Carrying him...

When Boe died, my faith was shaken to the core. I felt so very betrayed and confused. How could God, who is supposed to love me unconditionally, do this to me? How could he bless me with 3 little lives to nurture and then inexplicably, for no reason, take one of them from me? Why did this happen? What did I do to deserve this?

Over the last 21 months I have done a lot of "work". I have read, I have researched, I have found other women who have lost children, I have "support grouped", I have walked in my Baby Boe's name, I have visited my boy at the cemetery and placed flowers at his grave, I have grieved in silence and out loud. As I have done all of these things, my relationship with God has shifted. There have been times when I have been perfectly at peace with his decision to take Boe, and there have been days when I have seethed with anger and resentment to the point that to be around me has, no doubt, been very unpleasant and toxic.

I can honestly say that, as I write this, I am in a place of peace these days. I miss Boe everyday, and I do not believe that will ever change, nor do I want it to. I know there will be times when I can speak of him and smile and times that just hearing his name will reduce me to tears, and I am OK with that.

I am blessed with all the children that I have, living and dead. Each of them have touched my heart and shaped who I am as a woman in ways that I cannot explain. This is kind of how I see it; I am honored that God chose me to carry one of his heavenly angels. I am so grateful he gave me the 229 days with Boe that I had. If he had given Boe his wings any sooner, Adler and Cameron may not have survived, and that is just too dark and painful a thought to bear.

So, thank you, God. Thank you for letting me carry one of your precious little guardians. Thank you for letting me carry him just long enough to be able to keep his earthly brothers here. Many people only dream of angels, but I held one in my arms. Thank you.

Sudden Impact

Last week's episode of Grey's Anatomy followed the fall out of a horrific car wreck in which 2 of Seattle Grace's doctors had been involved. Obviously, the mention of a sudden impact was literal, but the story also stressed the need to recognize those sudden impacts which are figurative as well.

To close the episode, the narrator, Meredith, says that sudden impacts happen when we least expect them. We are warned that there is no way to prepare or brace for them. When they occur, our life is changed in an instant and we are never the same.

My sudden impact occurred on April 22, 2010. Many victims of sudden impacts do not remember the moments leading up to the crash or the actual crash itself. It is too traumatic, their minds block out what is too horrific to handle to protect their psyche. I am not so fortunate.

I remember everything about that moment. I remember joking with the ultrasound technician about the fact that I was "still" pregnant (I was 32 weeks and 5 days, my doctor wanted me to make it to 34 weeks) just before I hopped up on the table for her to perform the sonogram. I remember watching her face change as she turned to me and my husband and said with disbelief, "I am so sorry, but Baby B's heart has stopped beating." I remember it felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room as she excused herself to retrieve the doctor, leaving Adam and me to try and process what she had just told us.

Impacts often leave debris and wreckage in their wake. Those who survive them or arrive to assist must wade through all this to try and make sense of what happened and assist those in need. The impact that I experienced has certainly left its share of debris and wreckage. I know, without a doubt, that there is (and always will be) a piece of me in that exam room. The Kirsten that I used to be resides there, and I shall never be "That Girl" again.

Over the last 21 months I have laughed, cried, screamed, raged, begged, pleaded, reasoned, etc... all in the name of trying to piece together the events that unfolded on that day. I know that no amount of this will bring my Boe back, he is gone. I do, however, feel that each time I laugh or cry, scream or rage in Boe's name, I take a little step closer to "That Girl".

Like Meredith said, after a sudden impact we are never the same. My hope is that maybe, just maybe, I can continue to sift through the wreckage to find my way back to someone pretty damn close to "That Girl" I left behind. She was pretty cool and I miss her. I want her back.

Dear Boe,

My husband and I decided that each Christmas we would place a card, letter or drawing in Boe's stocking. As our surviving children grow they will also be allowed to do so. This is what I had to say to my Baby Boy this year:

Dear Boe,

Here we are, another Christmas without you. As I sit here writing to you, trying to decide what I want to say, the house is quiet. It reminds me of how quiet the world was when your daddy and I held you for the first time. The world was so still and peaceful, serene. It was as if only the 3 of us existed in that moment, and I am so very grateful for that time. It was the only time I had to focus on just you. It was the only time I had to take you in, to see that, even in your small, damaged state, you were perfection. It was such a very short time into which I tried to cram a lifetime of loving you and feeling you close, and for that I am also grateful.

As your brothers and sister have grown and as we have welcomed your little brother, Brody, home the house has become louder and much more active. I can't help but wonder what would this house be like with you in it? What would this home be like with 2 "Adlers" running through it? Would you have been like him? Daring, physical, active? Or would you have been docile and calm? Yes, the quiet in the morning or evening is truly the only time I have to really ponder what should have been.

Don't get me wrong, I carry you with me always. You are in my heart, on my mind, and having Adler around gives me such a beautiful picture of the little boy you might have been. When he smiles or laughs it is as if I'm seeing you do the same, and it warms my heart.

I'll finish my gift to you with these words: All is calm, all is bright. It is in the midst of the calm times that I feel your presence the most; your loving energy shines most brightly. It warms me like a blanket and sets my mind at ease to know you are always near.

Merry Christmas, Baby Boy. Sleep in heavenly peace...

How does your garden grow???

In recent days, the Duggar family has taken much flack for not only announcing that they were expecting a 20th child, but that, in the wake of her death, they planned to name her and hold a memorial service. While I may not understand their way of life, or their beliefs, my heart aches for them. I do not wish what they have to go through on anyone,and the fact that they are now taking more heat for choosing to photograph their dead child, Jubilee, evokes even more empathy for them.

Adam and I have pictures of Boe. They were taken just hours after he was born, and I treasure them. I have chosen to share them with precious few people for a few reasons. First, I have not been ready or "able" to share them. Second, there is something macabre and creepy to most people when it comes to thinking or speaking of dead babies.

There is a quote which I have come across many times in the last months. I am not sure of its exact verbiage or who spoke the words, so I shall paraphrase. Basically, it says that a child who has lost a parent is an orphan, a woman who has lost a spouse is a widow, but there is not a word for a parent who has lost a child because the loss is just too awful.

Doesn't this speak volumes about our society's view of death? Think of all the euphemisms we have to define death: passed away, lost, met his maker, went on to a better place.... Does any of this change the reality of what has happened? Does it take away the ugliness and painfulness that an event like the death of a child (or any loved one) leaves behind to paint a prettier picture so that we might sleep better? Pardon my French, but isn't using an expression like this akin to using shit (fertilizer) to make roses grow?

Death is ugly and unpleasant and not something any of us ever wishes to experience. Inevitably, so is the grief that follows. We all move through it differently. Some of us turn inward and deal very privately, while others of us reach out and make our grief very public. Whether we agree with how others handle their feelings, or not, they are THEIR feelings. The bottom line is, if you don't like the fertilizer I or the Duggars, or anyone else might use to help their garden grow, don't stop to smell the flowers.

Christmas without him...

Where are you Christmas

Why can't I find you

Why have you gone away

Where is the laughter

You used to bring me

Why can't I hear music play

My world is changing

I'm rearranging

Does that mean Christmas changes too

Where are you Christmas

Do you remember

The one you used to know

I'm not the same one

See what the time's done

Is that why you have let me go...

Since last year, I cry every time I hear this song. It reminds me that there is a part of Christmas that will always be missing and, for which, I shall always be longing and searching.Yet, inevitably, it is here. Christmas arrives every 365 days, regardless of what we do or how we might try to put it off. As the days close in on another Christmas without one of my boys, I look back over the past year, and I am amazed at how much has changed. We have a new life in our home, and he is warm and sweet and dear. Our little girl will be 3 in March, and she is so aware of of Christmas and all the joy it brings. We have had to "downsize" our tree because Adler and Cameron play like little Neanderthals, and we'd like for it to remain standing until Christmas has passed.

Even in the midst of all these changes, I am still so often drawn to what remains the same. Boe is not here, and he never will be, at least, not physically. His stocking hangs on the mantle only to be filled with unopened and unread cards and sentiments. His booties hang on the tree never to be filled by his sweet little feet, but to remind us of the path he followed as he journeyed through our hearts to Heaven.

I know that I am at a different place with my grief than I was last year. Last year, I really struggled to get excited about the holidays. I kind of forced it for the sake of my surviving children and found myself immensely relieved when it was time to de-deck the halls.

This year, I find myself looking forward to Christmas morning. The anticipation of watching the kids tear into their gifts and seeing how they react to all that awaits them throughout this season puts a smile on my face. The joy that I am feeling does not take away from the fact that we will be without Boe during this season. I will miss him, and I am sure that, in the coming days, I will shed more than one tear for my little boy lost. That being said, I know that even if Boe is not here physically, he IS here. He is the star on our tree, he is in his booties, his stocking, in his brothers' and sister's squeals of delight. He is always with us, surrounding us like a warm blanket. He is letting us know that in moving through our life with joy and gratitude, we honor and love him the best way we possibly can.

Christmas without him will look different from year to year, changing as our children grow and mature. Christmas without him will never be what I had envisioned, but I know if I keep him near it can definitely be more wonderful, magical and joyful than I could ever have hoped.

Joyeux Noel, mon petit ange. Je t'aime.

I prayed

He is here. Brody Kwint Kinowski came into this world screaming on November 3, 2011. I was scheduled for a c-section on the 4th, but it would seem that our newest family member wanted to enter this world on his own terms. He is beautiful, he is perfect, he is loved... all 9 lbs 1 oz of him.

When I woke up early in the morning on November 3rd feeling the pains of labor, it was yet one more reminder to me that none of "this" is in our hands. I was prepared for a new baby on the 4th, and here it was the 3rd. I love that he chose his birthday. It was a beautiful day, sunny and clear.

Hearing his lusty cry for the first time in the OR was such a departure from the last time I'd been there. Adler and Cameron's cries were tiny, wane, weak, and Boe's silence echoed more loudly than either of his brother's cries. This time everyone joked about my boy's pipes. Rather than being whisked off to the NICU for immediate care, Brody was examined by a neonatologist in the OR, Adam was allowed to cut his cord. People in the room were joyful and congratulatory, not somber and sad.

During the first moments that I held Brody, I would be lying if I said that my thoughts did not drift to Boe. Nearly 18 months before, I had been in that recovery room holding 2 lb 13 oz Boe in my arms. He had been warm and sweet, but painfully still and silent. Now, I sat holding a big, pink, squirming baby boy. I held him close, and I prayed.

I prayed that he would grow up knowing that even though he was not planned, he is wanted and dearly loved. I prayed that he will know he is not a replacement or an attempt to recreate "what should have been". He is his own person, cherished unconditionally, as is. I prayed that Boe knows that even though we have this new little life, it will never diminish his place in our hearts. I prayed for the strength to cherish and love all my children both heavenly and of this earth. I opened my heart to God for the first time in a long time, and I prayed...

And just like that...

As I write this, I am ignoring my children bouncing in their cribs in the other room. They have been extremely naughty today and have refused to nap. I have decided that some "quiet" time is what we all need. Apparently, I am the only one who gets what quiet time means, and I am using mine wisely.

As I near the end of my pregnancy, I seem to be cracking more and more jokes about being "ready" and "done". I know this little guy will come in his own time, or on November 4th at 9 AM, but I really do feel as though I have cracked and will not be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. I am weary, both physically and mentally. I love my children dearly, but their liveliness is exhausting and draining for me at this point. I have become someone that I do not recognize. The ugly mommy who screams and yells because nothing else seems to work.

I know that they are testing me because they know that I am worn down and slow, this only serves to frustrate me more. And then, just when I think it can't get any worse, just when I think I can't take anymore, just like that, something happens that puts all that I am feeling in perspective.

Without divulging too much information, someone I have known nearly all my life was pregnant with twins. Sadly, one passed away at around 23 weeks due to complications which were not compatible with life. She was delivered and the hope was her sister would be able to bake for several more weeks. Yesterday, that sister was born at just over 24 weeks.

I hear stories like this and somehow, my frustration and discomfort seem SO very insignificant, so very small compared to that which others are being asked to endure. I hear things like this and I am forced to pause and reflect upon how grateful I am to have my little ones running around, as crazy and naughty as they may be.

The bottom line is, there will always be someone somewhere who has it worse than I. There will always be someone who seems to have to endure more hardship and pain than I could ever fathom. There will always be someone who is being asked to enter into the darkest days of their life as I am just beginning to sense the sun again.

The next 8 days will be trying, no doubt. A friend of mine pointed out today that 11/4/11 adds up to 4/22, Adler, Boe and Cameron's birthday. Having that connection and carrying with me the knowledge that not too far away a little baby girl was born far too soon and fights for her life will be the fuel I need to make it 8 more days. And just like that...