Two years ago today, the journey of losing my innocence began. Nearing the end of my first trimester carrying Weston, heavy bleeding began at the park. It was not the worst day, and it is not the worst "anniversary," but it is quite symbolic to me, as it (unknowingly then) changed the course of my life.
If April 18, 2012 was the beginning of a journey, it, by necessity, signified the end of something else: a relatively carefree and oblivious life. It was the first of many crossroads.
Today, April 18, 2014, is Good Friday, in which Christians observe the death of Jesus. The significance of these two "anniversaries" occurring on the same day is not lost on me.
Lent ended yesterday. (Lent is the roughly 40-day period preceding Easter in which Christians prepare their hearts for the events of Holy Week, which include the death and resurrection of Jesus.) There are fasting days, and people who observe Lent usually forgo some luxury (Facebook, sweets, etc.). For the past several years, I have read Lent readers (daily meditations on various Lenten themes), and for the past two years I have done additional spiritual explorations/projects.
Last year and this year, I consciously decided I am NOT giving up anything for Lent. I feel that I already "gave up" Weston, however involuntarily, so I cannot bear to give up anything else, at least this point in my life. Last week, a blogger I follow, who writes about losing THREE children, among other things, made the identical statement. So, right or wrong in my feelings about Lent, I know that I am not alone.
The last two weeks have been full of highs and lows: a growing, healthy baby (29 weeks tomorrow and the size of a butternut squash!). Missing my baby. A road trip to see my family. People I love having health struggles. A hayride, a hike, and roasting marshmallows. Being judged for my grief. Birthdays. Unexpected flashbacks and nightmares. Seeing an old friend. Insomnia. New crown molding. Yet another allergic reaction, complete with a visit from the paramedics.
(Regarding the last item, everything turned out fine: Caroline is OK, and…what could be better for a kid than to see an ambulance and fire truck up close?!)
I haven't done much to observe Holy Week this week, and my soul feels it. We didn't even have time to go to church today because our schedule was too full. Finally, I had some time this evening to catch up and reflect. I have been reading a daily lectionary (selected Scriptures) and was struck by the mix of despair and hope in today's selection.
For me, today's date marks the beginning of the darkest road I have ever walked. For Christians, myself included, today is the darkest day of the year. Acknowledging it and reflecting on it is essential to fully appreciate and truly rejoice in the coming observance of the resurrection on Easter Sunday. The darkness, suffering, and despair of Good Friday has drawn close to me in the last two years. As odd as it may sound, it brings me comfort and hope: Jesus can empathize with the pain I have experienced, because he has been there. He actually had it much worse.
But there is hope. We will celebration the victory of Jesus on Sunday. However, humanity's true "Easter" will not come during life on earth. It will happen when we are united with God for eternity, and when we are reunited with our loved ones.
While there is not wholeness on earth, there is hope. I'll take it. Today's lectionary demonstrated both despair and hope. Before Weston died, the same couple of Scripture verses came into my life over and over, and they were part of today's reading:
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23.
I am holding onto hope on this day of dual anniversaries.
A blogger I follow wrote beautiful words today from the perspective of Mary, the mother of Jesus: another mother who watched her son die. I love her description of wholeness. Through the death of her son, all parts of us became sacred, even the all-encompassing, gut-wrenching, involuntary heaving sobs of a mother saying goodbye to her son:
…You let your side be ripped open that our lives need never be split into sacred and secular.
How you were slashed that our lives could be seamless - all holy.
That the veil in the temple rents in two because of you, and there is no longer a divide between the common and the hallowed, and the whole earth is full of your glory and You are the continuous, unending, divine thread that weaves through all of the world, holding all together…even when you, Son, are rent apart.
-Ann Voskamp
Friday, April 18, 2014
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
A Tale of Two Hospitals
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Just kidding. Once an English major, always an English major.
Deciding where to give birth is a pretty routine decision: you go where your doctor goes, or you pick the place closest to your house. With Caroline, I chose the place second closest to my house, because the closest hospital has no labor and delivery. With Weston, I had already been there for a month, so he was obviously born there. I initially "chose" that hospital because my perinatologist told me to go there if things got bad. I suppose it's the third closest hospital to my house and only ten minutes away. Anyone who gets injured in my neighborhood is covered.
You probably know what's coming: choosing the hospital this time has NOT been routine.
For several weeks after Weston died, I was intensely drawn to the NICU. I found a reason to go almost every day. Someone told me, without judgment, that my obsession was a little out of the ordinary, but it didn't matter. I was just doing what I needed to do to cope.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving 2012. I delivered cards to the NICU and barely made it. The NICU, and the rest of that entire wing of the hospital, had changed from a place of comfort to a place of torture. I haven't been able to even look at the NICU doors since. The only places in the hospital that have provided comfort since then are the chapel and the lobby, where I'd get my daily frappuccino and hang out in my wheelchair with my family.
So, it's a little weird that, ever since we began considering another child, I have felt drawn like a magnet to give birth at the same hospital where Weston lived and died. That feeling only intensified when I found out I was pregnant. I can't explain it exactly, but I have felt that giving birth there will be quite healing, a way to honor Weston, and a bond between my two boys who will never meet in this lifetime.
But then it became more real. I will actually be giving birth again. My doctor delivers at two equally good hospitals, including Weston's, so I had a decision to make. The decision has been hanging over my head; I would cry every time my doctor asked me if I'd chosen yet. The "deadline" to decide was my 26 week appointment, last week.
So, Shannon and I talked and then made a very scientific decision: we would tour the "other" hospital, then venture up to the labor and delivery wing of Weston's hospital, compare and contrast, and…go with our gut.
Now, I didn't want to tour the hospital in the standard way with a large group of other pregnant women. They would have all been happily innocent, first-time moms, which would have been entirely too difficult. So, I called the "other" hospital, which is a very good hospital, by the way. Most of my central Phoenix friends give birth there, in fact.
I asked the lady on the phone about tours, etc. Then I casually asked if I could have a private tour. "This is my third child, and---." "NO. We do not give private tours." And then I just fell apart. I was crying so hard, it's a miracle she even understood what I was saying. "Uhhh, let me transfer you. I can't answer your question."
Long story short, they agreed to the private tour. But I was seriously doubting myself: I can't even make a stupid phone call to a hospital, so how can I…do what, exactly? No stork is gonna deliver this baby to my house. I don't really have a choice regarding upcoming events.
Shannon and I went to our private tour, and it was fine. The nurse pointed out the NICU (a NICU I had never seen, mind you), and I almost cried again. But I learned something new: if you have a normal c-section, your baby gets to go to the recovery room with you. Who knew?!
A few days later, it was time to go back to Weston's hospital and venture all the way up to Labor and Delivery. My counselor met me there and walked me through the entire process. (Shannon had already gone, alone. Brave man.) I do not know how my "self-guided tour" would have turned out if she had not accompanied me, and I'm glad I don't have to find out.
I did it. It was hard, I cried, I saw the NICU lobby, I saw OB triage, where I spent so many scary hours (and where I'd spend some time prior to admission with baby #3), and I survived.
My mind was made up before we ever got on the elevator, though. We were sitting in the weird lobby place (not my favorite frappuccino lobby), a place that holds unpleasant memories for both Shannon and myself. My counselor didn't like the space either, and we talked through a plan to avoid that area during labor. Then I saw a woman walking across the lobby toward us and thought to myself that we'd get on the elevator after she leaves.
This woman came closer and closer, and then I recognized her: my OB. My current OB, with whom my friend set me up for my c-section follow-up after Weston died, at a time when my medical condition was the last thing on my mind. And I LOVE HER. If you ever need an OB/GYN, talk to me.
Call it what you want, but this was a sign. Seeing someone linked to my current pregnancy, in the sacred place where my last baby died, literally in the middle of the decision-making process: I think my decision is obvious. We chatted for a couple of minutes, I told her why I was there, and she left to deliver a baby.
Having made this decision is a huge relief; it had been weighing on us for months. There is no doubt that giving birth again is going to be incredibly challenging emotionally. However, it is going to be challenging no matter where I am. I am anticipating it and working on it: with my counselor, with Shannon, with God. I feel peaceful and confident about my decision, and hopefully I can hang onto this peace when labor starts and it's time to head down 7th Avenue.
I have had a really hard few days, because of Weston and other reasons. But I am also feeling God's presence close by, in the form of an article sent by a friend I haven't talked to in quite a while, speaking directly to a struggle she didn't even know I was having. Chills.
And, good old Facebook. I posted a picture of my belly today (finally, at almost 28 weeks!). I felt a little weird doing it, but I deeply regret my lack of belly pictures with Weston. The "likes" and sweet comments practically broke records. For my Facebook page, anyway.
Pregnancy after losing a child is quite emotional: I'll never be able to explain it adequately to someone who has not experienced it. There is so much joy for this new life we're anticipating, but it also opens the grief floodgates again: not to mention that ALL of my difficult anniversaries with Weston, including even his birthday (maybe), will start next week and continue through the duration of this pregnancy.
So, seeing so much love and support from others on difficult days really does help carry me through. On a day when grief threatens to overpower, I am so thankful for the joy from others, even if it is just on Facebook.
And now, I'm off to count baby kicks.
Deciding where to give birth is a pretty routine decision: you go where your doctor goes, or you pick the place closest to your house. With Caroline, I chose the place second closest to my house, because the closest hospital has no labor and delivery. With Weston, I had already been there for a month, so he was obviously born there. I initially "chose" that hospital because my perinatologist told me to go there if things got bad. I suppose it's the third closest hospital to my house and only ten minutes away. Anyone who gets injured in my neighborhood is covered.
You probably know what's coming: choosing the hospital this time has NOT been routine.
For several weeks after Weston died, I was intensely drawn to the NICU. I found a reason to go almost every day. Someone told me, without judgment, that my obsession was a little out of the ordinary, but it didn't matter. I was just doing what I needed to do to cope.
Fast forward to Thanksgiving 2012. I delivered cards to the NICU and barely made it. The NICU, and the rest of that entire wing of the hospital, had changed from a place of comfort to a place of torture. I haven't been able to even look at the NICU doors since. The only places in the hospital that have provided comfort since then are the chapel and the lobby, where I'd get my daily frappuccino and hang out in my wheelchair with my family.
So, it's a little weird that, ever since we began considering another child, I have felt drawn like a magnet to give birth at the same hospital where Weston lived and died. That feeling only intensified when I found out I was pregnant. I can't explain it exactly, but I have felt that giving birth there will be quite healing, a way to honor Weston, and a bond between my two boys who will never meet in this lifetime.
But then it became more real. I will actually be giving birth again. My doctor delivers at two equally good hospitals, including Weston's, so I had a decision to make. The decision has been hanging over my head; I would cry every time my doctor asked me if I'd chosen yet. The "deadline" to decide was my 26 week appointment, last week.
So, Shannon and I talked and then made a very scientific decision: we would tour the "other" hospital, then venture up to the labor and delivery wing of Weston's hospital, compare and contrast, and…go with our gut.
Now, I didn't want to tour the hospital in the standard way with a large group of other pregnant women. They would have all been happily innocent, first-time moms, which would have been entirely too difficult. So, I called the "other" hospital, which is a very good hospital, by the way. Most of my central Phoenix friends give birth there, in fact.
I asked the lady on the phone about tours, etc. Then I casually asked if I could have a private tour. "This is my third child, and---." "NO. We do not give private tours." And then I just fell apart. I was crying so hard, it's a miracle she even understood what I was saying. "Uhhh, let me transfer you. I can't answer your question."
Long story short, they agreed to the private tour. But I was seriously doubting myself: I can't even make a stupid phone call to a hospital, so how can I…do what, exactly? No stork is gonna deliver this baby to my house. I don't really have a choice regarding upcoming events.
Shannon and I went to our private tour, and it was fine. The nurse pointed out the NICU (a NICU I had never seen, mind you), and I almost cried again. But I learned something new: if you have a normal c-section, your baby gets to go to the recovery room with you. Who knew?!
A few days later, it was time to go back to Weston's hospital and venture all the way up to Labor and Delivery. My counselor met me there and walked me through the entire process. (Shannon had already gone, alone. Brave man.) I do not know how my "self-guided tour" would have turned out if she had not accompanied me, and I'm glad I don't have to find out.
I did it. It was hard, I cried, I saw the NICU lobby, I saw OB triage, where I spent so many scary hours (and where I'd spend some time prior to admission with baby #3), and I survived.
My mind was made up before we ever got on the elevator, though. We were sitting in the weird lobby place (not my favorite frappuccino lobby), a place that holds unpleasant memories for both Shannon and myself. My counselor didn't like the space either, and we talked through a plan to avoid that area during labor. Then I saw a woman walking across the lobby toward us and thought to myself that we'd get on the elevator after she leaves.
This woman came closer and closer, and then I recognized her: my OB. My current OB, with whom my friend set me up for my c-section follow-up after Weston died, at a time when my medical condition was the last thing on my mind. And I LOVE HER. If you ever need an OB/GYN, talk to me.
Call it what you want, but this was a sign. Seeing someone linked to my current pregnancy, in the sacred place where my last baby died, literally in the middle of the decision-making process: I think my decision is obvious. We chatted for a couple of minutes, I told her why I was there, and she left to deliver a baby.
Having made this decision is a huge relief; it had been weighing on us for months. There is no doubt that giving birth again is going to be incredibly challenging emotionally. However, it is going to be challenging no matter where I am. I am anticipating it and working on it: with my counselor, with Shannon, with God. I feel peaceful and confident about my decision, and hopefully I can hang onto this peace when labor starts and it's time to head down 7th Avenue.
I have had a really hard few days, because of Weston and other reasons. But I am also feeling God's presence close by, in the form of an article sent by a friend I haven't talked to in quite a while, speaking directly to a struggle she didn't even know I was having. Chills.
And, good old Facebook. I posted a picture of my belly today (finally, at almost 28 weeks!). I felt a little weird doing it, but I deeply regret my lack of belly pictures with Weston. The "likes" and sweet comments practically broke records. For my Facebook page, anyway.
Pregnancy after losing a child is quite emotional: I'll never be able to explain it adequately to someone who has not experienced it. There is so much joy for this new life we're anticipating, but it also opens the grief floodgates again: not to mention that ALL of my difficult anniversaries with Weston, including even his birthday (maybe), will start next week and continue through the duration of this pregnancy.
So, seeing so much love and support from others on difficult days really does help carry me through. On a day when grief threatens to overpower, I am so thankful for the joy from others, even if it is just on Facebook.
And now, I'm off to count baby kicks.
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