September 18th

It's September 18th. I should be counting down the days. We would have been less than a month from meeting our beautiful baby girl! We would have been finishing up her nursery, setting up the baby paraphernalia all over the house, and washing her tiny clothes for their first wear. We would have been preparing Eli for the transition to big brother, reading illustrative stories and practicing with baby dolls.

Instead, it's the 3-month anniversary of Gracie's passing. Instead, we read Eli books about Heaven and where his baby sister is now. Instead of gently kissing her through my ready-to-pop belly, he kisses a framed photo of her before bedtime. 

Sometimes I just feel robbed. Never before have I gained so much and lost so much at the same time. 

Where I Find Myself

It has been difficult to blog since returning to school. I'm busy, I'm distracted, and I have less and less free time. I'm actually on a lighter rotation right now, but I'm taking my board exam at the end of the month so I can rarely justify writing when I know that I should be studying. Or working out, for that matter. Turns out it's much harder to lose baby weight when you aren't breastfeeding your new baby :-/ I am also preparing to submit my residency application early next week, which is terribly complicated and nerve-wracking.

Gracie is still on my mind every day, of course. I miss her. All sorts of silly things remind me of her. On nearly a daily basis Eli randomly starts talking about her, seemingly out of nowhere. Most days I don't cry. Most days the pain is dulled by the passage of time and the many distractions that surround me. That in itself makes me sad, though. Sometimes I wish I cried for her more. When I do cry, it feels good. It feels good to feel something of her again, even if it hurts. When I want to cry, my go-to trigger is to think back to the end of our day with her, when the time came to surrender her tiny body to the funeral director. I still remember every detail. I remember the way we carefully arranged her tiny dress and her necklace, and the difficulty I had in finding a way to wrap her tiny body in the big fluffy blanket that we had bought for her final rest without losing her in the folds. I remember our nurse coming in to let us know that the funeral director had arrived, and the way that he quietly and ceremoniously entered the room and introduced himself, and waited silently for us to say our tearful goodbyes. I remember gently resting her in my husband's arms and watching as he cried over her, whispered to her, kissed her, and let her go. I can still see the funeral director in his black suit turning and walking away with our girl - it's like I have a video saved in my mind that I can call up on-demand. That moment in time truly defined the term "heartbroken", and reflecting back upon it will always break my heart all over again, every time.

I'm starting to stumble upon some strange emotions that I've been left with in the wake of this experience. Many of them are illogical (as emotions often are), but that doesn't make them any less real or powerful. For one thing, I'm left with a sense of failure. There isn't anything I could have done to prevent the chromosomal anomaly that sealed her fate, yet it feels as though my body failed her. When I was pregnant with my son, I had this sense of pride and accomplishment in knowing that my womb was the safe, warm, nurturing environment that was his home for all those months. As long as he wasn't strong enough to survive out in the world, I kept him safe and warm - allowed him to grow into the beautiful boy that he was becoming. While I was pregnant with Gracie I did feel that way - maybe even more so than with Eli. Because I knew that she couldn't ever survive in the outside world, my body felt that much more important and strong. Living within my body was the only way she would ever live - it was her life support. But I lived with the lingering fear that she was in pain. I couldn't know for sure, but I feared that my womb was not the warm, safe, comfortable place that I hoped it was. Then, when I developed preeclampsia, my body quite literally failed her. It couldn't sustain both her life and mine much longer. I was forced to evict her from her home, and remove the life support that had been standing between her and certain death for nearly 24 weeks. As you may recall, this was my greatest fear - being forced to induce. I feared that I would carry guilt. Yet it isn't guilt that I carry - I know that I didn't have a choice and that there is nothing I could have done to change any of it, from her diagnosis to my induction. I just feel inadequate. If it weren't for my having had a healthy pregnancy that did sustain and protect a life for 40 weeks, I would probably be having a really hard time with the idea of ever bearing a child again.

One emotion that I do not seem to carry is regret, and for that I am so very grateful. I have my husband to thank for that, in large part. When we first learned of Gracie's diagnosis and I began to look into what things we might want to prepare in advance, I quickly developed a laundry list of ideas and to-do's. Ben struggled with all of that. All I wanted to do in our free time was talk about those things, and all he wanted was not to talk about them. In that phase of things, I wanted to prepare and plan and do everything that we could. But when she arrived and things started happening, I began to shrink away. I didn't that I could handle doing things myself. It was Ben who made sure that he did every single thing he could do for her between her birth and her burial - he shrunk from nothing. He bathed her. He did her handprints and footprints. He insisted on going to the funeral home to check on her one last time before her casket was sealed and encouraged me to go too (and I will never be able to thank him enough for having had the opportunity to snuggle my girl one last time, even though I didn't think that I wanted to). He was brave enough to commit to writing and reading a eulogy at her funeral (a task that I, once again, didn't think I could handle, but which turned out to be incredibly powerful and fulfilling). He climbed down into the ground in his suit and tie and physically laid her to rest with his own hands. Together, we ensured that we did everything we could think of to prepare for her, to maximize our time with her, and to honor her.

I admit that there are little things that I wish I had done differently. I wish I had gotten up out of bed to help Ben bathe her, or at least stood nearby and watched. I have photos of it, but I was just sitting in bed across the room while it was happening. I also wish that I had held her more. We had many visitors - all of whom I am so appreciative of and will never forget - and while they were there I didn't really feel a sense of urgency about holding her. I knew that we would have our alone time later (and had already had some alone time, obviously), and I wanted everyone else to experience her. But I suppose this particular "regret" is inevitable. No matter how much I held her, it couldn't have been enough. Last but not least, I wish that I had saved the first hospital blanket that she was wrapped in. I have her beautiful crocheted blanket with her name on it, which she was wrapped in for most of the day. Strange as this may sound, I love that it still contains evidence of her (traces of dried blood for areas where her skin had begun to break down). It is strangely comforting. But that also makes it a sacred piece of her - I am terrified of ever doing anything with it that might damage it in any way. I just wish I had another blanket that held her, that I could use pieces of for different memorial ideas I've seen since losing her. It's not a huge deal, but it's something I wish I'd done.

As time wears on and our experience drifts further into the past and the pain becomes less intense, it is getting easier. The loss never changes - it never gets less awful. The reality is that we buried our child. That never goes away. But it is getting easier to live with that reality, as the pain dulls and the reality becomes a part of me. You sort of internalize it as you talk about it and grieve over it, until it is just another thread in the fabric of your being. Initially it's more of a knife in your soul - an acute insult that sends you into a psychological tailspin and you nearly bleed out from the damage. The grieving process, for me at least, has been a process of accepting it all as a part of my life. I think you just can't heal that stab wound until you accept it. It continues to bleed unless you're willing to let it scar down and heal. Letting it heal, though, requires that you release your anger and bitterness, accept that there isn't a good answer to any of your questions, and just let it be. It happened, it was real, and it will always be a part of you. In the wake of such a tragedy, your options are simple: Refuse to accept it and live with the anger and bitterness, which will ultimately eat away at your soul, or Accept it and use your energy for more positive endeavors like healing and honoring your child. It's not that it's a simple choice that you make in a single instant and it magically becomes your reality - it's a direction that your grief evolves toward, and you have to choose which direction you will allow that grief to carry you. It looks different ways for different people, and it isn't always a straight and narrow path - it often veers off course. Sometimes it's hard work, forcing your thoughts in a particular direction.

But when my thoughts become negative and I find myself asking "why" and other such nonsense, I remind myself that those thoughts don't honor my sweet Gracie and the legacy she left behind. She taught us a new kind of love and a new level of gratitude. She didn't come into our lives to show us just how harsh and unfair this cruel world can be. Quite the contrary, she was a tangible representation of beauty in tragedy. That may sound like a corny cliche that I use to make myself feel better about my loss, but I assure you - in my life, that lesson is as real as she was. It affects my perspective every day. It was a revelation for me, and I haven't looked at life the same way since. I didn't really understand or believe that I could be blessed through the loss of my own child, or feel grateful at the end of that day, or go on to love and trust my God so much more fiercely than before. It has left me feeling more free and hopeful than ever before in my life. I don't have to fear... well... anything. Anyone who is even peripherally aware of the Bible has heard verses about "not fearing", but none of that ever penetrated my heart and permeated my life like this until Gracie. She was my "sign" that we all ask God for - my "proof" that He means what He says. And He doesn't say that if we follow Him we will live a life of ease, protected from the evils of the world - He says that if we follow Him, we will never face any of it alone. I will forever be grateful that I can live without fear now - knowing that no matter what this fallen world has in store for my life, God will be right there not only to carry me through it, but to bless me through it. Nothing will ever be the same for me thanks to my tiny baby girl, who never even breathed a breath on this Earth.

Photo courtesy of Jamie Roberts, Roberts Photographers

Two-Month Reflections

I wish that I had something more profound to say. Time marches on, and so life continues to happen, and we continue to put one foot in front of the other.

It has been just over two months now since we lost our baby girl. I suppose that time has been a healing force, and it has also carried me forward to a more distant vantage point. I can look back over the past several months and take in more of the landscape at once. At first, things were very compartmentalized. I think that's how it has to be... you have to deal with one hurt at a time, one task at a time. The view from here is different, though. I can see it all, from start to finish.

I can see that I was right about one thing for sure - that initially finding out about Gracie's condition was far worse than dealing with the physical loss, when it happened. By the time she was born, we'd had time to grieve over all that we were losing. We weren't finished, by any means, but so much of the emotion had already been processed. Much of the shock and devastation had been worn away. We had already said goodbye to the life we had imagined for her and for our family. We knew what was to come, and had made arrangements to make the very most of every moment we would have with her. Being able to leave the cemetery with no regrets made our healing process that much simpler, or at least less complex.

When Gracie was born, she was already gone. The little girl that we loved had already gone home to be with Jesus. Because we are human beings and our experience is limited to the physical boundaries of this Earth for now, we wanted to hang on to her physical being. We held her and kissed her and spoke to her, knowing full well that she was no longer there. Letting go of her physical body was the hardest part of it all. Knowing that she was gone wasn't all that bad, somehow. When she was born still, I didn't burst into tears. I didn't sit around that day crying because my baby wasn't alive. I didn't truly lose it until it came time to let go of her physical body, and to this day, that's the part that hurts the most. I just want to hold her one more time, kiss her one more time. I don't even need her to be alive, as strange as that may sound - I just need her to be here, just for a moment, just to hold her body again, or to feel her wiggle in my belly again. I'm ok with the idea that she has passed away, that she never lived outside my womb, and that she has gone to be with God. I just want to feel the weight of her in my arms again, even if only briefly. I just want to feel something, physically. Some evidence of her. I often find myself resting my hand over my tattoo of her handprint, or running my finger along the scalloped edge of her angel wing charm on my necklace, just to have something to physically touch and feel.

This more distant vantage point has also brought me to a deeper understanding of God's love for me in all of this. The inner happenings of the soul are difficult - if not impossible - to put into words, but so much has changed. I know that it is not "of myself" that all of these changes have taken place. I didn't somehow muster up some sort of super human strength to be able to deal with all of this and come out the other end feeling grateful. God has simply granted me a new spirit and a new perspective. That's the only explanation I can come up with.

Before Gracie, my biggest fear in life was losing a child. While I was pregnant with her, I was terrified. I imagined all sorts of scenarios in which something was catastrophically wrong with her. I told myself that I was being crazy (and at the time, I was... I had no real reason to believe that anything was wrong). That "God wouldn't do that to me", as if God is up there conjuring up terrible things to "do to" us. I feared Him, to be honest. I saw Him as this all-powerful being who could, with the snap of his fingers, make my worst nightmares come true. Yet even when one of my worst nightmares did come true, He somehow managed to use the experience to change that perspective of mine, and flip it 180 degrees. Today, I see Him as a loving God who carries us through the horrors that we must endure in this fallen world in which we live. Terrible things happen to people from all walks of life, but not because God is up there designing evil plots to enact in our lives. It is because our world is fallen that these horrors exist - He did not design our world this way. But He is too big and too good to allow these awful crises in our lives to be wasted. There is opportunity for blessing in all things - even in the loss of an innocent baby.

I learned so much through the experience of Gracie. Through her life and death, God proved His love for me, His faithfulness to His promises (even when we face our worst nightmares), and that truly, NOTHING is impossible for Him. There wasn't a single fiber of my being that would have believed that I could survive something like this without coming out the other end deeply despising God. I had imagined such scenarios in my mind before all of this, and I remember thinking that I could never "forgive" God if something like that happened to me. The loss of a child is just inexcusable - how could He allow such a thing to happen? And to happen to ME?!! Surely I would never again be able to trust God if He were to stand by and allow such horror to befall our family.

Yet here I am, singing the purely opposite tune. I feel more sure of God's love than ever, more reassured in the perfect goodness of His will for my life, and more at peace with whatever is to come, because I have seen the way He works. I have seen Him take the worst of circumstances and bring me peace and joy through them. I have seen my own best-laid plans crumble and fail, and watched His plans blossom into something beautiful and incredible that I would have otherwise missed. I have learned that regardless of what it is I think I want, He knows better.

Living in complete surrender to His will, whatever it may be, is so utterly freeing. I cannot claim to have cut ties to every stronghold in my life and given every last fear and worry and desire over to God - I am human, after all. But I feel so much more free, like I have shifted an enormous weight from my shoulders. I have only been able to let go of so much because I have gained such a burst of faith in His will - that it is good and perfect and will ultimately lead me to where I am meant to be, which is ultimately where my truest joy will be found. And really, that's all I want out of this life - I want to find the joy that God has in store for me. I have my ideas about what I think will bring me joy, but He has proven to me time and again that I don't know what I want quite as well as I think I do. Fundamentally believing and accepting that He knows better than I do has been the greatest blessing of this experience, and has brought me an incredible sense of freedom and new found courage. I can tackle whatever is to come, not only because I survived this (which was pretty awful!), but because I know, in the deepest sense, that He is leading me toward my greatest joy.

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.

Gracie's Party

It's hard to believe that it has been a week since we laid our Gracie to rest. "Hard to believe" mostly because my sense of time has become so warped over the past week and a half... I don't know whether I feel as though it has been a longer or a shorter time. Part of me feels like it was just yesterday that I was still pregnant with my wiggly little girl, but part of me feels like I've been missing her for decades.

As we drove to the cemetery that day, about a 40 minute drive for us, the rain kept threatening. The day before when we had visited the cemetery to sign paperwork, the weather had been picture-perfect, but I suppose I can't blame the sun for not being able to shine that day. As my sister-in-law said, "It's ok, God is just crying with us." Fortunately when it did begin to rain at the cemetery, it only lasted right up until the service began. We all got a little wet, but it stayed dry for the remainder.

I went over to the site to help set up a few things, making sure that the music was set and the photos were displayed nicely. We greeted a few of our guests as they arrived, but not all. I just couldn't start down that road (with the emotional hugs and condolences) before the service even started. As much as I wanted to feel the emotions of the day, I also wanted to be able to stand up with my husband and read what we had written for her. When the time came, Scott, Ben, Eli and I walked back across the lawn to the hearse that held her casket. The flowers were so beautiful - it was the first I'd seen them. Ben picked her up, turned back to the crowd that waited by her final resting place, and we walked together. Ben carried Gracie, and I carried Eli behind them. It was the last thing we'd do together as a family.

The service was lovely. I remember that much of the message surrounded hope and love and remembrance, though I couldn't tell you a whole lot of specifics. I wish I could say more, but I was far too distracted by the casket sitting on the table in front of me, holding my tiny sleeping baby girl, who I'd never hold again on this earth. I also had my hands full with Eli, who was only temporarily content to sit in my lap and listen. My poor little guy... I know he could sense that there was something very foreign going on. So many people he recognized, but so many he didn't. No one was playing with him or talking to him. People were crying. I'm sure that he was terribly confused! He just acted strange, doing things he never does, making weird noises, eventually acting up a little and forcing me to call a brief "intermission" to talk to him. But it was fine... I couldn't have expected much else. At the end of the day it was our event, so it didn't matter if it was our toddler who interrupted it! He needed to be there, and we needed him to be there.

I do remember that so much of what I heard was exactly what I wanted to communicate to people about this journey that we're on. That the experience is awful and sad and heart-wrenching, but that her life was such a blessing to us, and that God has never forsaken us, and that her story is one of life and hope. Pastor Gerri and Jennifer did a beautiful job of conveying the message that we wanted her life to leave behind.

My best friend Colette read a poem for us toward the end of the service, entitled "Precious Little One". And bless her heart, she made it through without a tear!

I’m just a precious little one who
didn't make it there.
I went straight to be with God,
but I’m waiting for you here.

Many dwelling here where I live
waited years to enter in.
Struggled through a world of sorrow,
a world marred with pain and sin.

Thank you for the life you gave me,
it was brief but don’t complain.
I have all Heaven’s Glory,
suffered none of earth’s great pain.

Thank you for the name you gave me.
I’d have loved to bring it fame.
But if I’d lingered in earth’s shadows,
I would have suffered just the same.

So sweet family - don’t you sorrow.
Wipe those tears and chase the gloom.
I went straight to God's arms
from my loving Mother’s womb. 

-Author Unknown

I really do take great comfort in those words. As awful as this world can be, I still selfishly wish that I could have kept her here, but it is true that she has essentially gotten a free pass to skip over this world's ugliness. She received the gift of eternal life in paradise without ever having to face the pain of this life on earth. I miss her so much, but I find some peace in that truth.

Then it was time for Ben and I to read the words we had written for our girl. Eli joined us, as he was feeling a little clingy at that point, so I held him while we alternated, each reading a paragraph:

"There is so much that we wish we could put into words for you all. Our experience of Gracie’s life was so full of love and joy, despite the pain and heartbreak that came along the way. Learning of her diagnosis and losing the future that we had envisioned for her and our family was an unthinkable loss, but we quickly realized that losing her future did not mean that we had lost her – not yet. There was still time to continue to build our bond with her, make memories with her, and enjoy a different kind of relationship with our daughter – the only kind that we would be able to have. It wasn’t what we had envisioned, but it was all we had, and the choice to make the most of her little life, however brief, was the easiest choice we’ve ever made.  

We spent the last four weeks and five days of her life cherishing every beat of her heart. We listened to her heartbeat and her movements in bed at night with our fetal Doppler, laughing at the party she always seemed to be having in there. Eli often asked to “talk to Gracie” on weekend mornings, and we’d happily oblige by placing the Doppler probe on Jenna’s belly and letting him listen with wonder at the sounds his baby sister was making. It wasn’t long after the diagnosis that Jenna began to feel her movements regularly, another precious bond that formed in those weeks. On Fathers’ Day, just 3 days before Gracie would ultimately pass away, I was finally able to feel her kick for the first time. Like any other expectant couple, these milestones and tender moments were treasured, but I would venture to say that our situation inspired even deeper meaning and intimacy in those moments. Not a moment was taken for granted. Every day was a gift.

On the day that Gracie was born into Heaven, we experienced the deepest of pain and sorrow. Yet at the same time, it was another opportunity to make memories with our girl. She entered our world so peacefully, we held her together immediately following delivery and she remained in our care for over 16 precious hours. We snuggled her, kissed her, took in every inch of her form, marveled at her perfect little nose and tiny baby feet. We bathed her, dressed her, made impressions of her hands and feet, created a Christmas ornament with her hand and footprints, shared her with loving family and friends, introduced her to her proud and excited big brother who so lovingly accepted her into his arms. We took photos with her. We made memories and treasured our time together. 

As much as Gracie’s passing has broken our hearts, and as helplessly empty as our arms feel today, her life was such a precious gift. She taught us a new way to love a child, and each other. She gave us a whole new outlook on life. Her life and death brought us new friendships, strengthened old ones, and added new layers to the depth of love that exists within our family. Gracie is proof that there is such tremendous beauty to be found in every life, no matter how brief."

I wouldn't say that we made it through without tears, but we came pretty darn close. God's strength and peace comes in waves at the exact moments we need it most, and it came on like a Tsunami as we read. My voice shook and my eyes welled occasionally, but I did far better than I had hoped was possible. Once again, I will never stop thanking Ben for pushing me to be courageous for our daughter throughout this process. I'm so proud that we were able to do that for her.

After allowing several friends and family members to stand and share a few words with the group, we handed out pens and small tags. Everyone in attendance was asked to write a short note to attach to a balloon that would be sent up to Gracie in our closing balloon release. This was when I lost it for a few moments. I just couldn't write to her without crying. But once again, I told her how desperately we would always miss her, how we would hold her in our hearts forever, and asked her to watch over her brother for us. When everyone was ready, we turned on her song:

  

...And on the count of three...

...We sent our love up to Gracie.

Even Eli was able to release his balloon without losing his mind :)

Then Ben and I finally fell to pieces. It was just so intensely emotional. We had been so strong through the entire service, but that beautiful expression of love and hope-filled reminder of her place in Heaven was just too much. We'll never forget it. We stood there holding each other and sobbing, and soon felt the arms of our family all around us as her song played and her balloons floated away. It was a perfect ending to a lovely celebration of her life.

We spent some time greeting, hugging and thanking our many guests, especially those who weren't able to join us at the wake afterward. There were roughly 45 people who came to honor her and support us, and we'll never forget a single one of them. But soon it was time to send everyone on their way so that Ben and I could do one last thing for her - lay her to rest.

Ben carried her casket to the graveside and we sat together and said what we needed to say to her. We laid so many kisses on that casket and thoroughly soaked it with our tears. Though there had been some miscommunication regarding who would be placing the casket in its final resting place, when the time came, the cemetery's superintendent was more than happy to let Ben do whatever he felt he needed to do. And what he needed to do was make sure that it was her daddy who put her to bed for the first and last time. That we were the last to touch her. And so my husband - the bereaved father of his first baby girl, dressed in his best suit, red eyes full of tears - climbed down into the 4-foot-deep grave, picked up the casket, and gently placed our little girl in her final resting place. Scott picked three roses from her casket spray - one from Ben, one from me, and one from Eli - and handed them to Ben to place on top. He climbed out, and we told her we'd see her again - that this was not "goodbye", that we'd never say "goodbye" to her - and we left.

We cried as we walked away, but we just kept repeating "It's only her body. It's only her body." Because really, it's only her body that is buried there. Her sweet and lovely little soul - what made Gracie "Gracie" - left us before she even made it into our arms. For the entire time we've known her body, her soul has been with Jesus. She has a new and perfect body - she has no use for the terminally flawed one that she inhabited on this earth in my womb. That body was all my arms ever knew, and I miss it every day, but I need not be distressed over the fact that her body had to be buried. She's not there, in the ground. I will visit that spot to remember her and feel close to her, but as I sit by her grave and talk to her I'll have to look up - not down.