Eleven Years

 Eleven years. It’s been eleven years since our worlds changed forever. I’ve spent the last few days reflecting on all of the people that were part of this chapter in our lives. 

The nurses. I wish I knew their names. I remember their persistent checking for a heartbeat even though I’m sure they knew there wasn’t one. The nurse that didn’t leave my side before, during and after the C-Section. The nurse that cried with us. The nurse that so lovingly put together a box for us with his footprints, a clip of his hair, a teddy bear with his name and an infant hat.

The photographer from Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. I wish I had their name, too. They gave us the priceless gift of the only photographs we’ll only have of Aaron.

Melissa Hatch. She answered Marty’s call in the middle of the night (thanks to Mitchell being up) and came straight to the hospital to sit with Marty while I was in the operating room. She then worked to plan and execute the most thoughtful funeral. She then continued to love and support us. That next Mother’s Day, when our church was honoring mothers that had had babies in the last year and I had to step out, she brought me the flower they had given each mom. She will always and forever be weaved into our story.

Allison Guild. While we were still in the hospital, I didn’t want many visitors. I only requested Allison. I knew that she knew exactly what I was going through. She told me something that still echoes in my head. She said sometimes there are no words except “this sucks”. 

Emily Turner. When the Whitt staff was told what had happened, she was the receiver of all the hugs they needed to give. She’s not a hugger, but she accepted them for me. And her parents, Tommy and Barbara. He was theirs, too. We had a small family-only funeral. They were there, because they are also our family.

Joei Shermer. She handled school life with grace. And she welcomed me with open arms back to school (though I was on maternity leave) whenever I needed to not be at home alone. She recognized that I needed to be with my people. She will always be one of my people.

Tami, my sister-in-law. Not only did she and her family come down from Missouri as soon as possible, but she went with Marty to the funeral home to work out the arrangements with them because I couldn’t. She remembers when it seems like no one else does.

My grandma and aunts. My grandma crocheted blankets for all of the great grandkids. She was still working on Aaron’s. When she got the news, she and my aunts worked furiously to finish it and overnight it to us. Aaron was buried with his blanket. 

Leann, my mother-in-law. She rushed to our house in the middle of the night to stay with Noah while we went to the hospital. She worked to keep his 4-year-old world “normal”.

My mom and dad. I remember Marty asking me what I wanted early on and I told him I just wanted my mom. They got up, packed and hit the road north. Before we came home from the hospital my mom went around our house and found all of the baby things, put them in the nursery and closed the door so that I wasn’t hit with it when I got home.

Marty. He held me up when I was falling apart even though he was mourning the loss himself. I didn’t want to be around people (visitors) and he honored that, even though he felt differently. He took care of every arrangement from identifying his body to picking out a casket and designing the stone. When I didn’t want to get out of the car at the funeral because that would make it real, he let me sit for a minute. And then he helped me move forward. And he continues to do so, while also letting me look backwards.

9 years

 Grief is funny. It has a way of tainting things. Today is Easter, a time of joy in Christ's resurrection. But today is also the 9 year anniversary of Aaron's birth/death. Every time someone has told me "Happy Easter" today, I've felt a punch in the gut, because I'm not happy. I'm sad. I found this quote the other day:

"I don't think most people truly understand how much is lost when a baby dies. You don't just lose a baby, you also lose the 1 and 2 and 10 and 16 year old (they) would have been. You lose Christmas mornings, loose teeth, and first days of school. You just lose it all." - Unknown

If Aaron had been born with his eyes open, he would be in 3rd grade. But that's all I know. I don't know if he would have been a math kid, a reading kid, a theater kid, a sports kid... I'll never know. Every time I start to wonder and imagine what he'd be like, I'm reminded that if he were here, Caleb would not be. When I imagine what life with Aaron would be like, I'm imagining a life without Caleb. And that's a sucker punch. 

I know that Easter is a time of joy. But today I just want to grieve. Grieve the life taken too soon, all of the things I've missed and the piece of my heart that will not be whole until we are reunited in Heaven. 

Five Years

It's been 5 years. 5 years since we joined a club that no one wants to join. 5 years since our Aaron was born with his eyes closed. I heard that phrase "born with his eyes closed" this weekend and I love it. It fits. This weekend we participated in a Remembrance Walk with Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. There are no words to describe what it feels like to be in the presence of so many other mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers that have felt the same loss that we have. The emcee quoted some past president (I don't remember who) talking about how there are words to describe children who have lost their parent, and spouses that have lost a spouse, but that there is no word to describe a parent who has lost their child. The coordinator of the walk spoke about how in her loss, the one thing she wants is for people to speak her child's name. Because while her daughter isn't with her in body, she is still her daughter. That's the way I feel. I want to be able to freely tell people that I have 3 children, not just 2. I want them to understand that though Aaron isn't here, though we only have pictures of him with his eyes closed, he's still my son. I am still his mother. I carried him, provided life for him, for 32.5 weeks. I shouldn't have to hide that from people for fear of making them uncomfortable.

Aaron would be starting kindergarten in the fall. I'm watching all of the other moms who were pregnant at the same time as me registering their kids. I think this is one of those missed milestones that will be hard. I'm sure there will be many more of these missed milestones that will catch me off guard. I wonder, would he know how to read? Would he know how to tie his shoes? Would he be a good student? Or one that visits the principal's office regularly? Would he play sports? Who would he be?

And then I feel guilt. If I knew the answers to those questions, if Aaron were here, and I were registering him for kindergarten, we wouldn't have Caleb. By wishing for one child, I'm wishing for the other to be non-existent. I'm caught in the middle of two children. I cannot have one without losing the other. When I am in the middle of one of Caleb's temper tantrums, I wonder what it would have been like with Aaron.

It's Been Three Years

It's been three years since we lost Aaron. Most of the time, that feels like a life-time ago. But for the last few days, it's felt like yesterday. I've laid in bed the last few nights reliving every detail. And wondering "what-if". I know that I shouldn't play the "what-if" game, but I don't know how not to. I wonder "What if the doctor's had been able to tell something was wrong when I was at the hospital a few weeks before due to bleeding?" "What if we had made it to the hospital sooner?" and the dreaded "What if I hadn't rolled over?" 

Noah and I were talking about Aaron the other day. He asked me if Aaron had lived, if we would have Caleb. The answer is no. If Aaron had been a normal birth, then I would have had my tubes tied then, and we wouldn't have Caleb. So then I get caught in this guilt trap of wishing that we hadn't lost Aaron. By doing that, am I saying that I don't want Caleb? That's definitely not the case, of course. 

But I wonder about him: what kind of personality he would have, what he would look like, whether he'd be potty training...

I want Caleb to grow up knowing who Aaron was. I know that he's not old enough yet to understand, but I talk about him. I wear a butterfly necklace regularly. Caleb LOVES to hold the butterfly. I have to remind him not to pull it, but usually he just holds it. I like to think that he knew Aaron before we did. That he has a little bit of a connection with him.

The Easter season is always a tough one for me. On one hand I get frustrated with the idea of resurrection, both Lazarus and Jesus. While I was holding my life-less baby in my arms, I was BEGGING for him to breathe, to move just a little, to flutter his eyelids. But it didn't happen. On the other hand, I know that Jesus' resurrection gives hope. Hope that one day I WILL get to see that little boy again, and hold him close and know who he is.

Enough rambling for today. I need to be better at writing more often. I regularly have ideas to write about, but I never take the time to sit down and do it. 

32 weeks

I'm 32 weeks pregnant today. Why is that important? We lost Aaron at 32 1/2 weeks. When (not if) we make it to this weekend, I will have carried this child longer than any other since Noah. The anxiety isn't as high as I imagined it would be. We go in on Thursday for another sonogram. One of the benefits of being labeled "high risk" is that we've had lots of sonograms. This will be our 6th. Hopefully we'll get a date scheduled for the C-Section, too.

I've had a lot of trouble sleeping this time around. I yawn all day, and then lay in bed wide awake. When I DO fall asleep, I wake up every time I roll over, which is a lot. Hopefully I figure something out fast before school starts, or it's going to be a long few weeks!

I think we've finally picked a name. This time around has been really hard. Marty and I will come up with a name, try it for a few days, and then it's gone.

Back in January, when we first found out we were pregnant, I was adamant that I did NOT want to do anything to prepare the nursery until there was a baby to put in it. Of course, the OCD part of me had a hard time with that and a lot of it is ready. Luckily, we haven't had to purchase much, since we've saved EVERYTHING from Noah (and my nephew). Since it's been 6 years since Noah was born, our car seat/travel system has expired so we had to get a new one of those.

I'm having the same struggle this school year that I had last school year. We have several new staff members, many that I work closely with. I want them to know what makes me me. I want them to know what I've been through so that they know what I'm going through. It's an awkward thing to bring up, though. I don't want sympathy. I just want them to know. It's part of who I am and what I do.

I apologize for the rambling of this post... Feel free to go back and read the other less-rambling posts if you haven't already done so. :-)

It's been a while

As we approach the anniversary of Aaron's death, I thought I'd give an update on how life's been for the last several months.

Last fall: After much internal debate, I decided that though I wanted another child, I had absolutely no desire to be pregnant again. I struggled with giving in to the fear and quitting. I began working to convince my husband. I became almost desperate to rid my house of everything baby so that I could start moving on. (The nursery was still exactly as we'd left it.)

Around Thanksgiving, my husband finally got on board. I sold all of my maternity clothes. Over Christmas, we moved all of the nursery furniture to my in-law's house for storage. We moved our office furniture from the front room downstairs up to the room that had been the nursery. We'd even started putting out feelers and doing some exploratory research into the adoption process.

And then everything changed.

On January 6th, I realized that I was running just a tad late. That evening, I sent Marty out to buy pregnancy tests. Even though you get best results first thing in the morning, I took one anyway. The positive results absolutely terrified me. I didn't know whether to cry in fear or laugh at God's funny sense of humor.

Fast forward a few months. Tomorrow, I'll be 17 weeks pregnant. I'm still terrified. I know that God will be with us through whatever may happen, I just don't want to do it all again.

Our 5-year-old said it best. When we told him that we were having another baby, his response was "I hope it's a real baby this time. I hope that the plug (umbilical cord) is alright." All we could say was "We do too."

Please continue to pray for us as we continue through this journey. September seems like years away, but we just keep taking each day, one at a time.

Not entirely what you think...

My son starts kindergarten tomorrow. I've had true anxiety about it for weeks. Every time I think about it, my stomach ties itself in knots. I'm not a crier, at all, but I've choked up and cried more times in the last week than normal. You see, it's not just because my son had his last week at daycare, or that he went to meet the teacher, or even that he will start kindergarten in the morning. It's because my BABY had his last week at daycare. My BABY had meet the teacher. My BABY will start kindergarten in the morning. It wasn't supposed to be that way. My big boy was supposed to be starting kindergarten, and my baby was supposed to be going to the sitter's.

It feels wrong, but there are days that I don't think about Aaron. I know it happened, but it doesn't feel like it happened to me. As milestones happen though, like starting kindergarten, it all comes back. The unfairness of last April rears its ugly head.

I know, without a doubt, that my son will be loved. I know, without a doubt, that he will be educated. I also know, that after tomorrow, it will be easy.

For now, though, tomorrow is looming. I'm not sure if it's a positive or a negative that he's at my school. I'll walk him down to his classroom, and then have to put on my smile and greet my new class of 4th graders. I don't get very long to cry. Just like in April, life is going to move on.

So remember, as you see people upset about their child starting kindergarten, or just starting a new year, and they seem a little too emotional, that there may be more to the story than you know.