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".
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