The Conversation That Hurt

A few days ago, we had someone visiting our home. I got home with a massive headache that seemed to be trying to morph into a migraine. So light was not my friend and I just wanted to go to bed.

I could tell by Mark's body language that me heading off to bed at 7 was not going to go over well. So I tried to put my chin up and clean up the kitchen and make small talk with our guest.

Let's just say that the conversation went into a direction that caught me extremely off guard.

Somehow we started to talk about Andrew. I probably shouldn't have gone there. But she was concerned about Mark. About us.

"Mark's having a hard time this month."  I said.

"Oh really," she commented shocked.

I described some of his nightmares. His panicking over things with Lynn. His seeming, almost paranoia at times, that she will die or get hurt and die. That all the kids will die.

She seemed surprised. Almost alarmed. It almost seemed like she didn't believe me. There was an awkward silence. I sat down at the dining room table where she was at and put my hand on the stand where Lynn was sitting in her bouncy seat.

"Did you struggle much when you lost your son?" I ask hoping for some connection . . . or . . . something.

She responds that she didn't really. His death was for such a different reason than Andrew's. He died of a medical condition. His heart wasn't formed right for some reason that she doesn't really know. So it wasn't hard for her. That caught me strangely. How could even that not be difficult? It's your child. Your flesh and blood.

It seemed there was little sympathy there. Of course, I could be wrong. But I definitely felt like I should protect my heart at that point and just wanted to go to bed. Gosh was my head killing me.

"How old was Andrew when he died?" she asked me. "23 weeks?"

"Um," the last thing I wanted to do is figure out his age in weeks.

"All I know is that he was five and a half months. I've never thought of his age in weeks." I stated groggily.

"Oh, so then he was about 24 weeks or so." I closed my eyes and moved my head around wishing I was in bed. I didn't care how many weeks old he was. He's not here is all I knew.

More silence.

"Lynn is 10 weeks now?" she asked reaching out to touch Lynn's foot.

I looked at the calendar on the wall just over Lynn's head. "Yeah."

"So she's almost half way to the age that Andrew was when he died."

And my heart stopped and jumped into my throat.

"What!?!" was what I thought in my head as I thought I was going to lose it. I felt such an intensity of pain and then looked at Lynn almost with panic.

A wave of nausea came over me.

She's almost halfway to where . . . . oh my gosh. I thought to myself.

The aching in my heart grew more palpable as I looked down at the floor. I almost thought that . . . . I almost couldn't breathe.

I couldn't do this right then.

Who says that to someone who had just told them that they were having a tough time to dealing with their child's death even a year and a half later? Who says that? What kind of . . . . .

Even now, it hurts to think about what she said. It still catches in the throat. I still find myself sickened by such a thought. So nonchalantly. So casually as though she were talking about one of the boys going out to go sledding.

It's not as though I am not aware that when she turns 5 1/2 months, that that may be a bit difficult for us. I am nervous for that day. A bit fearful.

But pah-leeze.

Such an awful thing to say.

What an awful thing to call to mind.

Gosh that conversation hurts. . . . . gosh my heart hurts.

Who is at Fault for Andrew's Death?

December has been a tough month for Mark. Part of it is unknown to me but a portion seems to stem from the anniversary of Andrew's birthday.

He has been dealing with a lot of guilt. I figured he probably would but has never voiced it. If I had been home at the time, I would have blamed myself for his death. But it was good to hear Mark share that. Something I know must have been difficult to admit. I would have been quite fearful in his shoes to share that with him.

He has struggled so with this he asked me how I could continue to live with him after this. That really shocked me.

"I fear I would not have been as gentle with you as you have been with me," he also said. This is true. He probably wouldn't have. "I am surprised you  haven't blamed me for this." He even stated that, although it was an accident and really no one's fault, since he was the one responsible for Andrew's care, it was ultimately his fault.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

"I have struggled with that since Andrew died." I never thought I would say that to him. I figured there would never be a "right" time. I knew it was possibly something I could never voice to him because it would only cause him more pain than good. I also knew that such a struggle within me was something that could destroy us and our family and our children. So I kept it quiet.

Shared it only with God.

No one knew.

It has been a heavy thought to bear.

Oddly, he was glad to hear that I had struggled and did not feel condemned. That was my fear. That I might blurt it out in a moment of utter frustration or anger at him for something surrounding Andrew's death. And in expressing such a dark thought that he would turn to his old vices. That our family would lay in a shambles. That we would all be ruined.

But he didn't.

We lived through this open and bare moment. We shared in a moment of total honesty and came out the other side in peace. And now the load is not as much of a burden any longer.

I still struggle with how just a few small changes could have saved his life. Just doing one thing differently, giving a different answer, having a different approach would have possibly meant that we would still have Andrew here with us.

I suppose that struggle will probably never be fully resolved. Almost like which came first, the chicken or the egg. Except this predicament is much more personally weighty to me.

I can understand why couples do not always make it through after a child dies. It is difficult. Not just the differences in grieving styles added onto the normal stresses of life. It's those unspoken things that hang there that fester in the darkness. That gather their strength and seek to burst forth at an ill-timed moment when the other is weak and vulnerable. To strike at the weak spot. To jab at the open wounds.

We have both finally been able to disarm this a bit. I have thrown down my sword and Mark is surprised.

His tendency is not really gentleness or a quiet answer to turn away anger. That is often my way.

For once I got to see its wisdom at work. And I thank God for giving me the strength to wait for the opportune moment to share the lie that has tried to deceive me regarding Mark's role in Andrew's death and bring more healing to us both. That is only His goodness shining through. His faithfulness. Grace that I do not deserve.

So who's at fault? No one. I say to the lies, no one is at fault for Andrew dying. So stop trying to make me bitter and unforgiving. Because I won't accept it.

Merry Christmas 2012 Andrew!

Merry Christmas Little Special! This would have been your second Christmas at home with us if you had lived.

We decided that Christmas Day was going to be more just our family and Mark's mom, Jean. But a few weeks ago I realized that a single woman I am friends with at the office has no family in town. So Mark and I extended the invitation for her to join us for the holiday. No pressure. No need to bring presents or anything. Just come and join us. She was so touched by our invitation and appreciative of the gesture.

She normally spends it alone. Last year she tried to find Chinese and was surprised that no place was open. So I insisted then, that she should join our family. We're informal, casual, open a few presents, enjoy the kids' reactions to their various gifts and eat.

So she arrived today and quickly blended in as we enjoyed watching the boys open their few presents. And then I got the delight of handing Emlyn, my friend who joined us, her own Christmas stocking and some presents we had purchased for her. Things I knew she could use and would like. Tea, Epsom salts for the bath, candles in favorite scents, etc. It was so much fun looking for presents to bless her with. And it was even more fun to see her surprise at how much we gave her.

And she, despite my telling her she did not need to bring gifts, gave the boys dinosaurs, Lynn some special rattles and Mark and I a gift card. She even gave my mother-in-law a candle. Emlyn loves candles and my mother-in-law likes them as well.

It was wonderful to open our home and the holiday to her and just meant a lot to us to have her join our family for the day. Too bad Andrew wasn't here to meet her.

He would have been getting into everything most likely.

After cleaning up from a delicious lunch, I challenged Samuel's fleet to a sea battle. And Ryan helped me figure out what positions to look for Samuel's ships. I was about to win when grandma took over the game as Samuel felt called to playing with the new racetrack they had just received and she sank my last battleship just before I could finish sinking her last ship. I turned to Emlyn to comment, "I said I like playing battleship. But that doesn't mean I am good at it."

Then we found the new card game Mark had purchased. We didn't know there was a shorter version so us women played for 2 1/2 hours before Emlyn came out of no where and cleaned out her stock pile. All while I snuggled the little treasure and we talked writing, places... people... stories...life.

And Andrew was with us all in our hearts.

Merry Christmas little special!

And does it hurt today? Christmas only hurt when he was here with us at the NICU and we celebrated as a family somewhere else becuase the NICU did not allow children under age 12 in. That was the only thing that hurt. So, as I said last year, we're used to not having him with us physically in the room on Christmas Day. When going to the Rogers for Mark's side for their celebration and when going to the Falksens on my side. So all of that to say . . . . only in the most small of ways does it hurt.

Dwelling on Andrew with Delight

Two years ago today Andrew got my heart by showing me that he wanted to breastfeed. Now, for me, and possibly other mothers that have a baby born by Cesarean 7 weeks before the due date, that your body may be capable of all of the same things as when your child comes full term but there is a bit of a delay. So my milk, actually the initial milk called colostrum, was not available after he was born.

This broke my heart when I first pumped. Only a few drops were extracted.

They told me I would have to pump for a few days in order to get my milk flowing. So that's what I did. Every 3 hours, I pumped for 4 days without getting much each time. It was so saddening to me. I wanted to give him the added nutrients all of his siblings had had that were born.

On the 5th day after his, I was about ready to give up thinking that my body just wasn't going to do it. That I was wearing myself out for nothing. So I held him on the 23rd of 2010 and apologized because it seemed that I wouldn't be able to give him breastmilk even through his little tube that they had down his nose into his stomach. And NICU nurses said that he probably wouldn't nurse.

So I held him, the little 7 inch long bundled up body that his 20 inches was, and sang to him and enjoyed my snuggle time with him. He always nestled into me without hesitation as though that was always where he wanted to stay. It was so nice. He was much more of a cuddler than any of the kids have been, including Lynn.

Then he began to move his little head back and forth. It was 6:30 at night. I only remember because when I came to visit, the marker board recorded his vitals, last feeding time, the name of the nurse and Mark and I's contact info in case they needed to call us. It was a vital part of the communication and monitoring his health at a glance.

So anyway, somehow I remember it was 6:30, because the movement of his head became much more insistent. I looked up at the clock and saw that 7 was his next feeding. Now in NICU they have the babies on a VERY strict feeding schedule. We were told not to mess with it to make sure he adapted to it. So he's giving me the cues that he's wanting to eat and BAD and I look at the clock and see he has to wait another half hour.

But he keeps moving his head back and forth and making little grunting noises as he was getting upset at not getting any results. So, I looked at the clock again and decided, this is my little boy. He's telling me he's hungry so I can't deny him that. Especially since I did not get to be with him around the clock. The other boys needed me to spend time with them as well. It was so hard.

So I made the adjustments to get him into position and he latched on immediately. It was like he was a pro and the little tug and sound of his swallows warmed my heart. The little guy really was hungry. He really did want to nurse. And I felt tears well up in my eyes. My heart felt so full and I was so proud of him. Next to breathing at the moment he was born 7 weeks early and not having to depend upon life support, this was a wonderful accomplishment. So little and already doing so well.

He nursed for 5 maybe 10 minutes. I came to learn that that was his typical pattern. He didn't have enough energy to nurse for a full session.

Then he fell asleep all content. I just kept staring at him amazed letting him stay close to me. I relished this moment. I still cherish the memory if you can't tell.

The nurse came in at 7 to feed him and I told her what had happened. I was expecting a lecture on how I had messed up his schedule and I was fully prepared to tell her she could take his schedule and shove it at the moment. It was first time wanting to breastfeed and I thought that bonding and closeness was much more important than that.

Well she didn't scold me but said she was glad to hear that he had showed an interest in nursing. She took the feeding tube in his nose, attached a syringe and pulled out the contents he had drank. It was half of what he needed per his weight. It seemed so strange and cruel. So she pushed the colostrum back through his tube into his tummy. Then she filled up the syringe with the amount he needed to finish the feeding and I held it up so that he could complete his feeding.

They measured everything meticulously and tracked his weight with each feeding. It was amazing and sad. So many monitors hooked up to his little tiny body.

That's why I always held him the entire time I visited him. Whether it was a few hours or 12 hours (there were few such visits that were so long). It was so unfortunate. We'd talk. I'd sing. He'd snuggle in close. I'd kiss him often and marveled at the miracle he was to us.

What wonderful things to dwell on as we head into our second Christmas without him at home.

The Dream

I have been doing a bit better.

When I meet with my doctor for her to check my medication, she said she thinks that this birthday has been more difficult only because I wasn't expecting it to be difficult. She guessed that if I had expected that his birthday would be as difficult as it was last year, then it would have been "easier". But since I wasn't expecting the trial that it ended up being, it caught me off guard when it was a bit trying.

It makes sense. Perhaps that is true.

I had a dream last night.

I was going to one of the grief support groups I've attended. It almost looked like I was at a trade show. The place looked like an auditorium set up how trade shows are set up. Seats in rows. Booths to the right and left and behind the areas where people were gathering.

The leader of the mom's group I attend at times introduced me to a woman. She had just lost one of her children. She began to talk to me and tell me her story. She was so emotional and extremely sad. It was almost like I was in her memory seeing what she was saying. It was so strange. Suddenly she said that the child she lost was a twin.

I thought to myself how awful that was. How hard for her and that twin that survived.

Then I was out of her memory and back in the place where the meeting was going to be held. And I felt so sad for her.

Then I awakened thinking that I was glad that dream was over.

Evidentally I'm still processing this week.

The Memories That Slip Away

Snow is falling and the wind is blowing. Even though it is nightime, the clouds trap the city lights and the air has this grayish purple glow to it. And the sky looks like it has its own intrinsic light. As I look out my dining room window, I see one of our larger, older trees shaking slightly in the wind. Its leave rustle although I hear no sound of their movement. Instead I only hear the slight swoosh of the furnace heating our home. Countering the extreme cold of the winter landscape outside.

It finally feels like Christmastime. A holiday that I normally just relish and savor listening to the music of this beautiful time of year. And this year, both Mark and I have struggled with getting excited or motivated for this holiday.

Andrew's second birthday has come and gone. Although Mark and I discussed the fact of what the day was yesterday, the boys did not comment. It was almost like they didn't notice. In some ways I envy their seeming innocence in this vein of our lives. And yet I know they too will feel more pain over this loss in the days, months and years to come.

I have noticed of late that my memory, my recall of my little special isn't as crisp as it used to be. It's harder for me to remember his face. The look in his eyes. How they twinkled and looked deep into mine. The sounds he would make as he "talked" to me. The giggle he would let slip out as he grinned all big at me.

He was so full of life and yet, it's his life that seems to be slipping away. Almost like I'm forgetting him.

I try so hard to keep it all there. But it just keeps departing from my recollection bit by bit. Moment by moment. Minute by minute that I shared with him.

How he felt. How he loved. How he was.

This makes me so sad.

I look at pictures of him and it's almost like he's a stranger. How can this be? A mother can't forget her own child. I know I'm not forgetting my son but it sure seems like I am. This isn't right.

I miss him so much.

And it hurts so badly sometimes I want to tear out my heart and stop feeling. I want to stop existing. (Not kill myself - it just hurts so much it would be nice not to feel the pain of losing him.)

But it feels like I'm forgetting him.

Then I get a bit anxious.

I can't forget him. That can't be what's happening.

And yet . . . . I can't bring him to mind as easily or in as much detail as I used to. And although I know I will never forget him, he's my son that I carried and bore. He's my flesh and blood.  A part of me. A mother can't forget her children ever. Besides, I still bear the scar where they cut me open to get him out so that he and I would live.

But I still find myself wondering, am I forgetting him? Will he keep just slipping away bit by bit over they years until he's only a photograph and emotions felt without memories attached?

To forget him, would be one of the most awful things I think. And it causes tears to well up in my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. And makes my sting as though its very nerves are being pulled out.

Oh how awful this all is at times.

Can you hear my quiet cries? Can you see the tears streaming down my face?

Can anyone see Andrew?

Happy 2nd Birthday Andrew!

Happy Birthday Andrew!

Happy 2nd birthday!

Your dad and I are a bit down today. Instead of getting out a birthday cake I made for you and putting 2 candles on top for you to blow out after singing, "happy birthday" to you, we have just another evening at home.

Just another day.

Well, not really.

It's a day where your absence is especially felt.

I should have gone shopping for you trying to find something special just for you to play with. And a new book. Probably a Dr. Seuss I really like that your brothers have destroyed and we've thrown away.

I should have given you a hug this morning before going to work, given you an extra kiss on the forehead and said, "happy birthday little special!"

I wonder if I still would be calling you little special at this point?

I still wonder what you would be like? What would your voice sound like? How would you be joking around now because I'm pretty sure you were a little joker in the making. What would you like to play with? Which brother would you play with the most?

Would you have learned to go up the stairs first or down? Samuel would go up and not down for the longest time. Then when Alex came along, he quickly gravitated to the stairs to keep up with Samuel and ended up mastering going down first. Scared the heck out of me until we learned that he'd automatically turn himself around and slide down bump after bump on his belly. He'd get down in 2 seconds flat. Or would Ryan show you a new way which would cause us to fear for the first few times?

Well, sadly, we won't know.

And unfortunately, we don't know.

You are forever 5 1/2 months to us although we mark the years now. And we miss you terribly.

Happy Birthday Andrew!

We send you our love even though we are apart. And wish that you were here with us.