It has been a long time since my last blog posting. Not that I haven't thought about many things to say or scream on some days. Sometimes you can’t find the words to explain the joy, the sadness, and why they are intertwined together. It wasn’t until I read a blog posting from someone else that the words hit me. It was written by Claire McCarthy, and it is called “Trap-Door Days”. I have posted it below.
But first, 2011 was an amazing year for Hayden’s Helping Hands. We have proudly had the privilege to financially assist 4 families. They no longer receive a delivery bill for their stillborn babies. We exceeded any goal we set for ourselves and have a passionate momentum pushing us to carry on another year. Our foundation represents hope. We carry a hope with us daily for the families we connect with. We hope they can be resilient, can conceive again, and can hold a healthy baby.
I can speak from personal experience that a healthy subsequent pregnancy is possible. I will also tell you that you will hold your breath for the entire pregnancy until you hear your baby scream with life. I know this because on December 16th, 2011, I delivered our 3rd baby girl. Her name is Josie, and she brings peace to our hearts.
When my husband and I learned we were pregnant, there were tears of joy and tears of fear that came over us for obvious reasons. It took me months to fully accept that I had another life growing inside of me; the same place where life had died only 9 months earlier. I just waited for the other shoe to drop, so to speak. I remember “going through the motions” of planning for a baby until well after Hayden’s first birthday. It wasn’t until then that I realized, I could do this. I could plan on another baby occupying Hayden’s room but to do this I actually needed to go into her room and remember that it was created with love. There was a lot of joy in that room before...it would be that way again. In so many ways I was afraid that if I accepted this new life wholeheartedly I was saying goodbye to Hayden’s. It took me a few months of honest communication with my husband, and some positive affirmations to learn that could never be the case. It was really just fear getting in my way. Fear of losing this little innocent baby. Fear of being heartbroken again. “Hope” became my mantra. Now, I hold our third little girl in my arms, not just in my heart.
I wanted to share this blog with you because it will hit home with anyone who has struggled with losing a loved one. So many times have I felt this ‘trap-door’ and thought I wouldn’t find the strength to claw my way out. Read her words and hold them in your memory for the days you fall down.
“Christmas Eve is hard for me.
It was in the early hours of Christmas Eve 16 years ago that my newborn son was diagnosed with a horrible brain malformation. My husband and I were wrapping presents late on the 23rd (so now I associate wrapping presents with this diagnosis and throw everything I can into gift bags) when he began to have seizures so bad that we called an ambulance. Over the night the news went from bad to worse, and by dawn we knew that he would be severely disabled and die young. He died less than a year later.
It was a very long time ago, but grief has a way of working its way into your bones and nerves. I mourn the loss of my son every Christmas Eve -- the loss of the healthy baby I thought I had until then, and the loss of the blessing Aidan turned out to be.
For those of us who have endured losses like these, there are always trap-door days (or trap-door smells or sounds or songs or pictures) when the ground gives out and we fall down deep. For the first few Christmas Eves after Aidan's death I cried a lot in private, and in public held my breath and put my head into the wind of the day, making it through by sheer will.
But bit by bit, year by year, I've learned that there are ways to keep from falling down deep, ways to be made strong against the wind of the day. Nice presents and pretty lights don't do it -- they are too ephemeral -- nor does music, no matter how lovely (a friend of mine who suffered from chronic depression once said wisely, "Some things take more than Mozart"). It takes things more fundamental and enduring.
This Christmas Eve at dawn I went for a run. I pushed up the hills and sprinted down them, the cold air rushing into my lungs. I felt physically strong and capable, and as the sun lit the trees and filled the sky everything felt clean and possible. It helped.
My eldest daughter brought her kitten home for the holidays, and all day we laughed at Beau as he played with ornaments on the tree or hid inside boxes ready to pounce or chased the laser pointer absolutely anywhere we pointed it (what it is with cats and laser pointers?). My 6-year-old, Liam, has a belly laugh that makes us laugh even more. It helped.
At church, two teenagers gave up their seats and stood so that an elderly couple could sit and it made me feel hopeful. A girl from the children's choir who couldn't have been more than 13 stood up in front of the crowd and led everyone in singing the responsorial psalm; I watched her steady herself, take a deep breath, and sing out brave and strong. It helped.
A friend of my daughter's, who spent so much of her childhood with us that we all came to think of her as family, came to visit us for the first time in many months. I had missed her so, and seeing her again, and seeing the wonderful woman she is becoming, and seeing how happy she was to see us -- it helped.
And there was Liam's sheer excitement as we laid out cookies and he wrote a note for Santa. He got out of bed three different times to remind us to go to bed so Santa would come -- and one other time to tell us he was sure he'd heard bells outside. It helped too.
I lost Aidan, and others dear to me. And as not just the mother of a child who died but a doctor, I know more keenly than most that we are all vulnerable, and loss is inevitable. We all have our trap doors of grief, we all have days or months or years when life's winds seem too much to fight. This is simply true; nothing can be done to change it.
But, I have come to see clearly, that doesn't mean that life can't still be good. Joy, beauty, excitement, laughter, bravery, kindness -- they all endure and shelter us against the wind. Most of all, the ties that bind us together make the difference: when we reach out our hand to take another, we do not fall so far.”
It can’t be said better than that. At Hayden’s funeral, we chose for “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” to be played. It is a stab in the heart every time I hear it play now; I rush to stop the sound and I curse it’s very existence. Two weeks ago, I found myself humming it to Josie. I shocked myself and instantly stopped. Then I thought about the words with tears in my eyes; “...Somewhere over the rainbow, skies are blue and the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true...”. It helped. I realized that each of my three girls have provided joy, beauty, excitement, laughter, bravery, kindness. They have dared me to dream, shown me that life can still be good, and have given me hope.
