The Luck of the Irish?

As I think about the last year of our lives, luck is not the first word that comes to mind.  Not good luck anyways.  A year ago today, I was six months pregnant, full of hope, dreams and expectations of what my life would look like.  With an adoring husband, loving family and friends surrounding me and an amazing life growing inside of me, I felt like the luckiest girl in the world.

A month later I found out that I was one of the 5 percent of women who develop pre-eclampsia during pregnancy.  That same week I learned that I was one of 0.5% of women who develop placenta-previa during their pregnancy.  These two developments landed me on bed rest, at the hospital for twice weekly non-stress tests and with a certain c-section delivery.  I was not feeling too lucky about either of those developments.

On a Monday, it was decided that I needed to deliver on Thursday, at 36 weeks 1 day.  We were told that the baby would be totally fine after 36 weeks and that I needed to deliver to relieve my worsening condition.  I was frightened at how intense everything had gotten but I felt safe and secure with our doctors.  Jack was born on May 10th, weighing 4lbs 5oz, measuring 17" and scored an impressive 8 on his APGAR.  The nurses could not believe how well he was for being so tiny.  He did not need oxygen or heat lamps.  He did not have jaundice and he passed all of his tests with flying colors.  He was small but perfectly proportioned.  He was beautiful.

As soon as we knew Jack was OK, attention turned back to my blood pressure.  As the hours and days passed in the hospital, my blood pressure did not drop.  I ended up spending my very first Mothers' Day on a drip of magnesium sulfate.  If you do not know what this feels like, I pray you never do.  This IV acts to flush out the swelling that is not only in your ankles but in your organs as well.  If the swelling goes untreated, you risk seizures.  Not good.  Instead of seizures, I laid in bed while my veins burned for 24 hours.  When my blood levels were checked after 24 hours, my treatment was extended another six.  I honestly wondered if I would ever leave the hospital.

I watched as my husband changed Jack's first diapers and fed him his first drops of colostrum from an itty bitty cup.  I felt totally helpless and like I was already not doing what I was supposed to be doing as Jack's mommy.  It was like I was watching my family from far far away.  I was not feeling very lucky those first few days.

Yesterday I was surrounded by lots of loving family and friends as we celebrated St. Patrick's Day just like our ancestors did; with corned beef, cabbage, soda bread and conference championship basketball.   My parent's house was filled with laughter and love. However, all I could think about was who was missing from our party.

Everywhere I looked, I could just see where Jack had been when we visited in July.  He had slept next to our bed in the guest room, rocked in his cousin's chair in the living room and snuggled in the arms of his aunties and uncles. And I could feel the space where he was not now.  I thought about how he should be crawling around and playing with his cousin Grace. He should be wearing a silly green outfit and being fussed over by his great aunties and great grandmother.  His absence at that party broke my heart all over again.  I stepped away from the merriment, slipped up the stairs and sobbed big wet tears on the guest bed.  I cried so loudly I was sure someone would hear me over the din of the party below.  My heart has a Jack sized hole torn out of it and sometimes I just need to cry.  As much as I wanted to be happy and laughing with the loved ones we flew 1200 miles to see, I could not.  I cried until I gave myself a nosebleed and until my sister found me and rubbed my back as the last tears rolled out.  God knew what He was doing when he gave me a baby sister.

I was able to rejoin the party after slapping on a fresh coat of makeup.  I made it about another hour before I felt the waterworks starting back up.  This time a dear family friend - and a woman of great faith- offered to walk around the block with me.  As we walked, I talked and she listened.  At one point felt a panic attack coming on and we breathed through it together.  I told her how terribly unlucky I was feeling and she said something that totally changed my perspective in that moment.  She told me how lucky I was to have Jack here with me for the time that I DID have.  There are so many women who wait for years and years for the babies that never come.  There are other mommies who's babies go to heaven before they are even born.  They never get to hold their sweet children.  I did get that honor.

I am lucky.  More than that,  I am blessed to be Jack's mommy.  I got to hold that sweet baby boy for almost 5 months.  Jack connected me to mothers in a community where I barely knew anyone.  He earned my entrance to the local moms' group and is still making friends for me.

He let me see our hospital system up close and personal, in a way that has made me want to go back to school to be a nurse.  I want to be one of those angels in scrubs that shows love to people at their most vulnerable time.

Jack introduced me to an amazing man, his father.  I knew I loved and respected my husband when I married him but I had no idea how much more I would love him when he became a father.  Watching his tenderness as he cradled our tiny son and jumped at the chance to change his diapers or take him for a jog in the BOB, making up silly songs , those were gifts.  And again my love grew when we were in crisis mode for a month in the hospital.  I leaned on the strength, optimism and faith of my beloved.  He looked at each day as the day that we would all go home together and get back to our lives.  Just when I thought I loved him as much as I could, we lost Jack.  Once again, we clung to each other.  He wrote the obituary when my mind was mush.  He made decisions by day and held me as I cried in the evenings.  We ran away together up the coast after the funeral and regrouped as a family and a team.  We are the only two people in the world who share the bond of being Jack's parents and that is so powerful.  My love for Josh has grown exponentially because Jack lived and died.

Jack also changed my heart, flipped my perspective and grew my faith in a way I could never have imagined.  I get very uncomfortable when people marvel about my faith.  The only reason my faith is as big and strong as it is today is because it has to be.  I ended up at a point in life where I could no longer pretend to run the show on my own.  I needed a much bigger faith in a much bigger God to carry me though the dark days after Jack went to heaven.  I had to chose whether to decided that God was everything and still in control OR if I was living in a random world with no purpose or meaning.  I made the only decision I could.

I decided to believe that God is all powerful and that He has a different perspective on this life than I do.  I believe that Jack is in heaven.  I believe that heaven is a perfect place, where the people who love the Lord go to spend eternity in His presence.  I believe it is infinitely better than this broken world we live in today.  I believe I will see Jack again and be with him for eternity in heaven.  When I came to these beliefs, I found peace.  When I return to them, I find peace all over again.

God did not take my baby away to punish me because God does not see heaven as a punishment.  God brought Jack home to relieve him of pain and suffering in this life.  I often focus on where Jack is not, rather than where he is.  I think of the time I do not have with Jack, rather than the days, weeks and months that I did have.  Nothing in this world is certain.  I tend to trudge through my days looking forward to this trip, that credit card being paid off, whatever it is.  But none of that is guaranteed.  Just this past Friday we got an email letting us know our lease is not being renewed.  I assumed we would live in our little cottage until we saved up a down payment on a house.  Apparently that is not God's plan.  So we will move in 2 months, OK.

Jack gave me the ability to go with the flow a bit more.  I have loosened my grip on life.  I realize that I can control my actions and how I treat others but everything else is pretty much out of my control.  And I am actually happier when I realize that and give in to it.

An Irish Prayer

May God give you... For every storm, a rainbow, For every tear, a smile, For every care, a promise, And a blessing in each trial. For every problem life sends, A faithful friend to share, For every sigh, a sweet song, And an answer for each prayer.

5 Months: In the arms of Jesus longer than the arms of his parents.

Five months ago today my first born sweet baby boy, Jack, went to heaven.  He was only 4 months 26 days old.  Jack has now been in the arms of Jesus longer than he was in ours.  That seems unbelievable.  It is such a painful milestone.  I am surrounded by framed photos of his sweet face, yet it feels like he is slipping away.

The picture above is my absolute treasure.  We had gone to the grand opening of the Kennebunkport Republican Campaign Headquarters and Jack was the star of the party with his big smile and special onesie.  This picture was taken by a woman I did not know. I also did not know I was in the frame.  I thought she wanted a picture of the youngest Republican in town.  I am so thankful that she got us both and then decided to post it to Facebook.  What a gift.

This picture assures me that Jack knew who I was.  He knew I was his mama and he loved me.  He smiled at me and knew me and loved me.  I need this picture to tell me that is true.  Jack lived his last month in the hospital and two of those weeks he was on a respirator.  When babies are on respirators they cannot be held and they need to be sedated so that they don't wiggle out of their breathing tubes.  I didn't get to hold Jack like this in the last week of his life.  My lasting memories of him are his poor broken little body laying in an ICU bed while we held his little hand and sang to him, desperately hoping to wake him up.  We never gave up on that hope, that prayer.  We never even considered it an option for him do die.  He was never supposed to die.

I didn't get smiles like this during our last week with Jack.  He was not this sweet smiling baby.  I did not get to hold him in my arms and feel his loving gaze warm me from my heart. That hurts more than I can put into words.

I actually printed out photos of Jack smiling and laughing and taped them to the cold sterile window of his ICU room, so that his doctors and nurses would know the real Jack.  I wanted them to know he was a happy baby full of life and love, not just the patient in room 24.  I thought they might care more and try harder if they knew who they were working on.  I made sure every single person who walked into his room saw that wall of smiles.

I was feeling pretty well this morning.  I thought I would be able to be OK today.  That I could remember the good times and stop there.  Then, at lunch, I went to a farmers' market at the local elementary school.  Big mistake.  Each one of those happy, bouncing, giggling and chatting little children brought to mind what Jack will never be.  He will never be a wiggly second grader who loves recess and birthday parties.  And I will not volunteer in his classroom or chaperon field trips to the museum.  My heart broke all over again.  I got back to the car and my dog had left me a special "gift".  I cried all the way home.

I don't want to live my life like a victim but I sure feel like one today.  I just want my sweet baby back in my arms.

When Jack first passed away we were inundated with advice about grief.  It started with a folder of pamphlets the nurses in the ICU handed us as we wandered out of the hospital in a daze, one last time, without Jack.

Friends, family and even strangers began to mail us or drop off grief books. We now have a shelf in our living room with 15-20 books.  I have cracked a couple and skimmed a chapter or two.  My ability to see a task to completion is really lacking at the moment.

Some of the books are faith based, some are not.  Some are picture books and some contain an overwhelming amount of print.  One thing they all have in common is some kind of advice about what we should do as we grieve:

1. Eat well
2. Get enough sleep
3. Exercise
4. Pray
5. Talk to someone
6. Do something for someone else\
7. Cut yourself some slack

1. I have taken an interest in clean local eating - hence the farmers' market.
2. We go to bed at about 8 pm every night since we cancelled cable - that's another story.
3. We have been working out together with a trainer a few mornings per week.
4. I spend time reading God's Word most mornings and I talk to him throughout the day.  I ask HIM for help.
5. I have enlisted a crack team of professional and armature listeners.
6. I am wrapping this into #1 at the moment by cooking for my husband most days.  Its a win-win.
7. Hmmmmm....this one does not come easy to me at all.  I am my own harshest critic.  I say things to myself that I would NEVER say to another person.

Yesterday I was working with my new chiropractor and talking about how I have been exercising and eating much better for three months and I am not seeing much movement on the scale at all.  She shined a particularly bright light on something I had not even considered.  My grief, my stress, my deep sadness, and even my unjust feelings of guilt, are putting my body in a crisis mode.  And in crisis mode, the body holds on to all possible resources - read fat.  She pretty much blew my mind when she suggested that I was blaming myself for allowing Jack to die, and in response to that blame, I am punishing my body.  Wow.

I have been thinking about that and I am pretty sure she is right.  I am such a harsh judge of myself that I actually think I should have been able to save Jack. I blame myself.  And how can I punish myself?  Well I hate to be overweight....great, that's what I will do.  This might seem kind of out there.  But it makes perfect sense to me.  As a mom, the buck should have stopped with me and it didn't.

Now I realize that this kind of thinking is me trying to play god again.  And I am so thankful to know that because there is an cure to that line of thinking.  I need to go back to God again and recognize that HE is all powerful, not me.  HE will bring good from this pain and suffering.  I cannot imagine what good could be worth this price.  But maybe that's another good reason to let The Lord be The Lord. 

"Restore our fortunes, LORD, as streams renew the desert.

Those who plant in tears will harvest with shouts of joy.

They weep as they go to plant their seed, but they sing as they return with the harvest."

Psalm 126:4-6