A New Home.

Yesterday we were invited to join our friends and their family to go bowling and out to dinner.  I have pretty much been crying at the drop of a hat all week but I know I need to get out and keep living life.  Plus, I had already broken down in the stands of a Major League Baseball game, what's a bowling alley?  I was expecting to cry at some point during the outing but I was not prepared for how quickly it happened.

When ever we go north, we drive by "the hospital".  It sits high above the city on a hill.  For me, it is like a bully waiting at the entrance of a playground to take my milk money and make me cry.  Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend to be asleep until we pass it.  Other times I have asked Josh to take a different route completely bypassing the city to get north.  This time I decided to stare it down and really look at the place where we spent the worst 30 days of our lives.

Because the hospital sits on a hill, the rooms have great views.  I spent a lot of hours staring out those windows and imagining our little family back out in the world together.  There is a hallway outside of the ICU that is lined with windows.  Most of them look at another part of the building but at the end of the hall you can see as far as the mountains.  You can also see the airport with planes coming and going all day long.  I would sit up in that windowsill when I needed a little break from all of the beeping of the ICU.  When Jack was sedated and intubated, people would try to get me to go for a walk, take a nap or just "take a break" but I never wanted to be too far.  I was afraid I would miss something important.  I just wanted to be as close to my baby as I could be.  The hallway was a safe distance in my mind.

I sat in that window, tucked my knees to my chest and watched the cars drive by on the tollway, coming and going, during rush hour or the middle of the day.  I would wonder where they were going, work?  somewhere fun?  on vacation?  All the time wondering if they knew how lucky they were to be outside in the world.  Did they have any idea that there were lives placed on hold and others hanging in the balance, so close to their commute?

Now we are the people cruising down the tollway heading to go bowling with friends.  I look up and I see the last place that Jack was in the world with us.  I see the last place I held hope for his recovery.  We fought for his life and lost there.  I see the last place I saw my baby smile.  We said goodbye there six months ago.  I can see the window of the corner room at the end of the hall where Jack died and the pain is physical.  What starts with a sniffle turns into a body shaking sob.  Just looking at that building....I don't even have words.  I asked Josh if we were just going to be stuck feeling awful every time we came in to the city.  Could it ever possibly get easier?  Will I ever drive by that building and not be flooded with tears?

In six weeks, we will move out of the home we shared with Jack.  Not by choice, our lease is not being renewed.  Some people have suggested that grief could be easier with a fresh start.  I love being in the home we shared as a family.  We did change the furniture around when we returned home without our son.  Our family helped clear the baby bottles out of the sink, move the swing from the living room and gather up everything from the nursery.  I just love sitting in the same window where I fed Jack all summer.  I love looking in the kitchen and remembering his bath time in the sink.  Looking over to where Josh would bounce him on his lap and make up songs for him.  Every now and again I find a pair of his pajamas or a tiny hat mixed in with my tank tops.  I like being where he was and where he lived.  It makes me so sad to think that in two months, we will drive by this special place but not be welcome inside anymore.

I have thought about wanting to leave the area completely and move far away.  That was my not-so-secret plan for a while.  I wanted to raise Jack where I grew up and with my friend's children.  I had it all planned out, block parties, play-dates and soccer games, it was going to be wonderful.  That doesn't feel right anymore.  I no longer have that desire to leave.  I want to be near where Jack was.  In his 4 months and 26 days here, Jack made this my new home.

Jack and I watched a lot of the Summer Olympics together.  We especially loved the women's gymnastics and their theme song by Phillip Phillips: "Home".  Now when I hear that song, I think of Jack.  I wonder if he had any idea that he was going to make this place my home?

Hold on, to me as we go

As we roll down this unfamiliar road

And although this wave is stringing us along

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

Settle down, it'll all be clear

Don't pay no mind to the demons

They fill you with fear

The trouble it might drag you down

If you get lost, you can always be found

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

Settle down, it'll all be clear

Don't pay no mind to the demons

They fill you with fear

The trouble it might drag you down

If you get lost, you can always be found

Just know you’re not alone

Cause I’m going to make this place your home

Too Close to Home.

I am a health care recruiter.  Most of my work is as a nurse recruiter and for the past six months I have been working on positions like: Director of Home Health, Director of Hospice and CNAs.  With my experience of the past year, I take a new understanding of how hospitals work and what nurses really do day to day.  I watched it and lived it.  I really like what I do and I love talking with nurses and connecting them to new opportunities.

And then yesterday my client asked me to partner with them on a Pediatric Intensive Care Unit Nurse.

I could hardly get through the call without breaking down.  I wanted to some how share with them how close this project is to my heart.  But I can't tell them what happened.  There are professional boundaries that should not be crossed.  It would be awkward to share Jack's story with a stranger over the phone.  And then what would I expect them to say?  Most people cry when I tell them what happened   I don't really like making people cry, so I don't talk about it as much as I wish I could.

At one point on our call, it was mentioned that they need a nurse who can stay calm as "things go down the tubes fast" with a patient.  It took every thing I had not to start sobbing.  Things went "down the tubes fast" for my baby.  Even typing this I am shaking and crying.  How am I going to spend the next 30 days thinking about this and looking at it every single day?

As I work on my strategy for this position,  I need to watch their employment video and read their website.  I just cannot do it.  I started and there are pictures of children with NG tubes everywhere.  Children like Jack.  I wonder if they are at home with their families now.  I wonder what Jack would look like if he was with us.  What would he be learning and doing?  In the picture below, I caught him as he was learning to bring his hands to his mouth with a purpose.  This was taken they day before what would be his fatal injury.  He would have been 11 months tomorrow.  Instead, Saturday marked 6 months that he has been gone from us.

I spent the day sobbing intermittently   My pain is palpable and intense. We were away visiting friends and I cried my way though the Atlanta Botanical Gardens and at a Braves game.  Thoughts hung in my mind like: "Six months ago right now we were called into the 'bad news room' outside of the PICU and got the news that we had to say goodbye...Jack would not live through the afternoon."  I looked out at 40,000 people at the Braves game and thought: "None of these people are Jack.  Jack will never see a baseball game.  We will never watch Jack play baseball."  And then my eyes would well up and I would be shaking and crying sitting in the upper deck of Turner Field.

I want to nuzzle my face against his so badly.  That sweet smelling peach fuzz face that I miss so desperately.   When Jack was upset or scared, all I had to do was rub my face against his and mummer "Mamma loves you.  Mamma loves you." over and over again.  It was like magic. He would soften and the tears would dry up as his stiff little baby body melted into my arms.  He just needed that reassurance that I was there.

Now, I turn down the radio every day when I drive past Jack's cemetery and remind him "Mamma loves you."  And then I cry the rest of the way home.

I think I need to put some of my Jack framed photos away for a while.  Just looking with his sweet face ignites another round of sobbing.  As I sit at my desk, I can count at least 5 Jack faces in my line of sight.  These colorful reminders are more painful than anything now.  This morning I even had to make my dog the background photo on my phone  because any picture of Jack triggers more tears.  I feel terrible for having to hide him away but I need to, at least for today.

Recruiting for this PICU RN is bringing up so many memories.  The nurses who cared for Jack were absolute angels.  They were confident, skilled and kind.  They meticulously managed his medications and the machines that kept him alive during the darkest days. They offered hugs and hope each and every day.  The night nurses held his little hand for hours while we got some much needed sleep.  They cried right along with us when we said goodbye. A few even came to his visiting hours and funeral.  I know they loved Jack too.

I wish I could see them and get some big hugs from the nurses and doctors who loved my baby boy and worked so hard to save him.  I almost picked up the phone at lunch today to call the intensitivist who became like another mother to me during those terrible last weeks.   I know we were only one of many families they treat over the year but they were the only team of health care professionals who loved Jack and supported us.  There is an event this month to honor all of the babies like Jack.  I just am not ready to return to the hospital.  My wounds are still too raw.

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

Trying to Make Sense of Grief.

I keep trying to make sense of things this week but I just keep coming up with contradictions.  Grief does not make any sense.  It is so hard.  It seems to go on for ever.  We truly do just try to make it though each day.  People say not to wish your days away but they must not know grief like this.  It seems to be an endless string of cliches and contradictions.

I feel the need to distract myself with work but then I can't focus for more than 10 minutes on anything.

I want to go away for the weekend to a remote mountain retreat but don't want to go through the hassle of leaving the house.

I throw myself into a clean eating kick and a fitness regimen on day and the next day I am so sad all I want to is pizza and Dove dark chocolate. Even though I know that won't fix anything, I am drawn to it time and again. Maybe this time it will work.

I want to go to the farmer's market this morning but I don't want to drive there and be around all those people.

I want to sleep a lot but once I fall asleep I only have bad dreams.

I know I will feel better if I get to the gym or go for a walk but I can't seem to get myself moving.

I have a business selling beautiful jewelry but I sit around in the same two pairs of black yoga pants, Old Navy cotton maternity shirts and my husband's fleece every day.

I want to "get our finances in order" but I also want to spend recklessly on fancy shampoo, blush and lipstick to wear while I sit around the house and work from home.

I wish my friends back in the Midwest were closer and could come over to sit with me while I cry before dinner most days.  However, I never pick up the phone to call any of them or answer the phone when they call.  I just don't want to be cheered up. 

As much as I want to be done grieving and be "better" or "happy again", I actually want to be miserable right now.  I hurt in a very physical and all consuming way but it feels right.  I should be hurting like that.  My son was taken from me.

In typical God style, He has slipped someone into my life to guide me and speak truth to me though this dark time.  I have been slowly getting to know a lovely woman since I moved to town almost two years ago.  Recently, I learned that she is somewhat of an expert on both grief and God's Word.  

She is having me read through the Gospel of Luke, very slowly, imaging what it must have been like for Mary of Nazareth to have an angel appear in her bedroom one morning to tell her that God love her so much he was going to use her to bring into the world the Savior of her people.  Wow.  Really sit and think about that.  He was not promising to make her life joyful and easy because he found favor in her.  He was going to impregnate her by the Holy Spirit before she was married, something that could get her stoned.  Then she would have her hands full with a child who ran off at the crowded temple to teach the elders, as the family had begun their days long walk home.  Later she would watch as her own Jewish people would say horrible things about her baby boy, plot to murder him and then actually watch as they did so.  

I think back to when I went to St. Peter's in Rome after studying Michelangelo's Pieta in Art History class.  I knew I was standing in front of a beautiful and significant work of art.  I had no idea how much it would resonate with me 10 years later as a mother holding her son's lifeless body.

I am looking forward to seeing what God shows me though Mary and Jesus' lives.  I hope I can find some comfort. We met earlier this week to talk about what I had read and the conversation really took a turn to a pretty powerful revelation.  I don't feel like God has been listening to me for years.  

A dear friend of mine was diagnosed with cancer in September of 2011.  She had just been out for my wedding and was thrilled to be expecting a child just 3 months after her own summer wedding.  She found out she had cancer 2 weeks after I saw her.  I prayed and prayed for God to touch her and heal her.  I had my church pray.  I asked everyone I knew or met to pray for her to be fully healed.  She went home to heaven in December of 2011.  God did not answer my prayer to save her.

My first year after moving East I prayed and prayed for Josh to want to move to Milwaukee.  I was so homesick I could not imagine living my life so far from my family and friends.  I knew God could move us home if he wanted to.  We didn't go.

When Jack was in the hospital I prayed and prayed for him to get better.  I begged God to heal him.  Our church prayed.  Everyone we came across said that their family, church, bible study, everyone was praying for Jack.  He was even on a prayer email that is sent to over a million people in the South.   I was convinced that God would heal Jack in an amazing miracle and so many people would be amazed and their faith would be strengthened and they would love God more than they ever had because He had listened and He had given us what we asked for: Jack alive.  I knew God would save Jack.  I just knew it.

We know I did not get the answer I wanted to that prayer.

My thought was never that God could not answer my prayers.  I became convinced that God did not want to answer them. I was not sure if it was because my faith was not strong or mature enough.  Either way, as my friend pointed out, I really did not feel like God was listening to me.

Monday afternoon I could feel the tears bubbling up in my chest.  It was as if my heart started crying hours before my eyes got in on the act.  When those tears bubbled up they overflowed in a powerful way with waves of sorrow washing over me for more than an hour.  

My home office is in the same room that was Jack's nursery.  While we have put away all of his clothes and furniture, his books remain on the shelf.  I pulled down a few books, curled up in a chair and started to read to Jack.  As the sun began to set on that day, I read "Mommy and Me", "Thank You God for Mommy" and "Snuggle Puppy".  Reading aloud evolved into shouting, sobbing, and hyperventilating with some bits of book mixed in.  The books were talking about mommies keeping baby safe, sob.  Mommies holding baby while he drifts off to sleep to the sound of her heartbeat, groan.  Mommy teaching baby about faith in God, wail.  I cried out to God though my tears and dripping nose, 

WHY?  

WHY us?  

WHY Jack?

WHY could you not have healed him and used THAT for your glory?

WHY did you let him die?

I trust you but this hurts so badly I can't breath.  I can't see though this darkness.  How can anything be worth this pain?  How can we be happy again without Jack here with us?  

I wanted God to hear me so I really let Him have it.  After all, Jesus wept when his friend Lazarus died. (John 11:35).   He also cried out to God asking for relief: About the ninth hour Jesus cried out in a loud voice, "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?"--which means, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" (Matthew 27:46)

 And the Psalmist constantly let God know he wanted God to jump in and do something. 

"Evening, morning and noon I cry out in distress, and He hears my voice." (Psalm 55:17)  I pray He hears my voice, as well.

I wept and moaned until the dog even left the room.  I could not get air in my lungs to power my sorrow.  I actually cried until I physically could not cry any longer.  At the end there were a few little bouts left and I squeezed the tears out of me like a wet dish rag.  Afterwards, that is what I felt like.  Limp.  Worn out.

My friend shared with me a beautiful analogy about a snake shedding its skin revealing the new skin that is already underneath.   She wanted to show me that I am not going to be the same woman I was before Jack.  I have carried my son, given birth and buried him in a year.  I am not that same girl that I was when I lived in Chicago or even the day I was married just 17 months ago.  I could never be the same after Jack lived and died.  

When a snake prepares to shed its skin, it wedges itself in a safe place, away from predators and uses the confined space to wiggle out of its old skin that no longer fits.   After a time of healing,  it emerges ready to return to life with a skin that fits his newly grown self.

I suppose I can relate to that snake.  I want to hide in a dark, enclosed safe place while I learn how to adapt to the new woman I am.  It is comfortable for me to stay home, hide in bed, not answer the phone and turn down invitations.  I had so little time to get used to being a mother.  Now I am a mother without a baby in her arms.  I am going to need to give myself some time to shed my old skin and grow into the new skin.  I also need to trust that God will keep me though this process and bring me out the other side when my new skin is ready.

Learning to be Still in the Storm.

This morning Nemo, the blizzard, continues to rage outside our little cottage with howling winds, snow drifting up the window and no sign of letting up anytime soon.  For some reason I am filled with a sense of peace, contentment and gratitude.  I don't understand why.  I had a really difficult and deeply sad week with my grief.  I spent a lot of time crying and being washed over with wave after wave of tears.  Today though, my heart is full of praise during a very real storm.

I am thankful for our cozy Cape.  I usually think about how small it is and how much I would like a bigger home, one I could entertain friends and family with big dinners and parties.  I day dream about two stories, more than one bathroom, a kitchen island and more outlets.  I think about how amazing it will be to have a fenced in yard someday.  This morning I am glad our home is small enough to heat quickly and and stay warm as the wind chills drop below zero outside.  It is just the right size for Josh and me.  We only have one TV and one couch, which means we spend a whole lot of time together.  And in this season of our lives, that is probably important.  That we hunker down and cling to each other as we continue to weather the storm inside our hearts.

I am also thankful that God picked me to be Jack's mommy.  Yesterday all I could think of was what was taken from me.  What a victim I am to my circumstances.  The memories I won't be able to make with my son.  Today I am remembering the time I did have with our little man, how bright his smile was and that I was the one he was smiling at.

Lately, I have really been wrestling with what parts of our storm have been God's plan for our lives and what have been a result of the fallen world we all live in.  Did God plan for Jack to have such a traumatic last month of life in the hospital and to die from septic shock?  I don't think so.  God would not want to harm one of his precious little children.  But he is Sovereign and we know nothing happens without his knowledge...

Or did human error set off a terrible painful chain of events that God will use for his Glory and for good for us all?  Did God mercifully take Jack home to heaven before he could suffer anymore pain?  Absolutely.   These are the winds that have been blowing me back and forth and turning me around until I am convinced I cannot figure out the truth.  Where is God in this storm and where isn't he?

"Be Still and know that I am God." Psalm 46:10

I have been meditating on that verse a lot lately.  By "meditating" I do not mean lighting incense and sitting cross legged on the floor.  I don't think my legs would bend like that these days and incense nauseates me.  (Like my dear Grandmother, I am very sensitive to smells.)  I simply sit quietly and think about what that means.  I try to obey.  

Today, I am thankful that I can be sure of one thing: God is not asking me to figure everything (or anything) out. He is asking me to be still and know that He is God. 

"Be still."  I can do that.  

"Know that I am God."  OK. I do know that.  So, nothing about needing to understand why?  

Great!  It is very comforting to be reminded that the Creator of our entire Universe is running this show and I do not need to jump in and take over for Him.  God is truth.

Another verse that has really been popping up all over the place for me is Isaiah 55:8-9 :

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts,

    neither are your ways my ways,”

declares the Lord.

“As the heavens are higher than the earth,

    so are my ways higher than your ways

    and my thoughts than your thoughts." 

This Scripture tells me that God's thoughts are not the same as mine.  Whew!  What a relief for all of us.  We would all be in trouble if God thought like me.  I am fearful and I have doubt.  I am constantly changing my mind about everything.  God is constant and his thoughts are much much higher than mine.  I can only see the 1/4 mile down the road during a blizzard and our Lord sees it all; today and all of our tomorrows.


I need to know that God sees my life, our whole world, differently than I do.  He sees His creation as a whole, perfect plan, all leading to His children spending eternity with Him.  He sees a much bigger picture than I do.  One that spans all of time.  

He also sees life on earth and death very differently than we do.  He sees death for His children as a necessary step to eternity in heaven.  It is not an end but a beginning for those who believe in Him and have trusted His son, Jesus, with their lives.  We weep and mourn the loss of our loved ones on this earth, because this is all we can see and know for sure.  We think of life in finite terms of 70, 80, 90 years.  But that is not how God sees His creation at all.  Our lives on earth will be a blip in the course of eternity.  God is thrilled to have Jack with him!  God also knows that he has more love and joy in store for us here on earth, before we are reunited with Jack in heaven one day. 

His Word tells me that God is not the author of confusion but of peace.  So I can know that the peace I feel today in my heart is from God.  That peace has been easier to find when I am letting God know how much I need Him and then opening up His Word, the Bible, and letting Him share these encouraging truths with me each morning. I feel loved, warm and peaceful, at least for today. 

I suppose it is like turning on the Weather Channel and trusting Jim Cantore to guide us though Nemo.  We know where to go and who to trust to bring us though sever weather.  The same way I know God is the expert on the storms of my heart and his word will carry me though.  He created my heart, so why look anywhere else to heal it.   The storm has not slowed down and I don't know when it will, but I can have peace in midst of it today.  What a blessing.  Thank you, Jesus.

When Codolence Cards and Cookies Turn Into Collection Calls.

(This is a picture of our preppy little man a week before he turned 4 months old.)

Tomorrow will be four months since Jack went home to be with our Lord Jesus.  Four months is almost how long we had him in our arms.  Four months was how long he lived before he went into the hospital.  Four months is nothing, not enough time to be with your baby and entirely too long to be without him.  For us, four months is just the beginning.

Our pain has in no way started to subside.  If anything, it is more real and more raw with each passing week.  My heart physically hurts.  It is heavy.  It is hard to breathe.  I feel physically ill when I think back to Jack's last week in the hospital.  Just when I think we are really grieving, it hurts even more.  I asked a friend and grief specialist from a local church how I would know if we were grieving.  She told me that grieving is sleeping more than normal (check), eating more than normal (check) and not wanting to be out in public or around other babies (check). 

We just do not want to leave the house much, especially after a long hard day of work and mourning.  Last week we were too sad to go to puppy obedience class with Lucy. We decided to home school her for the week.  We have not been to our regular Thursday night Bible study all month.  We would rather eat dinner and go to sleep at 8pm...and that is what we do almost every night.

We have even skipped the last 2 sessions of the parents' grief group.  It doesn't start till 7pm and is a solid 25 minute drive from our house.  It is just too much hassle for now.

On Saturday, we went for a day long drive.  It was the perfect solution to my desire to both run away and stay isolated.  We drove all over and ended up in North Conway, NH for dinner.  We ran from the sea to the mountains and were still able to spend most of our time alone together (with the dog) in our truck.  Perfect.  Then a family came into the restaurant where we went for dinner and they had the audacity to have two adorable children with them, one looking about Jack's age.  Ugh.  Kids are everywhere.

I love kids. I want more kids.  But lately, they just remind me that they are not Jack.

So, here we are at four months without our our beloved son.  The condolence cards and coffee cakes have long since dried up.  There was that initial flood in the immediate weeks after Jack's death.  There was love literally pouring into our lives in the form of greeting cards and baked goods each and every day.  It all came at once and before we could even really process it all.  We were still too numb.  Now the lonely reality is setting in and other people's lives are carrying on, as they should.  We are still here, missing Jack constantly and instead of cards from loved ones, we get hospital bills.

These days opening envelopes from the hospital is almost a daily occurrence.  Or at least it feels that way.  First come the bills you get before insurance has been billed.  I am not even sure why they send these because we have insurance and clearly they will pay for some of this.  The first one of those arrived the day before Jack's funeral.  He had been gone less than a week and we get a bill for well over six figures.  My son died in your care and this is how much it cost us?  Why can't the case managers connect with the billing department to at least delay things like that from happening?  Give us a week or two, ok?  They should figure out a way to communicate better with their own billing department.

Pretty soon we started getting actual bills.  We had spoken with our insurance company while we were still in the hospital and our understanding was that we had met all of our deductibles with Jack's birth and that insurance would cover the rest of his care in 2012.  I even called at one point and talked to billing for the hospital.  I explained what I understood and that Jack had not come home from their hospital.  We agreed that it would take a while for insurance work it all out.  She promised me she would flag the account so that it would never be sent to collections. So when the bills kept coming, we filed them away assuming that insurance would eventually pay them.  They did not. 

The bill collection calls started.

Are you kidding me?

We paid the collection agency promptly to avoid hits to our credit scores and two weeks later another bill shows up from the hospital for the same amount.  Another call to the hospital billing yesterday, this time I am in tears with this woman.  Why?  Why does this have to be so difficult?  She apologized profusely once I explained that Jack had died at their hospital and she assured me once again that we were paid in full and would not be sent to collections.

So, this morning I see another envelope from the hospital.  I think, well, it can't be too bad, we are paid in full.  So I opened it.  And I was treated to an itemization of the services that were administered to save Jack from septic shock on September 29th: Insert emergency air: $328, Insert non tunnel cv: $383, initial pediatric CA: $619, Insert needle in bone: $188....the list goes on and immediately I am back in the PICU that night.  It all seemed like a terrible dream when it was happening.  All kinds of nurses and doctors swarming around Jack with tubes and needles and machines ready to be plugged in.  I stood just outside the door watching.  Frozen.  Not able to look away.  He had been in the hospital for three weeks at that point.  We were supposed to be on our way home in 36 hours. I am weeping while I type this.  Thinking of his physical pain and suffering is unbearable.

Every time I open one of those envelopes I am reminded of the physical nature of Jack's life and death.  It is much easier to step back, detach myself and take a spiritual approach.  Easier is a relative term in this case, I suppose. I fully believe that Heaven is a real place.  I believe Jack is there.  I believe he knows how much we love him and I believe we will be reunited with him one day and for all of eternity.  I believe all of those things but I cannot touch them or see them with my eyes or lay hands on them yet.  I suppose that is where faith comes in.

I need that faith to overcome the physical reminders of the physical reality of what happened.  The bills dragging me mentally back to the hospital.  The daily drives past Jack's cemetery reminding me that his body is less than 2 miles from me even now.  The memories of holding his puffy little hand and begging him to open his eyes or pee a little more for us.  The last time I held him in my arms.  The physical is painful.  I cannot even put a happy cherry on top today.  I am hurting.  This is so very hard, every single day. 

The only way I am making it through this is by fully admitting personal defeat and asking God to carry me each day.  I do not have the strength to do any of this on my own.  I am living that Footprints in the Sand poem that is in my grandparents bathroom.  There is only one set of footprints today because God has me in his arms. 

I am reading a book by Beth Moore "Praying God's Word" and there is a chapter on overcoming grief.  That is helping.  There is also a song by Plum, "I Need You Now (How Many Times).  The first time I heard this song was back in September when Jack was still with us.  Now when I hear it, I sing at the top of my lungs and bawl.  I heard it on the radio this morning on my way home from the grocery store.  I sobbed the rest of the way home.  That is all I can do some days. 

How many times have you heard me say, God please take this? 

How many times have you given me strength to just keep breathing?

Oh, I need you. 

God, I need you now!