Easier

A few days after Matthew was born, a lady from church who brought us a dinner asked me a question that, at the time I did not have an answer too. "Wouldn't you have preferred if he had died before he was born, and it had been a miscarriage instead?" As horrible as that sounds, she was legitimately confused. I had been saying how incredibly grateful I was for the hour and a half he had given us before he passed away.

In her mind, things would have been so much "easier" if I had simply miscarried earlier, instead of delivering a very premature baby after over 2 days of labor. Maybe she though there would be "less" to grieve.

At the time, I was neither offended or horrified, surprisingly, because I knew even then, that no one can understand unless they stand in that place.

Now, I have an answer. If I was asked that again, I hope I'd have the presence of mind to reply in sincerity and experience.



In that moment, that precious, unending moment, that Matthew was born and placed in my arms, I began to live for the first time.

I now knew love.

I now knew true sacrifice.

I now knew purpose.

I now knew life.


Since then, I have grown immensely as a person, as a mother, and as a wife. I have hardened in some ways, and grown more compassionate in others. Before, priorities were always a semi-elusive entity, and now, they couldn't be more clear.

My path was laid out for me, clear as day. Life, as I knew it, ended abruptly, but unmourned.

Leaving the hospital without him, Jamie and I entered into a different world. We live day by day in this new world, and while different, it still holds happiness as well as the grief which was our doorway in.

I thank Matthew for all of this. For such a little person, he has made more of an impact in our lives than time, nature, and the universe itself ever could. He is, who we are.



So if I am ever asked that question again, I would say no, any amount of "easiness" would not be worth the sacrifice of who we would be without him. That will never be a question in our minds, for we would choose the same path again, and again, and again, if it meant still having him alive in our arms for those few moments.

In those moments, I became a mother, my husband became a father, and we are eternally grateful to our son for that.

A Quiet Companion

We're coming up on the one year anniversary of my firstborn son's birth, and death. What should be celebrated with cake, candles, and noisy baby gifts, will instead be a quiet, calm, and private day. Jamie and I haven't discussed plans for that day yet, but we will probably spend it by ourselves in quiet celebration of his short but beautiful life.

~

Life has changed. It's morphed into multiple shapes over the past 2 years.

We started on this road as newlyweds.
A few years down the line, we were two people who ached to be parents with all of our hearts, and had walked through years of infertility.
The road suddenly changed. It grew bright, beautiful, and full of joy. We were expecting a son. Soon we would have a family on this road we traveled.
Abruptly, we were in darkness. There was pain and confusion. There was loss. So suddenly, there was nothing.

He was gone.

Slowly, we have stumbled on, with scraped knees, broken hearts, and sorrow filled eyes. There were times we could not see a way out. There were times we've considered leaving the path, leaving life, and being done with it. What is life worth, without the person you love most? But he kept us going. Our love for him constantly on our minds, driving us to hope for happiness again. Not seeing it in reach, but still hoping.

There are glimpses of our little boy along the road. In a child's eyes, in each other's faces, in a song, in a word, and most of all, in his name.

He still walks with us. Just not the way we wished. Our family is still a reality, though invisible to the common eye. We see us. We see him, everywhere.

He's our quiet companion. Whispering a son's love in his momma's ear when she most needs it. Holding daddy's hand in the hard times when his strength wanes.

He's there. Always. Look for him in my eyes. Feel him in my words. If you are lucky, you may get the chance to meet my son.

There Are Days...

"The universe restarted, and we were completely different, completely OTHER. There should be another word for the loss of a child, because frankly, it is it’s own planet of unfathomable horror. "

-

I forget.

I forget how it felt holding him.

I forget those small moments in between his first and last breath.

I forget I am a mom. My mother's heart grows bitter with each passing month, and though my love for him still grows and strengthens, my resolve, my hope, my future waxes and wanes.

I forget the life I had, and ignore the one I live, thinking, maybe, just maybe, I'll be a mom again.

-

Then I tell my husband, I can't do it anymore. I can't trust in hope, but live in despair. It's better to just assume the worst. It's better to not let my hopes of the future raise high, then they will never have long to fall.

There are no little things of happiness anymore, just fake smiles, distracted laughs, forced happiness for others.

I love him. I love them. So much. My big man, and my little man, my whole life, only a half now. He knows I'm broken, but he loves me still. I've tried. I try to pray, I try friends, I try family, I try it all. To no avail.

There is one thing, only one, that can even begin to fix me again. It's held just out of my reach. Taunting me.

The ones around, all around, at every corner, at every turn, every sight, full of their little ones. Taunting me with my loss, with my pain, with my "should have beens", with my "never will be"s. Robbing me of my joy for them, turning it to bile and bitterness in my mouth. I smile, I say kind words, I go through the motions of happiness for them, but inside, my heart screams "why?!" Questioning the ways of fate, of life, of a heavenly plan with anger and obscene rage. No answer. No peep. No reassuring blanket of comfort.

5 years. 5 years in March. When we decided to make our dreams come true. 5 years of aching, wanting, medicating, doctoring, grieving, seething, desiring, weeping, and losing. Almost 1 year ago my little boy died. Almost 5 years ago, it was the beginning of the end.

I am 26 years old. I have been married 4 1/2 years. I have wanted children from the time my memories began. My husband Jamie has wanted to be a father his whole life. We have lived through the grief and pain of 10 lifetimes, but we still go on, together. My heart feels so old and weak. My eyes do not recognize the world which they look upon.

When they tell me "it will get better", I simply put on my smile, and nod. They do not know. This is simply an easy phrase to say, but there is no ounce of known truth behind it.

-

I forget.

The softness of his cheek.

The curve of his lips.

The smell of him.


But I cannot forget the overwhelming love I have for him, and I never will.

5 Months

It's a few days late, but happy birthday little boy.


I thought of you all day Friday on your 5 month birthday, but I completely forgot it had been 5 months without you. I guess the reason for this is simple: it seems so much longer. How can you describe such a deep loss and ache with a paltry thing like time. Each day seems a year. Each moment a lifetime. There is no graph, no ascending time table, nothing so practical as a rigid container that can be placed on time without you.

Friday was particularly hard for mommy. She had to find out that yet again, her dreams of giving you a little brother or sister had been dashed. No baby this month. She wishes with all her heart to pour all of the love and hugs she has stored up for you into another baby. So that in some small way you can receive it all too.

Please talk to God for mommy and tell him how much you want a little brother or sister, and how much it would help mommy and daddy love you more, and hurt less.

Love you Matthew, with all of my heart.

=

One day soon I will catch up to you. I'll scoop you into my arms, and hug you one moment for every time I wished I could hold you here, and I will never let you go.

Matthew's Birth Story

On Monday, March 19, 2012, after 8 days we received the glorious news that our son was negative for downs syndrome after being given a 50/50 chance of a positive. That was one of the best days of my life.

We still faced the open heart surgery that would be needed for our little boy when he was under 6 months old. While daunting, I was ready. The few days that followed were some of the best memories I'll ever have. Matthew was feisty, kicking like a champ, and Jamie even got to feel him for the first and what was to be the only time. He used to like to jump from the bottom of my belly to under my ribs, his head bumping my stomach out in a comical fashion. 

Late Wednesday night, after "marital activity", I started having ebbing pains in my uterus followed by a small amount of spotting. When timed, they were about 5-10 minutes apart and went on for a few hours. I had heard that such activities can bring on Braxton Hicks, so I was not too worried. I mentioned to Jamie we might have to go to the ER if they kept up or got worse, but eventually I fell asleep. Besides, at 22 weeks it's perfectly normal to have BHs. They did wake me up a few hours later, but in my sleepy stupor it didn't phase me. Plus, labor is unmistakable right? Yea they hurt, but not nearly as bad as I had imagined labor to be.

The supposed BHs continued through Thursday off and on. I had to breathe through some of them, but again, they weren't so bad that I thought it could be real labor. I decided that if they continued through the next day, I'd call my midwife.

Friday morning Jamie and I went to the echo cardiogram appointment for Matthew to meet with a neonatal cardiologist and discuss his heart defect. The ultrasound tech did a number on my uterus, and was pushing the ever living crap out of my stomach for about an hour. I was in a lot of pain, and the BHs got worse after the appointment. Of course, I thought that was due to the aggravation of being bruised and battered by the ultrasound probe. Labor never even occurred to me.

After our appointment, we had a whole day planned especially for Jamie and I. It was to be our last big date together before Matthew came a few months later. We went to our favorite restaurant for lunch. Meanwhile the contractions were getting worse, through lunch and the rest of the afternoon. I took a nap at home, drank lots of water, and tried to qualm my spasmodic belly. It seemed to help a little.

We had a big night planned. Jamie's hometown hockey team, the Winnipeg Jets, were playing the Capitals in DC and I, being the amazing wife I am, had surprised him with tickets. I sucked up the pains I was having and we went ahead with our plans. After walking around DC for an hour or so, we sat down to the hockey game. My contractions started to get worse again, and I spent the majority of the game in the lobby breathing through them. They still weren't painful enough for me to think labor. They were easy to breathe through, but coming pretty close together. After all, EVERYONE says how unmistakable and painful labor is. 

I called and talked to the midwife on call at my birth clinic. She seemed unconcerned. To this day I am a little upset at that. I explained what had been going on, and that I thought I had maybe lost my mucus plug. But she just replied that the mucus plug is constantly regenerating, and not to worry about that. At this point I had started to get worried, but as she seemed to think it was fine, I squashed my fears and took her advice: to call again if the contractions woke me up in the middle of the night, and then we would check to see if it was labor.

We left the game early, as Jamie was increasingly worried and wanted to get me home. I laid down again, drank water, and tried to sleep. Even a midst the contractions, I was able to sleep, and never woke up from them.

Saturday morning, they were still coming, and the bleeding was still there. I called the midwife on call, who was different from the night before, and she instructed me to come in at 1pm since she'd be there meeting another patient already.

The contractions got harder and faster over the hour before I was to go in. In the 20 minutes it took to drive to my appointment, I was breathing through each one every 5 minutes. Now I was scared.

===

When the midwife checked me, I will never forget the words she said. "I'm so sorry, you're 5 centimeters dilated." 

In that moment the bottom dropped out of my world. I looked over to see a look of shock and horror on my beloved's face. One that would not leave his face for many days.

"This baby is going to come today, I can feel his little feet kicking."

She proceeded to call an ambulance to take me to AAMC. She thought that Matthew would be born within an hour or two, and that we wouldn't make it to Johns Hopkins.

He had other plans.

During the ride over, I was in such shock that I didn't realize completely what was going to happen. I was more worried about Jamie than myself. The EMT who sat with me did his best to encourage me that some babies live at this age. I didn't take much comfort from his words, but his kindness was felt.

We arrived at the hospital at 1:30pm where I was rushed to a labor and delivery room. Our pastor, my parents and brothers, as well as a couple of friends arrived soon after.

The hours that followed seemed to both fly and drag. We decided to try everything we could to stop the labor, and to at least try to give him a few days more inside.

My bed was tilted to the point that I could see nothing other than the ceiling. Practically on my head. The magnesium to stop the contractions made me feel like I was on fire, but it didn't phase me. The antibiotics pumped, the contractions continued, and Matthew kicked like no other. He was happy.

They placed a Doppler on my stomach to watch his heartbeat. He was fine. Perfectly fine. He proceeded to use the Doppler as a target for his happy kicks, which in turn made very loud and shrill noises on the machine to the rhythm of his antics.

The faces around me were ones of worry, pity, and pain for me. I felt none of that. 

I did my best to console Jamie. His face ripped a hole in my heart every time I looked at him. I kept repeating over and over, "It's OK. We will see him again." It really wasn't OK at all, but who would know the perfect words to say in that situation?

The contractions continued to come, and I continued to dilate. By 4:30, I was almost fully dilated, and Matthew was still kicking.

We made the decision to let him come. It was made clear that there was nothing more we could do. They stopped the magnesium, and my contractions built. I was able to sit up and get comfortable, instead of being on my head, while we waited for my water to break. The midwife and nurses all said that once it broke, he would come very quickly.

Except, this was my son, and at 22 weeks gestation, he was already defiant.

Around 5:30, my water broke. The contractions picked up, and I got ready to push. Fortunately, it turned out only part of the sac had broken, and there was still a small part in tact that Matthew was encased in, protectively. This turned out to be a blessing, as it made birth easier on him.

He continued to kick through the next 4 1/2 hours till he was born. I, gently and slowly pushing so as to make it as easy as possible on him.

Jamie, overwhelmed, decided to step out of the room for a few minutes. The moment he stepped out, Matthew decided to come, after 4 hours of gentle pushing. The nurse ran to get him, and he was able to get in just in time to see his son born.

===

That moment.

That astounding, amazing, heart wrenching, intensely bittersweet moment that we had prayed for. Hoped for. Yearned for over 4 long years of trying desperately to become parents.

It was here.

Always - 4 months

Today Jamie and I celebrate 4 years married. Today Jamie and I celebrate the birth of our son 4 months ago. Wow, what a day huh? His due date is Sunday. This week is just full of that heavy ambiance. Not always bad, not always good, but somehow always hanging in between. I hate limbo. Hate it, and this week contains so much limbo it's just about ironic. A lot is riding on this week. Our hearts, our mental state (which may be gone Monday, fair warning), our lives. So much can change in the next few days. Some of me yearns for it, some is scared to death. There could be closure, or destruction. Hope, or another failure. The only way to know is by moving forward. Forward. Forward.

====

Here is another post from the babyloss board I frequent. I find so much understanding in these fellow parents of heaven children.

When do you miss him the most? Lu asked me last night.

"Alone in the car," I replied.

When I can't listen to the radio for another second and I'm tired of all the music I have and I'm just driving along quietly and my mind starts to turn, I feel him not-there so powerfully it makes me choke.

In the first months and years after he died driving alone in the car was when I cried the most.  A new story about pregnancy, or that perfectly placed Modest Mouse tune, it would annihilate me and the car was the perfect capsule to scream as loud as I needed.

It is also why I will never, ever put up one of those freaking Baby On Board signs.  I wasn't planning on running you off the road, but since you're rubbing it in my face maybe I should!?  Strange that they don't make a dead baby sticker to add to those insanely annoying sticker families, either.  Also, get out of the fast lane and learn how to drive!  My typical rant makes Lu laugh.

What about you? I asked her, serious again.

"When we're around other kids, friend's kids, that would have been the same age as him.  I always miss him, but that's when it's the worst."

Yeah, I agreed.  Absolutely.

Three year old boys just becoming little guys with their dads running around the yard or walking down the street as alive and independent as only three year olds can be.  I remember pieces of what it was like to be that age, but I will have no memories of Silas at this age.  He vanishes to shadow every time I glance toward him.

In the evening, alone, I feel more alone for missing him, for never knowing him.  The constructs and inventions to heal a day are insufficient to make sense of why we can't share the world with him.

His death added a bone in my body lengthwise through my heart, sliced my liver in two, blew my innocent vision to smithereens, twisted my ankles unwalkable, trapped my breath in poisoned lungs.  I'm not the same person I was before Silas and that kinda sucks 'cause I kinda liked who I was.

More importantly, I was very much looking forward to who Silas was going to transform me into. (insert bitter laughter)

I am transformed absolutely but not at all how I wanted.

To be so wrong about how I thought things were going to go is profoundly undermining. What else will I get wrong?  What other traumas await down the road?  How can I trust myself to make any choices, to have any expectations about the future when his absence is devastating proof of how utterly foolish I could be?

Even worse is Silas's transformation from life to death.  From potential to memory with barely a stop in between.  From ours here to love and cherish and hold, to dust we cannot hug.

A thin, young, sliver of tree quivers in the evening breeze, under the stars of his name and they remind me silently of the never-ending-quiet blasting from his vanished lungs.

When do we miss him the most?  

Always we reply in unison.  Always.

-chris www.glowinthewoods.com

What To Say

I know in a situation like ours, most, if not all people will not know what to say to us, to me, and that is 100% understandable, and something I will not hold against anyone. But here's a few things I've learned can harm or help...just have been floating around my head and I hope can help others know a little better how to act around parents like us. It's extremely honest, and not aimed at anyone, but very bare and raw. I hope that no one takes offense, but this is all truth to me.

-

Don't even slightly pretend to know what we're going through, or liken it to anything that's happened in your life. It's not even close, it's not even imaginable for you, and it is so far from understandable that doing so just belittles our loss.

Don't avoid his name, and think it's easier not to hear. I crave it, I ache to hear it from other's lips, because there is nothing more normal than acknowledging my child. Just say it: Matthew.

Do listen with open ears, open hearts and open minds. Many things that may come out of my mouth might sounds harsh, or wrong, or even mean, but I am the one who has to experience this, and it is how I feel. If you want to help me, support me, and see me get through this, just listen and don't judge. For truthfully, you have no right to judge my place in life, and will hopefully never have to understand the foundation shaking feelings we go through.

Don't tell me "It's going to be OK", because it won't. It really, really won't. Things may change, and new joys may come into my life, but no amount of happiness will ever erase the loss of my son. I will learn to cope, I will learn to live again, but I will have to do so without him, and that will never be "OK", just different.

Do not ever, ever, ever tell me it was "for the best" or anything similar, because quite honestly, my ears hear "your son died for a good reason", and if I don't end up punching you right then and there, consider yourself lucky. (Also this includes any reference to "God doesn't give us more than we can handle", again, punch worthy)

Do pray for me. I need it. Especially because most times I cannot bring myself to pray these days. I'm hurt, I'm wounded, and I hold a lot of bitterness towards God. I need to work through it, and I will, but it will take a while. Please, my Christian friends, do not act like "giving it all to God" will make it all go away. Not even close. God gave us grief for a reason. It's a reflection of the importance of the life lost. I feel it so deep, because the loss of Matthew is so deep. No one knows better than Him the loss of a child, he lost his son too.


Do love me. Show your care for me. I can guarantee I will not always respond fervently, or even at all, but it helps to know you care. Silence is much worse than hurtful words or actions.


Do acknowledge Matthew. He is a person, and he deserves it. Talk about him as if things were a normal situation. I had a baby. I'm a mom. In my heart, if a person blatantly will not acknowledge my son, they have no place in my life.

Do speak to me honestly and act consistent. Never pretend that you have been there for me if you haven't. If months later you are just now reaching out to me, and have been silent before, do not expect much from me. If you could not be there for me in my most dire time of need, then let us not pretend to be friends anymore.
(This is a big one. There are supposed "friends" and even family, who were not there in the darkest hour. It became clear, very quickly, that I have quite a few "fair weather" friends. I cannot any longer let things like that take up room in my life.)

Don't push me through the grief process. Don't expect me to act "normal" for a very long time. I love you, but I love my son and my husband much more, and right now, it's about us. Be there for me, put the offer of connection out there for me, but place no expectations on me.

-

I hope no one takes offense to anything, or picks something and says "Oh crap I said that". Again, I hold nothing against anyone. If I was on the opposite side of this, I would have NO clue what to say or do and would probably say something wrong and hurtful. It's just a hope that others can understand a little more how to handle such terrible situations without being detrimental to the one's who've experienced the loss.