this. It's merely an attempt to psychologically encourage someone that they can do it, but by falsely using God's intentions. Why would we ever need God if all situations could be handled independently?

Shortly after being admitted to Labor and Delivery and learning that if my girls had any chance of surviving I needed to first, not go into labor and second, to be on bed rest at least until 24 weeks gestation. At 16 weeks, 24 weeks sounds like it's years away. Just making it through the weekend was already going to be the biggest challenge of my life and now the best case scenario was laying there for the next eight weeks. This realization quickly taught me that I could not do this on my own. I needed God every day and every second of the day for the next eight weeks minimum. He was faithful to be there and provide. Through nurses, doctors, out of town family continuously there, friends that visited and brought food, family, friends, and strangers that prayed, keeping contractions away, keeping infection away, and keeping the girls in place while helping them to grow daily. It was a tough seven weeks being on hospital bed rest, but a lot of beauty was also revealed through God's help. 

Waking up on Halloween 2014, a year later wasn't even comprehendible. But here we are. We're living. We're smiling. We're laughing. We're moving forward. Our hearts are always a bit broken and empty from the pain of the loss of our Mary Elliott, but our hearts are also overflowing with love, happiness, and gratitude as we watch Sadie Ann grow and thrive. This is not the picture of my family I imagined a year ago, but I'm also not perfect at writing life's stories. God is. And our story is beautiful.

Every Halloween from this point forward will remind me of the emotions and pain that I never could have predicted. It will always be a hard day as it was the start of an incredibly difficult journey. Tomorrow we face our first Halloween that will always trigger these memories. But tomorrow we also wake up thankful. For lessons learned. Faith that has grown. Thankful for the past year behind us. Thankful for the upcoming year ahead of us.