Our Birth Story

Two and a half years ago, I wrote a post about Eli's birth. I called it "Our (Horrific) Birth Story". It was a rough birthing experience, for sure, but one would reasonably assume that in comparison to a stillbirth, "horrific" might be an overstatement. After all, two and a half years ago I came home with a healthy, happy baby boy. On June 18th, 2014, I came home empty-handed.

The truth is, though, that Gracie's birth was as perfect as it possibly could have been. The trauma of Eli's birth is still somewhat "horrific" in comparison to the peaceful, gentle way in which my daughter came into the world. Though we reached the utter depths of heartbreak that day, Gracie's birth into Heaven was a beautiful experience that I will treasure for the rest of my days.

It wasn't even an hour after my last post from the hospital that night that Gracie was born. Ben and I had settled in and turned out the lights to get some rest. I had just drifted off to sleep when I suddenly felt my water break and felt something drop into the birth canal, all at once. That sensation was immediately followed by pressure and moderate cramping pain, so I called the nurse in to check things out. Long story short, she was on her way into the world. The physician assistant covering the unit did her best to hold Gracie in place while my OB rushed in for the delivery, but in the meantime, two more contractions delivered her without any conscious assistance from me whatsoever. My doctor didn't even have time to get gloved up before Gracie was born at 1:20am, roughly 7 hours after the start of my induction. My blood pressure behaved throughout the process, with little spikes here and there but no medication requirement. It was truly an "easy delivery".

As soon as the cord was clamped and cut she was in our arms, where she would remain for the next 16 hours. Our nurse confirmed with a gently placed stethoscope that there was no heartbeat, but it was relatively clear from her coloring alone that Gracie had likely passed away during labor. We had not been monitoring her throughout the process, as we knew that she was likely to pass away at some point along the way, and there would obviously be no intervention necessary if that were to occur. I think that hearing her heart stop beating would have been terribly distressing, so I'm thankful that we had no indication of her passing until we were holding her in our arms.

I felt tremendous peace in those first moments with her. I didn't cry, I just took her in. I was simply present in that moment with my husband and our daughter. We kissed her, snuggled her, whispered our love to her, and inspected every last inch of her form. The defects seen on ultrasound were there, surely enough, but her little face was just perfect. She had the most beautifully formed and distinct little nose! She had the tiniest of little baby feet, just the size of the pad of Ben's thumb. Her abnormalities were small and easy to overlook. We just sat and marveled at her. There were stray tears here and there, but heartbreak and sadness were not the overwhelming emotions in those first hours - we felt peaceful, calm, blessed.

We spent 2 1/2 or 3 hours with her alone, just the three of us. That was due in part to that fact that the placenta took nearly two hours to detach, which apparently isn't all that uncommon in a very pre-term deliveries. Our nurse came in every 20 or 30 minutes to check on the progress of the placenta and to bring fresh warm blankets to re-wrap her, in an effort to keep her warm for us. Otherwise we were left alone with our baby to enjoy some quiet time together. The first time I remember crying was when I was left alone with her for a moment - I think Ben had gone to the bathroom or something - and I just cried apologies all over her. I told her how desperately I wanted to keep her, and how sorry I was that our time together had to end this way, and that her sacrifice was so special in that it protected her big brother and her daddy from potentially losing their mommy and wife.

I know that our journey together had to end that day, and I truly believe now in retrospect that it all happened the way it was meant to happen, but I felt such guilt and sadness at having had to instigate this process - the process that took her life. I will always carry some level of guilt. I know that preeclampsia left untreated was just as likely to take her precious life as labor was - she was a fragile flower. The reality that I had to accept was that there was simply no way to change the outcome for Gracie. Whether it happened at 23 weeks and 5 days or at 25 weeks or at 32 weeks or at term, Gracie was never destined for life on this earth, in our arms. Though I wanted to feel like I had control over something in this situation, the reality is that I didn't. There was never anything I could do to keep her with us. I extended her time with us by refusing to end her life prematurely at 19 weeks when we learned of her diagnosis, and I chose to love her and mother her and make the most of our time with her, but that was the extent of my control. I could fool myself into feeling a sense of control by saying that the decision to induce was ultimately up to me, but the decision was made for me, by the disease process happening in my body - I just had to accept the reality of the situation and then do what had to be done. That acceptance did not come easily for either of us. We wept and sobbed over the new reality that we were handed that night, and we talked it over for quite some time with our doctor before we were able to move forward. In many ways it felt like were "making a decision", and at the end of the day - technically speaking - we were, but there was simply no other decision to be made that day. Continuing to try to assign myself some level of "control" in that situation only serves to give credence to the guilt I feel, and I will need to continue to work on letting that go.

The reality is that God was always in control. The preeclampsia was never a surprise to Him. He knew the number of her days before she was conceived. I know that we honored His will for her life by allowing the natural course of our pregnancy to dictate the terms of her life and death. It just hurts. No matter how we lost her, it was always going to be the hardest day of our lives, the deepest heartbreak of our existence.

...............................................................................

In upcoming posts, I will share more about the time we spent with her during those 16 hours, life at home, and our girl's beautiful memorial service.

Our Sweet Gracie Girl

Grace Adalyn Bonner was peacefully born into heaven on June 18th at 1:20am. She weighed 15.6oz and measured 11 inches long. She is perfect and beautiful and so very loved ❤️ Continued prayers are very much appreciated as we spend some time with her and prepare to say goodbye.

The End of the Line

Our journey with our sweet girl has been a beautiful one. It's hard to believe how much she has taught us before even arriving in our arms. As painful as it has been at times, I wouldn't wish it away. I would wish away her triploidy and make her perfectly healthy if I could, but I wouldn't ever wish away her conception or this pregnancy or this experience. I am blessed to know her, to have been her mommy even for a short time. 

Unfortunately, our time with Gracie is growing short. As I type, we are awaiting the start of a pitocin drip to induce labor for preeclampsia. 

Our hearts are heavy and broken. We desperately hoped that it would not end this way. The decision was agonizing and painful, as I knew it would be. It will continue to hurt... I just pray that I'll be able to live with it. We had very strong recommendations from our OB and another high-risk OB. Preeclampsia is just too unpredictable, and too dangerous. We would've had to sign AMA papers to leave this place. I know that it's the right call...It just hurts. It hurts so bad.

I had developed a relatively nasty headache at work today, so I had one of the clinic triage nurses take my blood pressure. She repeated it three times and tried the other arm, but it was undeniably high - 159/109. Upon arrival at the hospital, it was 151/97. It has been up and down ever since, sometimes fine, sometimes high. The one constant has been our little girl, flipping and flopping around in there, a persistent reminder that she is still with us. My God, this hurts. How do I let her go? How is this supposed to work? 

...

Since I began writing I've now had several hours of high-dose pitocin (which, let me assure you, is no joke) and an epidural and am resting comfortably. We've had some time to visit with family, laugh a little and cry a little. I have an incredible nurse who is taking exceptionally good care of me, and my own OB happens to be on all night tonight. All is as well as it can be for the time being. 

We're going to get some rest for now. Goodnight, friends. Please say many extra prayers for us as we set about doing this very hard thing that we just don't know how to do.

What I Wish Everyone Knew

Let me start by saying that most people don't have any reason to know what it's like inside the mind of a parent that is going through something like this. I recognize that, and do my best to always give people the benefit of the doubt. Most people are well-meaning, genuinely concerned and/or just don't know what to say but feel that they need to say something. It's tough, being on the other end of that conversation - not knowing how to react, what to say, or if it's someone you love going through this, not knowing how to help (but desperately wanting to).

I have already learned so much through this experience, and it has generated huge shifts in my perspective. One thing that I'll probably never do again is make the assumption that a pregnant stranger is having a perfectly normal, happy, healthy pregnancy. That's what everyone assumes when they look at me, and it's why they smile and congratulate me, assume that I'd be thrilled to share some of the exciting details (when I'm due, the sex of the baby, if she has any brothers or sisters at home, etc), and make conjectures about my future (how busy I'm going to be, how much life changes with two, how fun little girls are, etc). Generally, it's fine. Most of the time I'm able to smile and nod and go along with it. After all, I'm just answering simple questions. She is a girl. She is due on October 10th. I do have a son at home who is excited about his baby sister. But if these strangers only knew the reality, I know they'd feel awful. I know that the guy on the street the other day who warmly smiled and chuckled in response when I told him it was a girl, and replied "Ohhhh my, try not to spoil her too much - it's hard!" would hate to know that I began to cry as soon as I turned the corner toward the parking garage. I would give just about anything to have the opportunity to spoil her rotten. I know that the OR nurse that was chatting me up about her the other day would feel terrible if she knew just how empty my arms would soon feel, after the entire conversation we had about how full my hands would be with two small children during medical school.

I think I will forever tread more lightly in engaging pregnant strangers in conversations regarding their pregnancies. Even if the baby and mom are healthy, perhaps there are other unfortunate circumstances that make it a less-than-ideal situation, and mom isn't exactly beaming with joy. I'm just realizing how intensely personal these pregnancy-related issues are, and how invasive people's questioning can feel when things aren't going according to plan. Most medical conditions aren't so readily apparent as to attract the attention of strangers, and if they are, most strangers aren't so eager to engage one in conversation about them, yet when it comes to pregnancy everyone wants to chime in. Again, I remind myself that people are just trying to share in my joy and have the best of intentions, but it's still hard.

All that said, if you're not a stranger to the person going through this difficult thing, there are few things that you should keep in mind...

• Odds are, she wants to talk about it. With strangers it's awkward - you don't want to start a 15-minute conversation explaining the details of your situation. But when it comes to the people around you who are aware of what you're going through, it's a completely different ball game. For me, it's a relief to be in the presence of someone who knows, and be able to talk about it if I need to. At the same time, I think that the people around me who know are often afraid to bring it up for fear of upsetting me. Also at the same time, I'm afraid to bring it up too often. I don't want to be that guy. People could do me a great service just by asking how I'm doing with things, and opening the door so that I feel like I can talk about it (and many people do!). If I don't want to talk, I'll give you the short answer, but at least you've given me the opportunity. Let me reassure you, even if I wasn't talking about it or looking sad at the time, you didn't "bring it up" by mentioning it. It's on my mind every moment of every day - you couldn't possibly make me any more aware of it. You aren't going to send me into an emotional fit, you're only going to do me the great favor of giving me an outlet to express some of what's "on my mind" at that moment. I might cry, but that's ok - you didn't do anything wrong. My baby is dying, and I'm just going to cry. Sometimes it feels really good to cry.
• Talking about the baby is wonderful. Along the same lines as the previous bullet point, you're not upsetting me by mentioning my baby or saying her name. Quite the contrary, in fact, you are making my heart smile (even if my stupid eyes are crying). When a woman makes the choice to continue a pregnancy like this, you can know one thing for certain - she values this baby tremendously. She doesn't want to forget that there's a baby in there or pretend that she's not pregnant or avoid the subject. Like any other expectant mother, she loves her baby. Unlike other expectant mothers, though, she isn't sure that other people value her baby. In fact, many people make it relatively clear to her that they don't, based on their comments and confusion regarding the "point" of this "futile" endeavor. Asking about her baby, if she's feeling movement, if there are any updates on the baby's health, how older siblings are interacting with him/her... these are all life-affirming questions and give the mother a sense of normalcy in an otherwise completely foreign situation. And it's not that any of these questions are "fake" or not truly meaningful - you're asking this mother to share aspects of her experience of her baby, in a situation where the pregnancy is likely the only experience she'll ever have of her baby. It's like asking the mother of a 5-month-old whether he/she has rolled over yet. You're taking an interest, and showing this mother that you understand that her baby is real, alive, valuable and important. Oh, and if the baby has a name, don't hesitate to use it! They named him or her for a reason ;-)
• Just don't bring up termination. Don't. A family that has recently received this kind of news is in one of three places. 1) They have decided to terminate. In this case, odds are they'll mention it on their own as they explain the situation and where it's headed. If they don't, it's likely that that's because they don't want to share that information (and so they don't want you to ask). 2) They have decided not to terminate. In this case, odds are that your bringing it up will cut like a hot knife and inspire some seriously negative emotions. To someone who is choosing to continue the pregnancy, that question feels an awful lot like a judgement regarding the value (or lack thereof) that you place on their child's life, and that is not the sentiment you want to convey to the grief-stricken parent of a dying child. Take it from me. 3) They haven't decided. Your bringing it up may feel to them like an affirmation that that's what should happen, what is expected, or what you would do. Do you really want to be a part of their decision-making process? They are also probably experiencing tremendous inner turmoil over the decision, and are therefore a lot less likely to want to talk about it unless you are an extremely close friend or family member. Bottom line: Just don't go there. If they bring it up, great. You'll have your answer.
• Don't talk about miracles or "modern medicine". Everyone wants to hope. It's only natural. And people assume that the possibility of a miracle would be reassuring to a parent in this situation. Even better, if you know someone who knows someone whose baby did ok in a sort of similar situation, you'd think that would be reassuring. But when the child's basic composition is terminally flawed throughout every cell of the body, as Grace's is, there is no "cure" or "fix". Even if we were able to surgically fix every structural defect she has, it wouldn't fix the fact that her entire being is dysfunctional at the cellular level. The fact that a handful of children out of 100 with this condition survive to live birth is somewhat reassuring to me - maybe Gracie will get there - but the fact that one triploid child in the history of the medical literature lived to 10 months old is not. I bet those 10 months were pretty ugly, and it happened once. There are a few others who lived to be a few weeks or months old, but I'm talking literally a handful of kids EVER. And to be honest, I'm not sure that's what I want for my girl. I don't want her to live in the NICU for a few weeks with a bunch of lines and tubes and machines sustaining her, only to pass away in a plastic box. If she is going to live for any period of time out here in the world, I want it to be in the arms of the people who love her, for however long she is able to survive. Our miracle would be a live birth, followed by a peaceful passing in our arms. Or, if it ends up being a stillbirth, our miracle would be a peaceful and smooth delivery that allows us ample time to bond with her. Some who don't quite grasp the definitive nature of this diagnosis might think us callous or unfaithful for thinking this way, but believe me - we're more than willing to accept a true miracle. If God wants to make this all magically go away, I am ALL for it. But if that's His will, He won't need lines and tubes and machines to do it. In the meantime, we are willing to accept that this fate that we're preparing for is His will, and willing to accept that our role in all of this is to love her, care for her, protect her, treat her with respect and dignity, and make the tough choices that parents sometimes have to make for their children. That is what God has called us to.

Again, so much of this comes from the right place. I don't feel that anyone has been intentionally insensitive or hurtful to me throughout this process, and I certainly don't feel angry with anyone who cares about us and has perhaps said the "wrong" thing at some point. No one knows how to address a situation like this - it's so unfamiliar, and it's impossible to know how your questions or comments may be perceived. Just know that no matter what you say or do, if it comes from a place of genuine concern, that will come across. Saying something is always better than saying nothing, which only serves to isolate that grieving person further. When all else fails and you're struggling, remember that it's ok to ask. None of us (including the bereaved parents) know what the hell we're doing in this scenario, so no one is going to hold it against you if you just need to come out and ask "Is it ok to ask a question about your baby?" or "Do you feel up to talking about the situation?" Your sensitivity will be much appreciated, believe me.

Four Weeks

It has been four weeks since we we discovered that our baby is a little girl. We immediately began imagining our lives with "one of each", a little sister for Eli, just what we were hoping for. Within the hour, though, those dreams were shattered by the news of her multiple abnormalities, likely heralding a devastating diagnosis. By the end of the day we had been assured that this was a baby that would not make it - she probably had Trisomy 18 - and that if she somehow survived to term, she wouldn't live more than a few days. Within 3 days, we had a definitive diagnosis - worse than they had thought: Triploidy - carrying even narrower odds of survival to live birth.

Four weeks.

Each Friday feels like an ugly anniversary - another week gone by since our pregnancy took this dramatic turn. I try not to ruminate on it every Friday, and I'm generally pretty good at distracting myself, but today was tough. I'm beginning to feel like, as our planning and arranging and "doing" for her winds down, I'm getting worse at coping. Or maybe it's just that as my pregnancy progresses and I've spent more and more time bonding with her, the reality is growing more difficult to bear.

At 19 weeks when we first learned of Gracie's diagnosis, I hadn't really felt her move yet. I'd had such a busy semester that it was easy for me to sometimes forget that I was pregnant from time to time! And as I have described here before, I hadn't really "bonded" to her in a meaningful way. Now, at 23 weeks, I feel her move throughout every day. She is constantly reminding me of her presence. I have also gotten dramatically more uncomfortable, with random belly pains, Braxton-Hicks contractions, swollen legs, and that "crowded" feeling in my abdomen that I don't remember feeling with Eli until at least 35 weeks - more persistent reminders that I am, indeed, pregnant. Then there's the "obviousness" of my condition - my belly is only getting bigger - which brings on the comments from strangers with increasing frequency. She is always on my mind, which means that the reality of our situation is frequently bringing itself to the forefront of my thoughts.

"Our situation" in and of itself has also bonded me more strongly to her. I guess it's my protective instinct (which admittedly didn't kick in right away), but knowing that she is sick makes me feel that much more loving and compassionate and sympathetic toward her, much like you feel when your toddler has a fever and is feeling yucky. You want to snuggle them, care for them, "mother" them. I suspect that her diagnosis has made me even more attached, even more desperate to hold her and kiss her and make it all ok.

I'm so glad that I have come to this place of acceptance - at least an acceptance of her, which I didn't initially feel. But along with that acceptance has come an ever-growing bond to her and an exponentially inflating love, which is leading me exactly to where I initially didn't want to go. I didn't want to allow myself to really bond with her or to really love her. My own self-preservation instinct was working to protect me, I suppose. It didn't take long for my mothering instinct to win out over self-preservation, but now that it most decidedly has, I am left broken wide open, raw and vulnerable. We all are, as mothers, whether our children are in the womb or out in the world.

Four weeks in, I feel a deep ache growing inside of me. It's a kind of desperation. It's all becoming more real to me, as the reality becomes unavoidable and settles into my consciousness, and I can feel my "peacefulness" slowly being replaced by an unsettled feeling. I thought I had reached a certain level of comfort with all of this, but I'm growing less "comfortable" by the day. It's starting to hurt. A lot. It has always hurt, but I can feel the pain changing. Something big is coming. I think that maybe I'm about to go through a turning point in this grieving process - probably something necessary, but at the same time terrifying. At first I thought that these "bad feelings" I've been having were related to Gracie's condition, and that I was about to lose her (I've been checking for her heart beat with the doppler somewhat compulsively these past few days). But I just have this sense that she isn't going anywhere just yet. I'm beginning to believe that she's going to surprise us all. And it's not because I've necessarily been hoping for that - like I've said, I vacillate between different outcomes and what I think is most desirable or best for all involved. I just have the sense that she's sticking around. I could be completely wrong, but that's how I feel. I really think that all of this discomfort is related to my grieving process and not any kind of "sign" of impending doom.

For many reasons, I'm afraid. But I'm also ok with experiencing this process. I know that the only way to make it to the other side is to go through it - there's no going over, under, or around it. I also know that grieving for her is a big part of loving her, by virtue of the life that God has chosen for her. He has chosen to limit her time here with us, so being her mother means experiencing this painful process of simultaneously getting to know her, growing to love her deeply, and letting her go. That isn't supposed to happen all at once, but it's what we will have to do, and it's all we'll have. I've said it before, but it's an important reality of which I must often remind myself: This pregnancy, and maybe a few precious moments or hours after birth, are all we'll ever have. If I hid myself from it all, feared it, refused to embrace it and commit myself to experiencing her life in whatever ways I'm able, I would be missing out on the only opportunity I will ever have to be her mother. Just carrying her isn't enough, and if I settled for just giving her a warm place to live until she passed away, I know that I would come out of this experience with tremendous regret and a feeling of emptiness.

Four weeks in, I find myself on the cusp of... something. I'm not sure what. I just know that whatever is to come, it's all integral to the experience of being this sweet baby girl's mama, a gift that has changed my life and a blessing that I never would have understood until I experienced it. I really can't explain, from a practical standpoint, how I've come to feel this way about a child that I've never gotten to meet, but I couldn't possibly feel more sure that she is worth every ounce of pain.

Grieving an Idea

May 16th was one of the worst days of my life. The ensuing weekend wasn't much better. While the grief has let up somewhat as the weeks have passed, we find ourselves in a constant state of mourning. It ebbs and flows, waxes and wanes. Some days are worse than others. Sometimes the reality really slaps me in the face when I least expect it, just when I think I'm having a "good day". Sometimes it's easy to talk about. Sometimes it makes me cry just thinking about it, much less holding a conversation about it. Overall, though, I'd say we're moving toward a "recovery" of sorts - from a more grief-stricken state to a more peaceful one.

The problem is that it isn't over. We haven't reached a point of closure. The physical loss of our daughter is still impending, looming somewhere in the uncertain future. I'm beginning to wonder, though, which will ultimately feel worse - May 16th, or the day our Gracie girl grows her angel wings.

In the past few weeks I have learned that different people grieve in vastly different ways, and that this kind of a loss and its impact on a person's life depend on a seemingly endless variety of factors. What I believe about our situation, having read about so many different variations on infant loss and stillbirth, is that we are at a distinct advantage (if there is any "advantage" to be had in a situation like this) by virtue of the knowledge that we have. We've been given a warning. We know what is to come. Not only will we not be blindsided by this sudden and most tragic of losses - we will have had time to prepare ourselves emotionally and spiritually, to physically make preparations for her arrival and her passing, to contemplate ways to make it special and ways to remember her, to handle the logistics of a funeral and burial ahead of time. We have been able to ensure that we're making the memories we want to make while we still have her with us, like getting a 3D/4D sonogram, recording her heart beat, and having maternity photos taken. As difficult as this knowledge is to bear at times, these are all tremendous gifts. I am forever grateful for each day I have with her, and for the fact that I have been warned not to take any of them for granted.

What hurt so badly about May 16th was losing the idea of her. We didn't physically lose our daughter that day, but we lost her in every other sense imaginable. We lost the idea of Eli's little sibling. We lost our "family of four". We lost Saturday morning snuggles buried under not one, but two babies. I lost the breastfeeding relationship that I was looking forward to. We lost the nursery that we had planned to decorate in yellows and grays. I lost the image of my husband, toddler and newborn cheering in the crowd on my graduation day. All of the things that we had imagined, the plans we had made, the logistics we had thought through so carefully, all disappeared that day. All that is left now is our baby girl herself, completely robbed of the potential that her life once held. No less loved, no less real, no less alive... just robbed blind of all that she deserved, and all that we were so excited to give her in this earthy life that we had planned.

Having all of that stripped away has really changed the way I relate to her, but not in a negative way. All that is left is her - her physical body and her perfect little soul. I'm no longer enthralled with any ideas of what life will be like, what she will bring to our world, how cute Eli will be with her... I just love her for her. It's not that I don't think I loved Eli for Eli while I was carrying him, but having been pregnant twice now, I know full well where a lot of the excitement and anticipation comes from. So much of the joy of pregnancy is found in looking forward to the future. After all, the end-goal of pregnancy isn't just being pregnant, it's bringing a new life into the world, adding to your family, creating a new little person to love.With Gracie, I don't really have any of that anymore - at least not in the traditional sense. There are no other distractions, no future to get excited about... there is only her, in this moment, and maybe not in the next.

Of course I still think about that stolen future, and I grieve for it because I have already lost it. I often wonder if having had the opportunity to grieve and begin to recover from that loss will help to ease the physical loss when it happens. By the time she passes, we will no longer be so heavily mourning the loss of that future. We will be that much closer to acceptance of what cannot be, and acceptance of the fact that her life, however unfairly shortened, was meant for a different purpose than we had planned. That can only help, right? I follow the blog of a friend-of-a-friend who recently (about a month ago) lost her son in utero to Trisomy 18, another severe chromosomal abnormality, and she seemed to confirm that this was true for her. She still feels that the day they learned of his diagnosis proved to be much harder than the day that he was born into heaven.

I take some comfort in the idea that this may also prove to be true for us, and that maybe as a result, we will be able to find a special brand of joy and peace in welcoming Gracie when the time comes. I hope that we will be well-prepared to welcome her with tremendous love and appreciation for who she is, just as she is, whether or not her heart is beating, whether or not she is born with any potential for an earthly life of any duration. I hope that experiencing some of this grief in advance will allow us to be more present, clear-headed, and able to make memories with her.

Before I go, I'd also like to share this beautiful custom creation that arrived today - Gracie's "birthday" present. I have mentioned previously that we were designing a necklace for her, and it turned out exactly as I had envisioned it. It was created by an Etsy shop owner in Canada, actually, who was incredibly generous to us and expedited the process so that we could have it on-hand as soon as possible, given the uncertainty of our circumstances. We want to bury Gracie with a piece of us - something special that will reinforce the idea of the four of us as a family. I know that she will never understand or appreciate the sentiment behind it, but it means something to us to leave her with this "reminder" of our love, of how badly we wanted her, of how sorely she will be missed.

I haven't seen her yet, but I'm reasonably certain that she is, in fact, "too beautiful for earth" ;-)

Prayers please.

Sitting in the car in the funeral home parking lot. Waiting til the last second to go in - don't wanna be sitting and waiting around in there for our appointment time. Trying to see this in a positive light... Our only chance to plan a special celebration for our girl. But this is a little too real. Prayers please.