Reflections, Memories & Some Beautiful Photos

It has taken me some time to be "ok" with sharing these photos. I'm not quite sure what my hesitation is, really. I guess I just understand (because I once felt the same way) that there are people out there who think that it's strange to take photos of a stillborn baby. That it is somehow morbid.

I don't know why I'm concerned about the judgements of others when it comes to this intensely personal experience that we're going through. It truly is one of those experiences that is simply beyond the understanding of those who have not been there. There is no way to know how you would feel or what you would want or how you would handle the situation until it's staring you in the face.

What I can say from this side of things is that my photos of Gracie are in no way "morbid" to me. They are a reassurance. It wasn't a dream. She was real. Our love for her was real. Our loss was real. As my memories begin to fade and the once razor-sharp edges of emotion begin to dull, I can return to these photos and let it all wash over me again. It's like a plunge in the cold ocean after a run on the beach. At first the cold is a shock to your hot skin - almost too much to handle - but before long you're submerged and the cool relief is exactly what you needed. I have already begun to lose myself in the daily routine, allowed myself to become wrapped up in the hustle of 4th year rotations and residency applications... she is fading into the background of my life. She is always there, never far from my thoughts, but having lost her is no longer the focus of my days. In many ways that is healthy and positive, but I still feel the need to take that cold plunge from time to time - to return to that place where the wounds were raw and the hurt was consuming. I need to feel the loss, experience the grief, miss her more intensely, recall the feel of her skin, relive the beauty and the devastation of that day.

Simply put, the photos that we captured that day are priceless. We don't have our baby girl here with us, to see and touch and hold and share with the world. I no longer have a pregnant belly, nor the secret language of flutters and kicks that we shared while that belly was her home. The Doppler probe will no longer find the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. My body has returned to its prepartum state (with the exception of a few extra pounds), erasing all evidence that just six weeks ago, it housed another entirely separate life. Her earthly life has ended, and her body has been buried, and we have nothing left of her... except for these images and keepsakes that we've held on to.

With that, I'd like to share a few of the professional photos that were taken at the hospital the day our daughter was born into Heaven. Photo credit goes to Ellen Cohn for Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

Gosh, I miss her. Sometimes it hits me like a slug to the chest, and other times I experience it as a nagging, unsettled feeling. Something is missing, and it is an uncomfortable reality that I cannot escape. There is nothing I can do, and it will never change. She will always be the missing piece of our family puzzle. Nothing will ever be "just right". Every near-perfect moment, when the sun is setting and the air is just warm enough and the playground is all ours, and my son is giggling that infectious giggle of his while his daddy shoves the swing so high that it sends my heart into my throat... Every time I find myself there, in one of those rare moments of earthly bliss, my thoughts turn to the hole that she left behind. The moment isn't complete. Those moments will never be complete. The best I can do is appreciate them for what they are - near-perfect moments in this less-than-perfect world, where bad things happen and mothers' hearts are broken beyond repair.

Yet, with God's perfect grace and His ever-comforting peace, we have been able to settle into this new reality with grateful hearts. We are grateful for the time we had with her and the many blessings she left behind, not the least of which is a new-found appreciation for the blessings that we already had. In those near-perfect moments that draw into sharp focus just how imperfect our world feels now that she is gone, I can look at my beautiful son and my incredible husband and know that what I do have is enough. What I do have is a God who loves me, who has not forsaken me, who has made Himself known to me in profound new ways, and who is cradling my sweet girl in His loving arms. The perspective that I am left with in the aftermath of this earth-shattering loss is one of simple gratitude and contentment. Losing her left our family incomplete, and that hole will not be filled until we meet again, but losing her also brought our family to an entirely new level of closeness and appreciation for one another. Through her life and death, Gracie left us loving more deeply, living in gratitude, and treasuring each other. Even when the moments feel incomplete and missing her feels so unfair, the lessons she left with me are there to buoy me over the swell. I cannot think of her or miss her without simultaneously being reminded of these lessons - of just how blessed I am, of just how much I have, of what really matters in this world, and of how true He is to His promises.

I suppose it isn't fair to say that we have nothing left of Gracie but the photos and the mementos. These blessings that she left behind are her legacy to our family - a lasting impression that will change the way we live and love. Her siblings will grow up in a different home because she lived. Her parents will love each other with a deep devotion tried by fire because she lived. Her family is re-committing itself to Christ because she lived. There are those who would question just how significant a 24-week "fetus", a life that never made it outside the womb, could possibly be. To those doubters I'd say "Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Grace Adalyn Bonner".

One-Month Reflections

Yesterday marked one month since Gracie's birthday. 

In many ways we have returned to our normal routine. We're both back to work, Eli is back at daycare, we're crying less and smiling more, I'm cooking dinners (on occasion)... though the house is still kind of a wreck. Cleanliness aside, the pieces of our little world here are falling back into place. The picture looks a little different now, but it's still functional and beautiful and gratitude-inspiring.

I still have an amazing, adorable, mischievous, maddening, endlessly lovable little boy - I just appreciate him more. My patience still wears thin, but I have a new mantra: "At least he's here, and healthy enough to be driving me insane." I am more present, never taking a moment for granted (or at least trying my best not to). Our snuggles last longer. I sit and simply watch him every chance I get. When he asks for a hug at an inopportune moment, he gets one - a big one. And when I watch him grab Gracie's picture before bed time, kiss her, and press her to his cheek for a "huggie", my heart soars with a love I never knew existed.

I still have a strong, loving, compassionate, God-fearing husband, who also happens to be an incredible father - I just love him more deeply. In these past two months we've been to the depths together. We've held each other, wept together, prayed together, made impossible decisions together, shared inappropriate laughter together, found reasons to smile together, drowned our sorrows in wine together, picked up the slack for one another, reassured one another... and we buried our baby girl together, side by side. Together. We've never been more together. I fell in love with him fourteen years ago, when we were just kids. I fell in love with him all over again when I watched him become a father. When I watched him become Gracie's father... When I watched him cry over her, bathe her tiny body, whisper to her, ensure her comfort and security through every step of her journey from my womb to her final resting place, and then finally watched him climb down in the dirt in his best suit to carefully lay her casket to rest... there are no words. I just can't tell you what that felt like, or how my love for him changed, or how I see him now, or how unbreakable our bond has become.

We still have the most supportive and caring group of friends and family anyone could ever ask for - we just learned that they are even more supportive and caring and generous and loving and compassionate and WONDERFUL than we ever knew. The meals, cards, flowers, financial donations, logistical help, visits, phone calls, messages... so many have gone so far above and beyond for us. Even complete strangers have come out of the woodwork to offer their help in various ways. My faith in humanity has been restored, but more importantly, my faith in God and His provision - through those who allow Him to use them - has been strengthened and deepened. He never ceases to amaze me.

There is still an exciting career unfolding in front of me - I'm just going to be a whole lot better at it. I now know a new kind of suffering, a new depth of faith, a new realm of empathy, and a loss so painful I still can't breathe sometimes. Despite the fact that I had to go through something I'd never wish on my worst enemy in order to arrive at this place, I know that it's going to make me a better doctor.

Most importantly, we still have two children - one just isn't here with us. One is in Heaven (or "Kevin", as Eli so innocently insists). One never had her photo taken flying down a slide or smashing birthday cake in her face. One was never nursed to sleep, never napped on her Daddy's chest, never kept her Mommy up all night. One left a hole behind. There is an Eli-shaped space in my heart that grows larger and yet still fills to overflowing each and every day. There is a Gracie-shaped space in my heart that she isn't here to fill, and that can only be filled by the reassurance of God's promises of comfort and healing. In all honesty, it hasn't been filled yet. Parts of that wound are still open, and though I try to protect them, it doesn't take much pressure to make them bleed. In one month's time I have come farther than I ever could have dreamed - God has carried me with a strength that I never knew existed, and instilled in me a grace that defies human capacity - yet I know that I am far from healed. That's ok, though. In my softened and malleable state, He is molding me. He is molding our entire family into something new. In many ways we are the same and have returned to a certain comfortable place, but in so many ways we are stretching and growing and changing shape, and I wouldn't have it any other way. That Grace-shaped hole in our family will never be filled, but the wounds in our hearts will heal and the work He is doing in us will be her legacy.

"For it is by grace you have been saved through faith--and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God." -Ephesians 2:8

Normalcy Guilt

It has been almost two weeks now, and it doesn't feel so fresh anymore. I think that's probably a good thing, but it feels sad in some ways. Gracie's time with us was so short, and though we did our best to savor it and make the most of it, it was truly "gone in the blink of an eye". With each passing day we grow further from that brief moment in time. Just as an object grows smaller in the rear view as you drive away, I'm watching our small droplet of time with her shrink and disappear into the sea of time through which our life proceeds. Whether we like it or not, each day takes us further from her day. We met her and lost her in the same moment, sometime during the 60 seconds that we called "1:20am" on June 18th, but the 16 hours that we spent physically holding her felt like our "lifetime" with her. All that we had hoped for when we got that positive pregnancy test back in February - an entire lifetime of loving another child - had to be squeezed into those few hours. That was our day. The only day we were ever able to spend together as a family, with her physical form out here in our world to hold. 16 hours seems like a long time when you're in the midst of it, but in retrospect, that 16-hour footprint shrinks toward just one dot on the larger timeline of our lives. That is sad, but there's no stopping it. Time marches on. All we can do is cling to the memories.

At the same time, I don't want to "cling" to an unhealthy degree. I want to cling to her memory, frequently revisit her photos and keepsakes, talk about her often in our home, and try to hang on to as many of the physical sensations of her as I can while I can still recall them. I guess it's the emotions that are the dangerous part. We have to find a way to experience them, flow through them and let them pass, without allowing them to take hold of us. I mostly feel sad - I rarely (if ever) feel angry or frustrated - and I'm ok with feeling sad. Since joining this unfortunate "club" of mothers who have lost babies and being a part of several online support groups, I have seen the anger and the anxiety and the depression really take hold of people. I have no way of knowing whether that will eventually become a "stage" of my grieving process that I will have to work through, but for now, I am so grateful that those kinds of toxic emotions have not been a problem for me. Sadness, I can handle. Sadness, I think, is a healthy and normal reaction to this situation and a relatively benign emotion so long as you're able to simply recognize it in the moment, allow yourself to feel it (take a moment to actively think about her, about what it is that's making me feel sad, allow a few [or more] tears to fall if need be) and then let it go (allow my mind to move on to something else).

It can be difficult to "let it go" sometimes. Sometimes you just sort of want to be sad, and I do allow myself those times. But sometimes I also try to practice releasing the sadness by allowing something else to distract me. What makes "letting go" difficult is that it is somewhat guilt-inducing. I feel like I should be sad, I should be missing her, and I shouldn't be out having fun and laughing and loving life. I know that's silly, but the fact that it's silly doesn't make me feel any differently about it. I just have to consciously avoid those guilty feelings when they arise. I know that Gracie doesn't want me to wallow in deep depression, nor does God. Nor do I have the luxury (if you can call it that!) of shutting down and devoting my entire existence to grieving for any length of time - my son needs me, I have a husband to love, and quite frankly I don't feel like that's what I want or need right now.

Nonetheless, I find myself feeling guilty about that fact that I've had several "good days" in a row. I have been feeling sort of... normal. I haven't been going out of my way to conjure up maximal distractions or avoid my emotions or refuse to cry. I have cried multiple times. But I have also been able to move through the sad moments and come out relatively unscathed, which is making all the difference. Having a brief cry over some reminder of her hasn't been leaving my mood depressed for any length of time afterward. My mind hasn't been dwelling as much. I still think about her often, but I'm able to think a little thought of her without my mind getting tangled up in a thicket of emotion, and before I know it I'm on to the next thought. I'm able to smile at each remembrance of her, even if its through a haze of tears. Sometimes I actively tell myself to smile, because smiling just makes me feel better and her life is a happy thing to remember, but sometimes I smile spontaneously. It has felt like a huge leap forward in my healing process, though I suspect that it's just another peak on this wild roller coaster and will likely be followed by another valley. Such is the process of grieving, and that's ok. I'll accept the peaks as they come and try to learn from them so that I'm better able to manage the next valley when it arrives.

In the meantime, though, it's difficult to let go of this guilt. I feel very resistant to it, because I know that it's irrational and unhealthy, and so I'm not doing a very good job of allowing it to flow through me. I think I'm hung up on it because I'm so resistant to it. I need to find a way to let myself feel it without allowing it to take root in my mind. I can see that this guilt is dangerous for me - if it does take root in my mind, it will lead to all sorts of other unhealthy thoughts. What kind of mother am I if I'm already feeling "ok"? How could I really have loved her as much as I said I did if I'm already having "good days"? Am I already forgetting? ...You can see how this line of questioning would be destructive to my healing. Maybe I need to come up with some sort of positive self-talk, a "mantra" to repeat to myself when the guilt rises up. Something that affirms my love for her and also my need to heal. I'll work on that. Feel free to leave comments below if you have any helpful suggestions!

In the meantime, we've been keeping busy and enjoying our family time!

My goal now is to start back to school a week from today. It adds up to roughly 3 weeks off, which isn't a lot given the circumstances, but I'm feeling strongly that getting back into a "normal" routine and occupying my mind will be helpful. The way my schedule works I either need to start back next week or wait another 4 weeks, and I don't think that taking another entire month off at this point would be beneficial or necessary. I am certainly recovered from a physical standpoint - I never really skipped a beat in that regard, with the exception of engorgement making for a rough first week! From an emotional standpoint, there's no "riding it out" or waiting until the grief is gone... that will take years, and while the acute sadness will lessen with time, I'll never stop missing her. I will be on an emergency medicine rotation when I return, which means that I'll be working shift work and having more random mornings and days off with Eli, so I think that it will be a nice balance of healing time at work and healing time at home with my son.

I just need to find a way to make time for personal grieving, in whatever form that takes once I'm back into the swing of things with school. Maybe it will be "having a good cry" in the shower, spending time working on Gracie-related projects (I have a few in mind, including a shadow box, a photo book, painting her hand and footprint impressions and Christmas ornament, etc), flipping through her sonogram photo album every couple of days... whatever I need to do to feel like I'm making special time to remember her amidst the business of daily living around here. Hopefully that will help to keep the guilty feelings at bay, and also serve to keep her memory fresh in a positive way. That's really the crux of all this... finding ways to remember her and love her and honor her without becoming fixated or falling victim to those toxic emotions that can make "remembering her" a negative thing.