Life as it is... Not how it was supposed to be

Bittersweet.  That is how I feel right now.  Yesterday, Brody turned 7 months old.  Last night he slept in the nursery with his sister and brothers for the first time.

Saturday, Adam slaved to assemble the crib, hang the curtains that will divide Brody from his siblings during sleeping time, and move the dresser to the walk in closet to make way for his crib.  The room is beautiful.  It is sweet and dear and houses the most precious beings in this world, but I still cried when I saw it.

I cried because, in another lifetime, the cribs were supposed to be arranged differently.  Each little crib was supposed to be placed under the A, B, or C which corresponded to Adler, Boe and Cameron.  Today, the "B" circle holds a framed quote and tiny little hand and footprints,  little mementos that provide precious proof that a boy named Boe Holland existed, his brothers, "A" and "C", end to end so they can conspire in the night.

Today, the third crib sits on its own wall, with another precious little "B", Brody", filling it.  That's what he does, he "fills".  He fills my heart with joy where there was sadness and despair.  He fills my arms with warmth and weight, where once there was such emptiness and longing.
He fills our home with giggles and squeals and smiles that Boe was never able to give.

In the midst of all these wonderful, fuzzy feelings, he also fills my heart with guilt and conflict. I feel guilty because it's almost as though I'm betraying Boe's memory by loving Brody so much, by smiling and laughing when I hold him in my arms; those smiles and laughs should have been for Boe.  I feel guilty because I do not ever want Brody to think that he was a replacement or not wanted.  I do not want him to feel that he was born out of some desperate attempt to fill a void which can never truly be filled.  He was born to be his own person with his own gifts and talents, and we love him because he is "Brody".

Certainly, seeing the nursery ready for Brody was bittersweet.  It conjured up memories and images of what was supposed to be, but it also painted a picture of life as it is.  A picture of a life, that through sadness and loss has become so very full, vibrant, and a true celebration of God's abundant love and grace.  It paints a picture of my life, a life that, for right now, I couldn't imagine living any other way.

I hold my breath...

Whenever someone I know shares with me that she is pregnant, I find myself holding my breath.  It goes without saying that I am thrilled for them and the impending arrival of their little baby, but I hold my breath.

I know too much.  I know that with the joy and excitement that come from a pregnancy and birth of a baby, there can also come great loss and sadness if a baby happens to die.  I know that there is no "safe" time during a pregnancy.  Babies can die at any time for any reason,and even when they are born living, there are no guarantees, and that sucks.

I know that babies can die during the 1st trimester, the 3rd trimester, or even during the birth process itself.  They can die for no apparent reason, leaving the heartbroken parents with no answers or explanations, or they can die because they had a serious birth defect or abnormality that is not compatible with life.

I know the shock and sadness of discovering that, at some point in the last 12 hours, your child's heart stopped beating.  I know what it means to hold a baby who will never move, never breathe, never open his eyes or snuggle close to his mommy and how it hurts like hell to see him one more time before he is taken away forever.

I know what it is to live everyday feeling "different" because a part of me is missing.  I know what it is to hear a song on the radio or come across an outfit he would have worn or see how he'd look as I watch his brothers and be reduced to tears because he is not here, and I miss him.

I know that having a baby is wonderful and miraculously joyous, but I also live what is on the other side of that coin everyday.  So, yes, when friends tell me they are pregnant, I am excited. But until that baby arrives, kicking and screaming,  I hold my breath.

A letter to Boe on his second birthday

Dear Boe,

Two years ago today, you changed our lives forever. Two years ago today, we lost so much. In an instant, we lost our son, our innocence, our hopes, dreams and aspirations. We lost "normal" and the Kirsten and Adam we used to be. In an instant, it seemed that we lost everything.

Yet, even in the midst of unbelievable shock and pain, we also gained a lot, too. We gained your brothers, Adler and Cameron, we gained the true meaning of sacrifice and heroism, we gained the knowledge that, in an instant, life can change and everything you thought you knew, everything you believed in, dreamed of and hoped for, is up for grabs; nothing is sacred, nothing is for certain, and nothing is guaranteed.

Our eyes were opened wider than we ever thought they could be to sights so simultaneously beautiful and wrought with pain, that we truly did not know whether we should laugh or cry, so we did both. We learned that, despite our best efforts, this thing called life is truly out of our hands. Someone else is in control, and we are merely along for the ride.

Boe, today it has been 2 years since you died. Two years since we lost you physically, but gained an angel. It has been 2 years since we held you in our arms, but you have been held in our hearts and minds every moment since. It has been 2 years since you died and were born, 2 years since a part of us died and, in its place, a new more aware and open part was born. It has been 2 years, and I still miss you like hell, but I am able to remember you with a smile more frequently than with tears. It has been 2 years, and tonight I will light 2 candles, and rather than blow them out, they will remain lit, for to keep them lit is to keep a piece of you alive.

Happy birthday, Boe. I love you and miss you more than words can say.

Closing in...

It is approaching... The 2 year anniversary of Boe's death, and my boys' birthday. I have found myself thinking of "Two years ago today, I was..." a lot recently. I realized that I started doing this around the 1st of April. That is when my perinatologist decided to hospitalize me for observation while he was out of town. I was 29 weeks pregnant.

This week it is "Two years ago today was the last time I saw Boe's heartbeat". The last time I knew he was safe, alive; the last time I was "normal". I don't really play the "what if" game except in one instance, and it centers around this day, April 19th.

I had gone in for a Biophysical profile. Basically, they looked for heartbeats, breathing, movement, and possibly even hiccups from the boys. If they did all of these things, they "passed". On this day, it took the nurse a long time to locate Boe and get a steady reading on him. I really did not think too much of it because he was under Adler and Cameron and had always been a little tricky to find. When she did find him, he was fine. His heartbeat was normal, he was moving and practicing his breathing.

Now, looking back on that day, I wonder "what if"? What if she had been concerned that she had so much trouble getting a good read on him? What if he had failed even one point of his profile and she had called my doctor in for more careful observation? What if the boys had been delivered that day? Would Boe have survived? Would he have been OK?

Sunday is their birthday. It will be a joyous day, filled with laughter and fun. It will also be a bittersweet day filled with a hint of sadness. Sadness over the loss of what should have been, sadness over the knowledge that there is a piece of the puzzle that is missing, sadness over the candle left lit and not blown out. Sadness is closing in, and just as quickly as it comes, it will be wiped away by the joy that comes from being his mommy.

Life according to Michelle...

The Duggars recently aired the episode which chronicled the discovery of their daughter's death and her memorial service. Typically, I do not watch this show, but I heard this episode was airing, so I made it a point to watch. Even though I do not understand many of the family's lifestyle choices, several things about their ordeal really struck home.

First off, I was so impressed and touched by Michelle's serene approach to what had happened. She said so many things that really resonated with me. She spoke often of how much joy Jubilee had brought them during the 18 weeks she had been alive. I had never thought of this before, but even with all the risk and sacrifice associated with my pregnancy, I was SO HAPPY to be pregnant with triplets. I enjoyed thinking of the men they would one day become and trying to predict what each of their personalities would be. I enjoyed hoping and dreaming for them, and I was so excited and anxious to meet my little men. When Boe died, I was so consumed by the shock and sadness that accompanied his death that I forgot to remember how much joy he brought to me during the days he was living.

Michelle also spoke of how Jubilee got see the Lord first. I am no where near as religious or devout as the Duggars are, but I found such peace and comfort in this thought. If Boe never got to lay eyes on his mommy and daddy, at least the first thing he saw was someone who will always accept him, protect and love him. The last thing that really stood out to me was the kind of life she believes Jubilee will now have. She spoke of the fact that Jubilee will never have to cry or feel pain. She will never experience sadness, heartache or despair. Adam and I both feel that, had Boe lived, he would have been compromised in some way, to what extent we cannot predict.

As a parent, you try your damnedest each and every day to shield your children from pain and sadness even if it means that you, yourself, hurt in their stead. If carrying this sadness, this awful, empty burden, is what it takes to guarantee that my little boy never cries; if his life needs to take place in the solace of another, more powerful, set of arms to save him from a life of discomfort, struggle and pain, then I will bear that burden. I may not do it willingly or always happily, but at least I can do it knowing that he is in the care of someone far greater and more capable than I, and I can do it with gratitude for the joy he brought me while he lived and the joy that keeping his memory close brings to each day.

Because....

One would think that the loss of a child would send anyone in to a deep and dark depression out of which it seems nearly impossible to emerge. Sadly, this is probably the case for many men and women who have found themselves in just this predicament. It's not to say that I was not sad and very low in the days following Boe's death, I was; I just did not have the luxury of succumbing to the bone-crushing, mind-numbing despair that catapulted into my life.

I had 2 boys in the NICU and a beautiful little girl at home. They all needed me and, for my sanity, I needed them. So, surprisingly, in the midst of immense pain and tragedy, I was able to push forward and find bits of joy in each day. It was in Libby learning to speak and walk, it was in each little victory my 2 little survivors achieved. Now, nearly 2 years later, I find myself in a very different place, and it's not one which I care to visit for too long.

I feel it is safe to say that I am knock down, drag out depressed. I do not want to get up every morning, I only do because I know I have to. The desire to sleep, and consequently "escape", is at the top of my list daily.

I look forward to very little and dread almost everything. Big events have the tendency to practically paralyze me with anxiety. Before you shake your head or roll your eyes in disgust at how self-serving this is: I KNOW how lucky I am. I have 4 beautiful living children and 1 in heaven. I have a husband who is very supportive and works tirelessly for our family. I am amazed, and sometimes envious, at how willing and able he is to whisk some or all of the kiddos away so I can have a little quiet time.

In spite of all this, I hate myself. I look in the mirror and I see a tired, sad and worn out me. I see a woman who is defeated and down trodden. I see a woman who I do not wish to be, but do not know how to get rid of. I hate that waking up everyday has become a chore, a burden, for me. I hate that my sweet little children, no doubt, suffer the brunt of my ambivalence and anxiety. I hate that my husband comes home from working a long day and has to swoop in to take over because I am simply spent. They all deserve better from me, and Lord knows I desperately want to give it to them. I just don't know how.

I am taking steps to right this situation, and I pray it will not take long to see a positive change. I just wonder, why now? Why when I have just given birth to a perfectly healthy, full-term baby? Why when I have 3 other little ones who crave my love and affection? Why when it is more important than ever that my husband and I present a united front and land on the same page? Why not when Boe died and it was logical for me to be sad, and I only had Libby at home, and I knew that Adler and Cameron were being well cared for by the NICU nurses? Why not when Adam was off from work and I could have leaned on him more without being such a burden, why not when we could have moved through our grief and the process with a bit more unification, and time? Why not?

Because. Because, and it sucks. I am ready to start living my life again, I am ready to be me again, to laugh at jokes I once found funny instead of rolling my eyes at how lame they are, to wear clothes and shoes that once made me feel pretty instead of hiding them in the closet because they make me feel ugly and out of shape, to want to reach out to friends and family whom I really miss seeing and hearing from but don't because I am too tired to do so and too ashamed to be honest about what I am moving through, to honor my little boy Boe and my surviving children by being a happy fun mommy who sees reading a story to them as an adventure not a chore or an interruption, to be the wife who greets her husband with a warm smile instead of a tired drawn look that says, "I'm done" and a snap in her voice that says, "This sucks". Yes, I am ready to be the best possible me that I can be because EVERYONE dear to me deserves it and, quite simply, I'm tired of feeling this way.

Broken

"The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places." Ernest Hemingway

The world has broken me. It has broken me in many different places on different occassions. Sometimes I have seen it coming and have been able to catch the pieces, and sometimes it has been completely and totally unexpected, leaving me to search for the fragments scattered so widely and abruptly. I am not naive enough to believe that that world will never break me again, she is not that kind, and I am not that special.

Each time I have been broken I have been forever changed to a version of myself with more visible cracks and imperfections than before. Each fissure or break, while weakening me temporarily, in the end, only serves to strengthen me. It may take me time to put myself back together and to learn how to live "around" the damaged area, but having to adapt like this teaches me to be flexible, resilient, and perhaps, dare I say, a better version of what I was before.

Isn't that the point? Isn't that what software designers, for example, do? They take an operating system like Windows 1.o and figure out what its kinks are, where is it weak, what can be better? After a while, they make their tweaks and changes, some minor and some drastic, but the hope is that Version 2.o will be better.

There is no doubt that Boe's death has changed me forever and that I am forever changing. My prayer is that as I try to repair the me that was left broken and battered by the death of my child, I'll evolve into someone better, more improved, aware, alive and stronger than before.