A little over an hour ago, it was Thanksgiving Day. This past week, I've wondered how I can feel thankful this year. At church on Sunday, the pastor reminded us that not only should we be giving thanks in everything, but we should also be giving thanks for everything, as well. For. Every. Thing.
The past 6 months, I have been giving thanks for many things. In my prayers, I have thanked God for my life, my husband, my jobs, my amazing friends and family, my salvation, and even our crappy apartment because it means I have a roof over my head. I have given thanks for most things, in everything... But I haven't given thanks for every thing.
How exactly does one say, "God, thank you for letting my daughter die?"
I do thank the Lord that, in her death, Anika felt no pain (at least, I hope). And I know that because of her death, she will never feel pain or sorrow. She will never cry or be hungry. She will never be cold or know darkness. She will only know beauty, light, and perfection. And I'm thankful for that.
But am I thankful that she died? No. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day I will be. But right now it feels like a slap in the face. "I'm going to have you fall in love with this little girl, this little you, and then she's going to die, and you won't even know anything is wrong til she's gone."
(If God were a Simpsons character, there would be a Nelson-esque "HA HA," at the end of that sentence.)
Don't misunderstand. I feel honored, blessed to be the mother of a perfect, in the complete and literal sense of the word, baby. Very few women can say that their child is absolutely perfect in every way. Anika never even had the chance to sin. Sometimes I feel like Mary. I was just beginning to show around Christmas, which made me feel akin to Mary at the time. And, just like Mary, God never clued me in to the demise of my beautiful child.
...But I miss her. I miss my Li'l Miss Zigzag, my Pruney Face, my AniBear. It's hard to feel thankful that she's gone.
It would be as though I were admitting defeat, without ever even being allowed to attempt the task. If Anika had lived through all the problems the placenta had caused, she probably would have had a lot of medical problems, mental or physical, that may have lasted her entire life. Thanking God for taking her when He did makes me feel like I'm admitting I could never have handled any problems that would have come along. And I know that's not the case.
...But maybe God knew otherwise?
And I think that's one of the hardest parts. The questions: "Could I have handled it? Could we have handled it?" I just don't know. And it's not my job to find the answer. It's just my job to accept that what happened did, indeed, happen. Anika is in Heaven, and I must be thankful for that. Even when it's difficult.
My baby is in Heaven. I would have fed her baby food sweet potatoes on this day of Thanks, but she is feasting with her Heavenly Father on the Bread of Life, instead. And what is that compared to baby food sweet potatoes?
My daughter Anika was fullterm stillborn. This blog is about our griefs, pregnancy after loss (hopefully), and hope.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The Song of My Heart
I decided to change the song I am doing for my students recital. I made mention of it in my last blog. It was supposed to be "The Call"by Regina Spektor from the film "Prince Caspian." Well, my arrangement just wasn't working out, and I would have had to spend more time on it than I am able to. I switched to the Annie Lennox song "Into the West" from "The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King," a song that I have always loved. If you are familiar with the film, this is the song that is playing (without lyrics) around the time that Bilbo and Frodo leave Middle Earth with Gandalf and the elves. I believe it is also the first song that comes on (with lyrics) during the credits. (Yes, fantasy and science fiction are my favorite genres.)
The more I delved into this new song, the more I thought of Anika. It's interesting to me that all these songs that have always been so close to my heart are now the songs that are helping me through my grief, almost as they were written for me for now. So familiar, but they are speaking to my heart in a strange new beautiful and healing language.
This makes me wonder about the ways God prepares you for the events that will take place in your life. I have always loved these two songs, along with "Latter Days" by Over the Rhine and several others that have "fit the bill" lately. They are pictures of grief and hope. Did God plant a love of these songs in my heart because I would actually have a need for them later in life? I know God planted people in (and brought some back into) my life the last several years who I need now, women who understand what I have been through.
People tell me that they don't know how I get out of bed in the morning, that they wouldn't be able to put one foot in front of the other if they were in my shoes. I don't do anything except pray; God does the rest. I melt into a human puddle without Him lately. Sometimes I forget to pray for me, for my grief, and these are the times that I drown in it.
I digress...
Below are the lyrics to "Into the West." Though the whole song describes my emotions and grief, I have italicized the lines that grasp my heart a little more intensely. I know that Anika does not miss me, but I am not yet meant to fathom how that's possible. I only know my emotions and what we are capable of feeling in this life on Earth. Also the lyrics engrave breathtaking images in my mind's eye. The moon is high in the sky, and it is accompanied with shining stars, all reflecting off of the water, and there is no darkness. I see angels, beings of light and beauty, meeting Anika on the shores of an ocean so calm it could only exist in Heaven. They bring her onto a ship with sails as white and brilliant as they themselves, and they set sail into the mist.
"Into the West"
Lay down your sweet and weary head
Night is falling, you have come to journey's end
Sleep now, dream of the ones who came before
They are calling from across a distant shore
Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see, all of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms, you're only sleeping
What can you see on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea, a pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home
And all will turn to silver glass
A light on the water, all souls pass
Hope fades into the world of night
Through shadows falling out of memory and time
Don't say we have come now to the end
White shores are calling, you and I will meet again
And you'll be here in my arms, just sleeping.
What can you see on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea, a pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home
And all will turn to silver glass
A light on the water, grey ships pass
Into the West
The more I delved into this new song, the more I thought of Anika. It's interesting to me that all these songs that have always been so close to my heart are now the songs that are helping me through my grief, almost as they were written for me for now. So familiar, but they are speaking to my heart in a strange new beautiful and healing language.
This makes me wonder about the ways God prepares you for the events that will take place in your life. I have always loved these two songs, along with "Latter Days" by Over the Rhine and several others that have "fit the bill" lately. They are pictures of grief and hope. Did God plant a love of these songs in my heart because I would actually have a need for them later in life? I know God planted people in (and brought some back into) my life the last several years who I need now, women who understand what I have been through.
People tell me that they don't know how I get out of bed in the morning, that they wouldn't be able to put one foot in front of the other if they were in my shoes. I don't do anything except pray; God does the rest. I melt into a human puddle without Him lately. Sometimes I forget to pray for me, for my grief, and these are the times that I drown in it.
I digress...
Below are the lyrics to "Into the West." Though the whole song describes my emotions and grief, I have italicized the lines that grasp my heart a little more intensely. I know that Anika does not miss me, but I am not yet meant to fathom how that's possible. I only know my emotions and what we are capable of feeling in this life on Earth. Also the lyrics engrave breathtaking images in my mind's eye. The moon is high in the sky, and it is accompanied with shining stars, all reflecting off of the water, and there is no darkness. I see angels, beings of light and beauty, meeting Anika on the shores of an ocean so calm it could only exist in Heaven. They bring her onto a ship with sails as white and brilliant as they themselves, and they set sail into the mist.
"Into the West"
Lay down your sweet and weary head
Night is falling, you have come to journey's end
Sleep now, dream of the ones who came before
They are calling from across a distant shore
Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face?
Soon you will see, all of your fears will pass away
Safe in my arms, you're only sleeping
What can you see on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea, a pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home
And all will turn to silver glass
A light on the water, all souls pass
Hope fades into the world of night
Through shadows falling out of memory and time
Don't say we have come now to the end
White shores are calling, you and I will meet again
And you'll be here in my arms, just sleeping.
What can you see on the horizon?
Why do the white gulls call?
Across the sea, a pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home
And all will turn to silver glass
A light on the water, grey ships pass
Into the West
Saturday, October 8, 2011
The Shadow of Myself
The word "shadow" has a lot of meanings. Here are two of them:
1 n. An area that is partially or totally unilluminated because of the [insert technical jargon here]
2 n. A trace, a remnant
Sometimes I am me. I make bad jokes, and then laugh at those bad jokes. I watch tv shows that make me laugh. I play the piano, sing, exercise, and pet neighborhood dogs. I try on every pair of shoes (that I like) in my size on clearance at Marshalls. I annoy my cats with silly songs and kisses on the head. (This is how I show love.) I smile. I am the "me" anyone would say they know.
Sometimes I am my shadow. I go for walks with my sunglasses on because the fresh air is healing, but I don't want others to see my tears. I go to Marshalls, but I skip the shoes and try on new fall clothes that are non-maternity only to find nothing fits right because my stomach is still stretched and saggy, and when I get back to the car, the tears flow. I hold my cats and cry. I avoid my neighbors. I sometimes play the piano, but my voice doesn't work for singing. My throat always aches because my eyes are always on the verge of tears. I try to smile, but that makes the tears that have been brimming in my eyes spill out. Most people don't know me this way, so I try to avoid them.
It seems my shadow is an river.
I always think I'm fine. I go through weeks of being me, and then my shadow creeps out. Always around the same time, too - the 10th of the month. Today is the 8th, so it makes sense that I'm unilluminated today. I feel desperate in these shadowy times, but I never know for what. I have been trying to figure that out for five months.
My shadow is generally shaped like me. At times, it gets stretched out too thin; at others, it gets flattened by larger-than-life emotions. My shadow is made of saltwater, tasting of earth and brine.
No, my shadow is not a river. My shadow is an ocean.
And sometimes I drown in my shadow.
1 n. An area that is partially or totally unilluminated because of the [insert technical jargon here]
2 n. A trace, a remnant
Sometimes I am me. I make bad jokes, and then laugh at those bad jokes. I watch tv shows that make me laugh. I play the piano, sing, exercise, and pet neighborhood dogs. I try on every pair of shoes (that I like) in my size on clearance at Marshalls. I annoy my cats with silly songs and kisses on the head. (This is how I show love.) I smile. I am the "me" anyone would say they know.
Sometimes I am my shadow. I go for walks with my sunglasses on because the fresh air is healing, but I don't want others to see my tears. I go to Marshalls, but I skip the shoes and try on new fall clothes that are non-maternity only to find nothing fits right because my stomach is still stretched and saggy, and when I get back to the car, the tears flow. I hold my cats and cry. I avoid my neighbors. I sometimes play the piano, but my voice doesn't work for singing. My throat always aches because my eyes are always on the verge of tears. I try to smile, but that makes the tears that have been brimming in my eyes spill out. Most people don't know me this way, so I try to avoid them.
It seems my shadow is an river.
I always think I'm fine. I go through weeks of being me, and then my shadow creeps out. Always around the same time, too - the 10th of the month. Today is the 8th, so it makes sense that I'm unilluminated today. I feel desperate in these shadowy times, but I never know for what. I have been trying to figure that out for five months.
My shadow is generally shaped like me. At times, it gets stretched out too thin; at others, it gets flattened by larger-than-life emotions. My shadow is made of saltwater, tasting of earth and brine.
No, my shadow is not a river. My shadow is an ocean.
And sometimes I drown in my shadow.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Commencement
Today we are going to the SHARE Walk. We will be walking in honor of our precious Anika. Her name will be on the shirts we are given, and her name will also be called out in the Roll of Names. This will be the first time we've been there, so I imagine this to be like a Commencement ceremony. Anika's name will be on the graduating class's t-shirt, and when her name is called, it will mark her leaving our world and commencing her life in Heaven. Except instead of all the parents crying tears of joy or cheering when their child's name is called, they will cry tears of sorrow, and possibly moan or sob when they hear their baby's name.
How strange that in normal life, it's babies who cry all the time. In our world, the babies are gone, and it is we, the parents, who are crying.
Four of my friends brought their living and healthy babies in to the world this week. It has been rough. Two boys, two girls. Anika would have been their friend. Still when I imagine visiting with them in the future, I see Anika there. I imagine watching our future children and their cousin (maybe cousins some day) all running to the Christmas tree at Grandma and Grandpa's, tearing open their gifts, and I see her among them. When I picture our kids playing in the back yard, there is Ani, kicking the soccer ball like a champ. I still imagine teaching her silly songs on the piano and singing in the car with her. I can't help but to see these things because they were in my head for so long. When I remember that she will never be there, my grief is made anew.
When people don't understand why I'm still sad, or why this is such a huge loss, I wish I could express all of that to them. I dreamed all those things and so much more since I started thinking about what it would be like to be a mom, so probably when I hit my 20's. But those dreams were a future reality for 8.5 months. All that besides, I was pregnant for 8.5 months, and Ani only passed away 4.5 months ago. She was with me almost twice as long as she's been gone.
So today, we go and recognize Anika's class. Some of the parents we will meet today have children who have long since graduated from this world, but others will be parents of "newbies" to Heaven, just like us. There's a part of me that is excited to see her name on a t-shirt and hear her name spoken by someone I've never met. Today is a huge acknowledgement that my dear baby girl existed. The rest of me is anxious and sad. I don't know what to expect. But I have packed a lot of tissues.
Anika's commencement, and she won't be there.
How strange that in normal life, it's babies who cry all the time. In our world, the babies are gone, and it is we, the parents, who are crying.
Four of my friends brought their living and healthy babies in to the world this week. It has been rough. Two boys, two girls. Anika would have been their friend. Still when I imagine visiting with them in the future, I see Anika there. I imagine watching our future children and their cousin (maybe cousins some day) all running to the Christmas tree at Grandma and Grandpa's, tearing open their gifts, and I see her among them. When I picture our kids playing in the back yard, there is Ani, kicking the soccer ball like a champ. I still imagine teaching her silly songs on the piano and singing in the car with her. I can't help but to see these things because they were in my head for so long. When I remember that she will never be there, my grief is made anew.
When people don't understand why I'm still sad, or why this is such a huge loss, I wish I could express all of that to them. I dreamed all those things and so much more since I started thinking about what it would be like to be a mom, so probably when I hit my 20's. But those dreams were a future reality for 8.5 months. All that besides, I was pregnant for 8.5 months, and Ani only passed away 4.5 months ago. She was with me almost twice as long as she's been gone.
So today, we go and recognize Anika's class. Some of the parents we will meet today have children who have long since graduated from this world, but others will be parents of "newbies" to Heaven, just like us. There's a part of me that is excited to see her name on a t-shirt and hear her name spoken by someone I've never met. Today is a huge acknowledgement that my dear baby girl existed. The rest of me is anxious and sad. I don't know what to expect. But I have packed a lot of tissues.
Anika's commencement, and she won't be there.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Hearing In a New Way
My students' recital theme this year is Music From the Screen. I always do one or two pieces at the recital. This year I am doing one score piece - "Dreamcatcher" by Alexandre Desplat from New Moon (yes, it's from a Twilight movie) - and one soundtrack piece - "The Call" by Regina Spector from Prince Caspian.
"The Call" is about the Pevensie children being called back to Narnia when the time is right, how they will remember everything because for them it's only been a year, but Narnians will forget because it's a new era in this magical land.
But as I was working on it today, the lyrics took on a new meaning for me. Here they are:
It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Till it was a battle cry
I'll come back when you call me
No need to say Good-bye
Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
As you head off to the war
Pick a star on the dark horizon
And follow the light
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say Good-bye
Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
Till they're before your eyes
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say Good-bye
This is a war I'm fighting. Anika started out as a tiny cluster of cells, and grew larger and larger, until I gave birth. And believe me - there were definitely "battle cries." Then she was gone, but some day I'll be called back to her.
I worry about people forgetting about her. How long til some people do? Because they will. I think some already have. People who knew me through the entire span of my pregnancy or for years before that, who were at her memorial, and who used to be fine at the mention of my previous pregnancy or Anika's name now seem uncomfortable when the subject comes up. While they felt pain for us when she first passed, it's no longer new for them. It's old, past tense, and it doesn't need to be discussed further. So I'll forgive them. But I will never forget Anika, and some day her beautiful smile and loving eyes will greet me when I return to her in Heaven.
"The Call" is about the Pevensie children being called back to Narnia when the time is right, how they will remember everything because for them it's only been a year, but Narnians will forget because it's a new era in this magical land.
But as I was working on it today, the lyrics took on a new meaning for me. Here they are:
It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into a hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Till it was a battle cry
I'll come back when you call me
No need to say Good-bye
Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
As you head off to the war
Pick a star on the dark horizon
And follow the light
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say Good-bye
Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it too
Doesn't mean that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
Till they're before your eyes
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say Good-bye
This is a war I'm fighting. Anika started out as a tiny cluster of cells, and grew larger and larger, until I gave birth. And believe me - there were definitely "battle cries." Then she was gone, but some day I'll be called back to her.
I worry about people forgetting about her. How long til some people do? Because they will. I think some already have. People who knew me through the entire span of my pregnancy or for years before that, who were at her memorial, and who used to be fine at the mention of my previous pregnancy or Anika's name now seem uncomfortable when the subject comes up. While they felt pain for us when she first passed, it's no longer new for them. It's old, past tense, and it doesn't need to be discussed further. So I'll forgive them. But I will never forget Anika, and some day her beautiful smile and loving eyes will greet me when I return to her in Heaven.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
The Thoughts That Keep Me Up At Night...
Every night, I pick up Anika's picture that's sitting beside my bed. I stroke her face, and kiss her, and say, "I love you, Sweet Girl," or something along those lines. I put the picture back down, look at it a moment longer and bid her good night.
Then I roll over and think about how my day would have been different if she were here. And sometimes it keeps me up into the wee hours of the night. Tonight, since I was thinking about her so much, I decided to make a new entry here.
My thoughts range from how to answer questions from new people about whether we have kids to about how we should tell our future children about Anika. I think about the future events where we had made preparations for her, and I wonder how I will feel at them since she's not going to be there. I also think of my friends who have lost children either to miscarriage, SIDS, or another way, and I compare what we've all gone through, and wonder how I would have handled their situations.
The more I think about that, the more I realize that God put us through exactly what we could handle. Down to the tiny details. It would have killed me to go in for my 20 week ultrasound, when I was so excited to find out my baby's gender, only to find out that they'd passed away. Would I have wanted to know the gender? Probably. ...I would have been a permanent wreck if Anika had lived for a few months - I'd have had her cry, her eyes, her smile, her coos all memorized - and then she was gone. I would have woken up to echoes of her cries at night, and I imagine that other babies crying would effect me much more than it does. ...But I can't figure out how I'd feel being told my baby wasn't going to survive, then being told she would, only to watch her life leave her before my very eyes, in my arms. There's a strange beauty in that scenario, an eerie peace, a devastating grace. I think it would make a most painful and beautiful painting. I see Jesus standing there, next to the parents, with His arms out, to bring the perfect baby home. There are no tears in this painting, but no joy either. It's just pure love because everyone in the painting loves this child.
Maybe this speaks to me because I don't know when Anika left my womb for Heaven. I have my reasons for believing it was mid-evening the day before we found out she had passed, but I will never know. And I have the feeling it won't matter enough when I get to Heaven for me to remember to ask.
Then I roll over and think about how my day would have been different if she were here. And sometimes it keeps me up into the wee hours of the night. Tonight, since I was thinking about her so much, I decided to make a new entry here.
My thoughts range from how to answer questions from new people about whether we have kids to about how we should tell our future children about Anika. I think about the future events where we had made preparations for her, and I wonder how I will feel at them since she's not going to be there. I also think of my friends who have lost children either to miscarriage, SIDS, or another way, and I compare what we've all gone through, and wonder how I would have handled their situations.
The more I think about that, the more I realize that God put us through exactly what we could handle. Down to the tiny details. It would have killed me to go in for my 20 week ultrasound, when I was so excited to find out my baby's gender, only to find out that they'd passed away. Would I have wanted to know the gender? Probably. ...I would have been a permanent wreck if Anika had lived for a few months - I'd have had her cry, her eyes, her smile, her coos all memorized - and then she was gone. I would have woken up to echoes of her cries at night, and I imagine that other babies crying would effect me much more than it does. ...But I can't figure out how I'd feel being told my baby wasn't going to survive, then being told she would, only to watch her life leave her before my very eyes, in my arms. There's a strange beauty in that scenario, an eerie peace, a devastating grace. I think it would make a most painful and beautiful painting. I see Jesus standing there, next to the parents, with His arms out, to bring the perfect baby home. There are no tears in this painting, but no joy either. It's just pure love because everyone in the painting loves this child.
Maybe this speaks to me because I don't know when Anika left my womb for Heaven. I have my reasons for believing it was mid-evening the day before we found out she had passed, but I will never know. And I have the feeling it won't matter enough when I get to Heaven for me to remember to ask.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
The Hope Bubble
Well, I'm not pregnant. It just seems so crazy. We barely touched each other and Anika was conceived; but this time it's been months that we've been trying, and we've got nothing!
That negative sign maimed my hope. There are so many things in my life this month that would have been so much easier on me if I were pregnant. I'm going to a friend's baby shower on Saturday, and one of my closest friends is going to be induced any day now.
Then I got the obvious negative sign, and this one killed my hope. This sign says, "You're going to be crampy for the next week, and those cramps are going to not only remind you that you're not pregnant, but they're also going to be so bad that they'll remind you of contractions and giving birth to your lifeless baby!" ...If Anika were alive, I probably wouldn't have a period at all right now because I'd be breastfeeding.
Anika would have been 4 months old in two days (the day of the aforementioned shower, by the way).
Andrew and I plan to release some balloons into the sky on May 10, 2012, the day Anika would have turned one. I pictured us standing there, Andrew holding 3 balloons - one from him, one from me, and one from Anika's newborn brother or sister. This didn't seem far-fetched to me. Most people I talked to were pregnant with in three months of their loss. If we had conceived a baby this month, the due date would have been May 5, and the doctors said they wouldn't let me go full term next time, so my vision would have easily been feasible. But now, IF we conceive this month, my due date will be June 14, and I doubt that the new baby will be out by May 10.
But I still worry - what if I'm not meant to be pregnant again? Everyone is praying for me to be. But everyone, including me, prayed for Anika's health. And "dead" ain't exactly healthy, is it? God doesn't always give us what we want, what we think we need.
I guess right now I just feel as though all hope is lost. I know that in a week, when we start trying again, I'll be full of hope.
The bubble has burst today, but tomorrow I'll start mending it, and soon enough it'll will be blown up again.
That negative sign maimed my hope. There are so many things in my life this month that would have been so much easier on me if I were pregnant. I'm going to a friend's baby shower on Saturday, and one of my closest friends is going to be induced any day now.
Then I got the obvious negative sign, and this one killed my hope. This sign says, "You're going to be crampy for the next week, and those cramps are going to not only remind you that you're not pregnant, but they're also going to be so bad that they'll remind you of contractions and giving birth to your lifeless baby!" ...If Anika were alive, I probably wouldn't have a period at all right now because I'd be breastfeeding.
Anika would have been 4 months old in two days (the day of the aforementioned shower, by the way).
Andrew and I plan to release some balloons into the sky on May 10, 2012, the day Anika would have turned one. I pictured us standing there, Andrew holding 3 balloons - one from him, one from me, and one from Anika's newborn brother or sister. This didn't seem far-fetched to me. Most people I talked to were pregnant with in three months of their loss. If we had conceived a baby this month, the due date would have been May 5, and the doctors said they wouldn't let me go full term next time, so my vision would have easily been feasible. But now, IF we conceive this month, my due date will be June 14, and I doubt that the new baby will be out by May 10.
But I still worry - what if I'm not meant to be pregnant again? Everyone is praying for me to be. But everyone, including me, prayed for Anika's health. And "dead" ain't exactly healthy, is it? God doesn't always give us what we want, what we think we need.
I guess right now I just feel as though all hope is lost. I know that in a week, when we start trying again, I'll be full of hope.
The bubble has burst today, but tomorrow I'll start mending it, and soon enough it'll will be blown up again.
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