Being Heard Without Taking a Breath

My sister's youngest daughter wrote this for school about Abby. It touched me deeply.

Amanda Maxwell Mr. Zverloff Literary Analysis and Composition II October 9, 2014

Being Heard Without Taking a Breath

When I was seven years old, my aunt and uncle were expecting their second child. I was impatiently waiting to play with a little girl cousin, and the whole family was holding their breath in anticipation. We were all so excited because the doctors had told my aunt she would never have children, and soon she would have two! When my aunt went into labor, the hospital discovered that the baby’s heart had stopped beating. Their daughter Abby was born later that evening, lifeless. Words cannot express the pain it brought to their family. I was young at the time, but the events that followed will remain etched in my mind forever. These events taught me life lessons that I would have never learned just sitting in the classroom. Because of Abby’s death, I believe that unborn children have value.

As my aunt’s family grieved, they sought to give Abby’s short time on Earth a purpose. Our families drew closer together through the crisis, so I would spend a lot of time at their home. From literally around the corner, since I was playing with my cousin down the hall, I listened attentively as my aunt talked with my mom about ways they kept Abby’s memory alive. At first, my aunt had little remembrances around the house, like a bear made out of the blanket that they held her in at the hospital. Soon, they contacted other families who had similar circumstances, and found out that there is whole community of people who were brought together through the death of their children. The MISS Foundation’s online support group walked with my aunt’s family, helping them where we could not. Losing a child is a grief so strong that only those who have gone through it themselves can fully understand. Spurred by this realization, my aunt began helping other parent’s grief by connecting online, and was even invited to share her story at the Emergency Nurse’s Association National Convention. I watched as my aunt worked through her pain to help others with their own. She likes to share a dream she had, where Abby threw her over a wall and she landed in her car on the other side. Even at such a young age, I identified, in every respect, the symbolism. It was as if Abby’s death was the catalyst for her to go out in the world and make a difference. No doubt about it, Abby had literally thrown her mother into her life’s work. It did not take the pain away, but it showed how it could be turned into hope. Before long, Abby’s story had touched thousands of people’s lives.

However, more lives were yet to be changed. Several years after Abby’s death, with little hope of biologically having any more children, my aunt and uncle decided to adopt a little girl. They did not have a lot of money, so they found many ways to fund the adoption. Each fundraising event shared the bittersweet story of the stillborn little girl who propelled her parents towards adoption. One of these fundraisers was a garage sale, held on an overcast fall morning. I remember shivering in the cold, drinking the sweet lemonade my cousin had made to make his contribution to the effort. I stood in amazement, watching as strangers, not just friends, came to support the addition to the family. The adoption took years to complete, so even the adoption process itself kept revealing to me how important Abby was. Her death was raising awareness for adoption! Right in front of me, I again was witnessing how something so tragic was being transformed into something beautiful. Of course, there were several naysayers who were afraid that the adoption would hurt them more than not having a child, or would ignorantly point out that they were just “replacing” Abby with another child. That was hardly the case. One child can never replace another, but when two year old Hope arrived she brought back something Abby took from her family when she left – a daughter on Earth.

Hope now has loving parents, and a big brother who waited a long time for a sister. She is the cutest little kindergartener that brings joy to all of our lives. At first glance, it is hard to believe that she spent the first few years of her life in an orphanage, or that English was not her native language. But Hope remembers that time in her life, and always will. At such a young age, she already knows the lessons that it took me a lifetime to learn. Her knowledge of compassion and love is unlike anything I have seen in a child before. When I was visiting recently, she took my hand and swiftly pulled me towards her room. She showed me the shelf where she had put Abby’s baby bear next to her own. Underneath it, she had hung Abby’s name-plate next to hers on the wall. “That’s my sister, Abby’s!” she proudly pointed out. When I saw this I realized how much she loves and understands the value of the “big sister” she never knew. My aunt later told me that Hope did that all on her own, without prompting. Such an authentic, genuine act of love brought tears to my eyes. It is so beautiful that she cares about Abby, and visually lets it show how much she appreciates what Abby means to her.

Because of Abby’s death, I believe that unborn children have value. Even though Abby never opened her eyes or felt the touch of another human, her existence had meaning. No one ever heard the sound of her voice, but her story has been heard by many. Grieving parents have been helped, nurses better understand stillbirth situations, adoption awareness was raised, and a little girl received her “forever” home, all because of Abby. A blood clot in her umbilical cord may have stopped her life, but it did not stop us from loving her. She continues to touch lives as her story is told, in the same way she does as I write this. Her life shows that worth does not have to come from anything we do, but simply from just existing. Finally, Abby fundamentally changed the lives of her whole family. If that does not have value, I do not know what does.

November 28

November 28. The day my life changed forever. I woke up that morning without a care in the world and ended it with a trip to the hospital to meet my daughter for the first time, leaving my little boy behind, tucked safely in his bed, while his grandparents waited and watched over him as he slept. I can't look at the calendar and see that date without a flood of emotions. I am transported back in time. I can see everything as if on a movie screen. What I was wearing, the lighting in the room, making sure I had everything I needed before we left, hugging my parents. I remember the drive. I can go there in my memory and be there in my mind. Parking at the hospital. Walking into the lobby. Sitting in a chair breathing through my contractions. I can be there as if it was happening now. Asking my husband to go back to the car to get the things I forgot. Walking to the elevator and pressing the button. Waiting. Arriving on the labor and delivery floor. Excitement in my heart, pain in my abdomen. Breathing. Filling out the paperwork. Excitement, pain, fear. Going back into the examination room. Taking off my clothes. Patting my pregnant belly. Smiling. So happy. So excited. So much pain. Putting on the gown. Watching the nurse. Cold gel on my stomach. Doppler rubbing across my abdomen. Static. Joking--it's okay she does that all the time. Silence. She has to go get the doppler. Fear and uncertainty. Panic. My heart beating practically out of my chest. I can hear my heartbeat. I can see the room. I just close my eyes and I can relieve every moment. The ultrasound. No movement. She has to go get the doctor. Something's wrong. Praying. Waiting. Dr. Brady comes in. No color. Death. She's gone. November 29. 2:00 in the morning and I am going to deliver my dead baby. Devastation. The rest is a blur ...

Precious Gift from a Friend

A dear friend (whom I know would rather remain anonymous) gave me the most precious Mother's Day gift. She went to the cemetery, weeded, cleared away the winter debris, checked the decorations and left tulips in memory of my Abby for me this weekend. She also told me that the single white tulip, which has bloomed in our yard every year since Abby died, did not bloom this year. Benjamin calls it our "God-flower" and said it did not bloom because we are not there. "God knew!" Thinking of all the moms with children in Heaven today and thankful that, because of God's son, we will see and hold them again. "God knew" and made a way ... ❤

Our Story

I know I am supposed to be writing something, but I don't know where to start.  I have felt the urge to write for some time, but some things have happened recently to keep me from posting.  I will not go into it here because it is actually too personal even for this very personal blog.  Suffice it to say, I am walking another lonely road and I need you more than ever, Lord.  My heart is heavy with grief and frustration over recent events that, once again, are out of my control.  All I know is that I need you.  I need to lean into you and find out what you want to do through all of this -- through me.  Speak to me now.  Hold me close and help me find my way through this.  You have seen me through so much and you have always been faithful.  I know you will not leave my side.  I just need to hear your voice and know what you want me to do ...

Perhaps this would be a good time to try to put into words some things that were on my heart before all of this happened.  I was bursting with joy over what the Lord has done in my life over these last few years.  I have the privilege every day of staring into the faces of not one, but two miracles.  I even get to hold them in my arms and listen as they call me "mommy."  It seems impossible to tell this story and do it justice.  It is so big, at least to me.  But I will try because I know that sharing it is what I am supposed to do and that it will bless and encourage everyone who hears it.

Most  people who know me, or at least have known me for more than a short time, already know that the fact that I have any children at all is no small miracle.  I was told in 1997, just a few months before we married, that I would never conceive a child.  The doctor who just performed a diagnostic laparoscopy came out of the operating room and told my then fiance and my mother without my permission.  I would only later confront that doctor with this simple truth:  he was a doctor and not God.  Only God could make that certain of a diagnosis and that I was finding a new doctor.  My husband and I married a few months later (thank God he still wanted to marry me) and started seeing a new doctor who gave us much more hope.  Although that doctor was unable to help us conceive a child, we began seeing a specialist a couple of years later and through many tests, surgeries and procedures, we finally conceived a child almost 7 years into our marriage.

Let's just say that those 7 years were filled with unimaginable joy and sorrow.  We led a youth group at our church for most of those years and our youth group kids became like our own family.  We parented dozens of teens in those years, some of whom remain close to us even now.  We spent as much free time with our elementary aged niece and nephews as we possibly could.  I kept myself busy at work.  My husband kept himself busy with school and the ministry.  Then I quit my job and went back to school when I was 29, partly out of boredom and partly so that I would have something to do other than sit around waiting to get pregnant.  When my 30th birthday came, every friend I had either just had a baby or was pregnant.  I subjected myself to the torture of a party (I still can't understand why I did that to myself) and smiled outwardly while I was screaming inwardly.  I would later discover that this was how I handled much of my silent grief.  Yes, it was grief.  Every month that I started to bleed was a death to me.  It was the death of a baby not conceived.  The death of my hopes and dreams to be what every little girl dreams to be: a mother.

To try to describe the pain of infertility and what it does to your marriage is difficult at best.  Everything that is meant to be sacred and intimate becomes clinical and sterile.  It steals the sweetness of lovemaking and turns it into something that it was never intended to be.  We worked hard to keep our relationship special, but after years of trying, it just took it's toll on us.  We were exhausted emotionally, spiritually and physically.  I remember the day I gave up like it was yesterday.  I continued to do some consulting work for my former employer while I was in school and went back to work for them full-time when I graduated.  It happened as I was driving home from work one day.  I heard the song "Why?" on the radio and began to sob and question God.  WHY?  WHY?  WHY?  Why could everyone else have a baby at the drop of a book and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get pregnant.  Why was I suffering like this?  Why was I the only one I knew who was suffering like this?  It wasn't fair.  Then I released my control for the first time and made the choice to trust God with the outcome.

Lucky?

So now that my daughter is home from Russia, people tell me I'm lucky. I'm lucky that my little girl came home potty trained, that I didn't have to go through that horrible newborn stage, that she sleeps through the night, that I don't have to change diapers or clean spit up, etc., etc., etc. Wow, I am so lucky. Why do people feel the need to tell me this? Am I lucky that I missed the first three years of her life? Am I lucky that I have missed and will miss my birth daughter's entire life? That I never got to take care of either of them as a baby? To see their first teeth, hear their first words, watch their first steps, comfort their first cries? How does that make me lucky? Is my daughter lucky that she spent the first three years of her life in an orphanage without a mother? Or that she was ripped away from her birth mother when she was born? That no one cradled and adored her when she was a newborn baby? That no one was there to rejoice in her firsts or comfort her cries? That she had to wait and wait and wait for someone to come and rescue her? That she lost everything and everyone she knew, including her country and her language, in order to be my daughter? Or am I lucky that I couldn't get and stay pregnant again after my daughter died? Am I lucky that I didn't have to go through labor to bring my daughter home from Russia? Was it an easier pregnancy? (I have been pregnant 3 times. It was not easier.) Am I lucky that I didn't have medical bills or a physical recovery from childbirth? (I did have bills ... lots of them.) Or the "pain" of carrying a child for 9 months? Am I lucky? Really? Am I lucky that I had to watch my son grieve and coach him through grief while dealing with my own? Am I lucky that he still feels that loss even though he now has a sister through adoption? And that I do, too? If I compare my life to those around me who have never experienced infertility, miscarriage, the loss of a child at birth, secondary infertility and adoption, all I can say is that they have NO clue what they are talking about! I am not lucky. My daughter is not lucky. My son is not lucky. My husband is not lucky. We are thankful to have each other and to finally be together, but lucky is not a word I would associate with my experience. We will have to continue to deal with our own grief throughout our lives. Having another daughter does not replace the daughter we lost (nor would it be fair to expect her to). She will also experience her own grief as she grows up and realizes what she has lost. I even catch glimpses of that now when she looks at photos from her old life or sees someone caring for a small baby. Yesterday, a friend came over with her 8 month old. I could see it in my daughter's eyes when she was asked, "Do you remember when you were a baby?" If she could have answered, I would have expected something like this, "Yeah, I remember. No one loved me like that. You're daughter is lucky!"

Thanks for listening ...

Post about my mom

I just found out a couple of weeks ago that my mom has lung cancer. She is 66. I am 40. She has smoked since she was a teenager. She insists that the doctor told her that her cancer is unrelated to smoking which is driving me mad. She said the doctor told her after her surgery (when she will have the upper part of her left lung removed) he expects her to quit, but until then she can smoke. I have decided to leave her alone about it until after the surgery, but if I see a cigarette in her hand, so help me God, I will have words with her. I will not watch her kill herself.

I find that I am going through all of the normal stages of grief as I process what this could mean for our family -- denial, anger, bargaining, depression -- I'm back on the rollercoaster. My primary emotion has been anger, although I have bargained and cried. I am angry that she doesn't see that her life is not just her own. I am angry that she does not see that her children and grandchildren still want and need her here. I am angry at her selfishness.

Lord, help me to love my mom and to forgive her for only thinking of herself through this time. Help me think of what she needs and not what I need even though what I really need is a mom. Give her what she does not deserve; what none of us deserves ... your love.

Sifting through the ashes

I woke up this morning with all kinds of plans for how I would spend this day. Work, bills, taxes, adoption grants and other tasks all stared back at me from my pile of papers needing to be completed, but all I could think about was sifting through the ashes of these last four years. The fire is out (finally) and there is no more smoke, but there are still ashes everywhere. It's time to clean them up!

Last night we met with our home church group and began a series of cardboard testimonies. Chad went first. He shared some pretty intimate and graphic details of our battle which drew me to look back and see what we have overcome and what we still have yet to tackle. It has taken this long just to be free from attack and come up for air long enough to see if the smoke has cleared. It has. And I can see how God has used all of it for our good, even if we haven't seen the full effects of it just yet.

For years, the focus was on my family which was obviously very dysfunctional. There was no hiding the effects of adultery, divorce, alcoholism, and abuse on our family. We obviously had problems. Chad's family looked normal in light of what we had been through. But what we didn't expect were the problems that arose in his family after Abby's death. It seemed to come out of left field, but as they say, hindsight is 20/20 and now it all makes sense.

Before we were married, Chad and I were very honest with each other about our sexual past. He knew I grew up around pornography and had sex with several partners. I knew that he had also been exposed to porn and had been promiscuis prior to our relationship. But we were both growing so strong in the Lord and we made a total commitment to purity in our relationship, knowing that God brought us together for a purpose and not wanting to do anything to jeopardize it. We were free of our past sexual sins and didn't want it in anyway to marr what God was doing. In fact, we didn't even kiss until our wedding day so there would be no temptation in our physical relationship before marriage.

So it wasn't too surprising a couple of years into our marriage to discover that pornography had made it's way back into our lives. When I caught him for the first time, it was easy to forgive and show him grace. Little did he know that I had also been struggling with pornography and together we agreed to seek out help. We went to a three day conference and learned what we could do to prevent it from ruining our young marriage and we found accountability partners to help encourage us to stay pure. It seemed to be working and we thought we had conquered the beast. It wasn't until years later that it would rear it's ugly head again.

I have learned that you cannot get rid of weeds unless you pull them up by the roots. If we had known then what we know now, that is what we would have done. But we didn't. We had not grown to understand that truth yet. So instead of treating the problem, we had only treated the symptom. The root issues were buried deep inside of us somewhere, hiding and hoping never to be found. It took a hurricane to finally unravel the deep issues of our hearts and bring us to a place where we could be honest with each other and ourselves and begin to truly heal.

In the months that I was pregnant with Abby, I began exploring an area of my life that had long been neglected. I am thankful that when God exposes areas that need healing, he treats us like an onion and only does a layer at a time. I had started to see how my attitudes and behaviors were controlled by deep issues of abandonment and rejection. I also started to see how I was repeating behaviors that were modeled for me by my own parents. I had become horribly abusive to my husband and realized how my need to control him had sabotaged his ministry more than once. I knew I needed to tackle this issue before my daughter was born and I set out on a path in search of healing and restoration.

The beginning of that healing came through a bible study called "Breaking Free" which exposed many lies I had believed about myself and my family. I started tearing down the strongholds in my life for the very first time. "Breaking Free" was followed by "Captivating" and "Believing God." These three bible studies revolutionized my life and my thinking in so many ways I can't even begin to count. I was starting my journey to freedom and I was committed to do whatever it took to achieve freedom.

Be careful what you pray for! I will never forget the words I wrote and taped to my refrigerator during that Bible study. It was something along the lines of, "God I give you permission to do whatever is necessary in my life to break these strongholds once and for all ..." Little did I know what would follow. I may not have ever agreed to it. But I know it was for my good and His glory. It would take the death of my daughter to get my attention and Chad's. And the days, months and years that followed, we would watch as the world we once knew burned all around us.

Right after Abby died, I was as broken as a person could possibly become. I don't think it is possible to be more broken than I was. But God met me tenderly in those fragile early days of grief. At first it seemed every stronghold we had ever faced had been demolished forever by her death. But it was only the beginning. The worst was yet to come.

To say that 2007 was normal for us seems laughable. But for a family who had just lost a child, we were dealing with what was normal for our situation. Our friends and family were almost heroic at the beginning, sending unbelievable amounts of love and support our way as we grieved openly. But as the months went on and people developed expectations for our grief process, things slowly began to change. The numbness of our early grief began to wear off and we became hyper sensitive to comments that seemed harsh and critical when what we needed was comfort.

Friends become strangers and strangers become friends. That is what we heard happens when you lose a child and that is what was happening to us. Everyone from our close friends to our pastor even Chad's family attacked and accused us in the following months and years. The expectations that we would be the people we were before were completely unrealistic. The loss of our daughter was a life changing event. We can never be the people we were before. And we will never be those same people again. As if surgery, a lawsuit, loss of friends, family betrayals, secondary infertility and miscarriage weren't enough, probably the most devastating event in all of this, at least for me, was the betrayal of my husband.

Little did I know that the monster called pornography had crept back into his life again until one day I found a magazine stowed in the rafters of our basement ceiling. It prompted me to check the computer where I found he had been browsing porn sites for months. He lied to my face at least half a dozen times before he finally confessed even though I had the evidence in my hands. I told him I wanted him to pack his bags and leave immediately. I felt so hurt and betrayed by his lies and did not believe anything he said to me. I grabbed our son and got in the van and told him that I expected him to be gone by the time I returned. He dropped to his knees in our driveway and begged to stay. I don't know what changed in me at that moment, but I decided to give him the chance he asked for and made him promise to get counseling. And so we did.

Fast foward three years and we are back where we started, battling the monster again. But this time, we know what we didn't know then. We must go after the root! And finally all of the issues in his family make sense. My family wasn't the only one that was dysfunctional. I never could explain why he and his sister had such extreme sexual issues. They seemed like the perfect, Christian family. But upon further examination and looking at in hindsight what we could not see in foresight, the issues are clear. Now I remember that first year we were married and how his parents gave us an extremely inappropriate (sexual) gift. And how his mom would complain about his dad's sexual desires. I finally told her that I didn't want to talk about her sex life or mine. But I never really put two and two together until now.

Add on the completely emotionless nature of his father and his mother's inability to deal with conflict and matriarchal reign of the family and I can see why I am married to a sexually addicted and extremely passive man. Not to say he is always passive. He could lead an army to victory in battle. In fact, every day he does just that at his job! But when it comes to the women in his life, he takes a beating and lays down for more. I see it clearly now. An abusive sister. A controlling mother. A passive father. Sexual dysfunction. Emotional disconnect. Marriage to a controlling, abusive wife. It was a perfect recipe for the battle we are facing in our marriage today.

It is not entirely his fault, you know. I am sure I have contributed to the problem. I also blame infertility and the clinical nature in which our sexual relationship was treated in our attempt to build a family. However, I know that God has used all of this to bring us, him, to a place where he can finally be free and heal from the wounds and sins of his past. There are no words to express how I feel at the thought of my husband being free and the restoration process he is finally in. I am proud of him for sharing openly with our church family and for seeking the help he needs to conquer the beast of pornography once and for all.

As I continue to sift through the ashes, I am reminded that God made a promise to bring beauty from them. He already has and I know there is more to come. We have to trust that He who began a good work within (us), will continue his work until it is finally finished on the day when Christ Jesus returns (Philippians 1:6). We are not finished yet ...