November 29, 2016
Born still, but still born!
Today would have been my daughter's 10th birthday. I have not been posting on my personal page due to some very difficult circumstances my family has endured over the last year, but wanted a place to remember her today. I thought this would be a good place. Abigail Graceland Werner lived. No, she did not take a breath, but she lived and she was loved and wanted. She was born still, but she was still born. She is forever loved and MISSed and today we remember what a gift she was to us. Thank you for letting me share and for remembering her with me today!
November 29, 2015
Grief After Nine Years
"Nine years since I held you in my arms. Each year, closer to holding you again. Missing you every day in between. Happy 9th birthday, sweet girl. You are loved, cherished and missed beyond words ..."
These are the only words I could find to post today for Abby's 9th birthday. I have sat here literally all morning trying to figure out what to say and that is all that would come out. My chest filled with pain as I clicked the post button and heard the first notification that someone "liked" my post. Then the tears finally flowed.
It is hard to process my feelings this far out from her death. In some ways, it feels like yesterday that I held her in my arms for the last time and, in other ways, it feels like a dream. I feel relief having finally posted something, anything, that makes it real. She WAS here. She DID live. She DID die. It was NOT a dream (or a nightmare). I feel the fear and pain leaving my body now as I get these feelings out, trapped by time. Time is a funny thing. It can make memories seem distant or near, depending on whether you draw them close or push them away. But when I recall the time I had with her, really close my eyes, I am transported to those tender moments, seeing her beautiful face, her tiny hands, her blue fingernails, the raw pain of loss and anguish over her death, the utter, complete lostness of it all (I know that is not a word, but it is the only thing that comes even close to expressing what I feel).
I can relive those moments any time and any way that I choose. So, I today choose to relive them with joy and thankfulness. Some people say her death was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I say it was one of the best things to ever happen to me. She changed me forever and I will have her forever. She is not lost, but waiting. Someday I will be with her. In the meantime, her life and death gave me many gifts. She gave me love, compassion, understanding, faith, strength, wisdom, patience, endurance, perseverance and so much more. She changed my life in the best way. A little girl now sits at our table who quite possibly would not be here if it weren't for her life and death. My life has more depth and meaning than ever before. She gave me purpose.
A passage of Scripture was given to me by my brother when Abby died. I wrote it on a notecard and taped it in my kitchen to remind me every day of it's truth:
"I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD." ~ Psalm 27:13-14
I have seen the goodness of the Lord. He has been so compassionate and good to me. When a child loses her parents, she is called an orphan. When a wife loses her husband, she is called a widow. There is no word for a mother who loses her child, but I know that the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. I am living proof.
Ironically, the other night, I was going to bed with relief after a couple of months of financial stress related to my husband's job finally came to an end. I picked up my Bible and it was bookmarked at Psalm 116. I did not bookmark this passage, so it was "coincidence" that this is the passage that was marked. Here is what it says ...
I love God because he listened to me,
listened as I begged for mercy.
He listened so intently
as I laid out my case before him.
Death stared me in the face,
hell was hard on my heels.
Up against it, I didn’t know which way to turn;
then I called out to God for help:
“Please, God!” I cried out.
“Save my life!”
God is gracious—it is he who makes things right,
our most compassionate God.
God takes the side of the helpless;
when I was at the end of my rope, he saved me.
I said to myself, “Relax and rest.
God has showered you with blessings.
Soul, you’ve been rescued from death;
Eye, you’ve been rescued from tears;
And you, Foot, were kept from stumbling.”
I’m striding in the presence of God,
alive in the land of the living!
I stayed faithful, though bedeviled,
and despite a ton of bad luck,
Despite giving up on the human race,
saying, “They’re all liars and cheats.”
What can I give back to God
for the blessings he’s poured out on me?
I’ll lift high the cup of salvation—a toast to God!
I’ll pray in the name of God;
I’ll complete what I promised God I’d do,
and I’ll do it together with his people.
When they arrive at the gates of death,
God welcomes those who love him.
Oh, God, here I am, your servant,
your faithful servant: set me free for your service!
I’m ready to offer the thanksgiving sacrifice
and pray in the name of God.
I’ll complete what I promised God I’d do,
and I’ll do it in company with his people,
In the place of worship, in God’s house,
in Jerusalem, God’s city.
Hallelujah!
These are the only words I could find to post today for Abby's 9th birthday. I have sat here literally all morning trying to figure out what to say and that is all that would come out. My chest filled with pain as I clicked the post button and heard the first notification that someone "liked" my post. Then the tears finally flowed.
It is hard to process my feelings this far out from her death. In some ways, it feels like yesterday that I held her in my arms for the last time and, in other ways, it feels like a dream. I feel relief having finally posted something, anything, that makes it real. She WAS here. She DID live. She DID die. It was NOT a dream (or a nightmare). I feel the fear and pain leaving my body now as I get these feelings out, trapped by time. Time is a funny thing. It can make memories seem distant or near, depending on whether you draw them close or push them away. But when I recall the time I had with her, really close my eyes, I am transported to those tender moments, seeing her beautiful face, her tiny hands, her blue fingernails, the raw pain of loss and anguish over her death, the utter, complete lostness of it all (I know that is not a word, but it is the only thing that comes even close to expressing what I feel).
I can relive those moments any time and any way that I choose. So, I today choose to relive them with joy and thankfulness. Some people say her death was the worst thing that ever happened to me. I say it was one of the best things to ever happen to me. She changed me forever and I will have her forever. She is not lost, but waiting. Someday I will be with her. In the meantime, her life and death gave me many gifts. She gave me love, compassion, understanding, faith, strength, wisdom, patience, endurance, perseverance and so much more. She changed my life in the best way. A little girl now sits at our table who quite possibly would not be here if it weren't for her life and death. My life has more depth and meaning than ever before. She gave me purpose.
A passage of Scripture was given to me by my brother when Abby died. I wrote it on a notecard and taped it in my kitchen to remind me every day of it's truth:
"I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the LORD in the land of the living. Wait for the LORD; be strong and take heart and wait for the LORD." ~ Psalm 27:13-14
I have seen the goodness of the Lord. He has been so compassionate and good to me. When a child loses her parents, she is called an orphan. When a wife loses her husband, she is called a widow. There is no word for a mother who loses her child, but I know that the Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. I am living proof.
Ironically, the other night, I was going to bed with relief after a couple of months of financial stress related to my husband's job finally came to an end. I picked up my Bible and it was bookmarked at Psalm 116. I did not bookmark this passage, so it was "coincidence" that this is the passage that was marked. Here is what it says ...
I love God because he listened to me,
listened as I begged for mercy.
He listened so intently
as I laid out my case before him.
Death stared me in the face,
hell was hard on my heels.
Up against it, I didn’t know which way to turn;
then I called out to God for help:
“Please, God!” I cried out.
“Save my life!”
God is gracious—it is he who makes things right,
our most compassionate God.
God takes the side of the helpless;
when I was at the end of my rope, he saved me.
I said to myself, “Relax and rest.
God has showered you with blessings.
Soul, you’ve been rescued from death;
Eye, you’ve been rescued from tears;
And you, Foot, were kept from stumbling.”
I’m striding in the presence of God,
alive in the land of the living!
I stayed faithful, though bedeviled,
and despite a ton of bad luck,
Despite giving up on the human race,
saying, “They’re all liars and cheats.”
What can I give back to God
for the blessings he’s poured out on me?
I’ll lift high the cup of salvation—a toast to God!
I’ll pray in the name of God;
I’ll complete what I promised God I’d do,
and I’ll do it together with his people.
When they arrive at the gates of death,
God welcomes those who love him.
Oh, God, here I am, your servant,
your faithful servant: set me free for your service!
I’m ready to offer the thanksgiving sacrifice
and pray in the name of God.
I’ll complete what I promised God I’d do,
and I’ll do it in company with his people,
In the place of worship, in God’s house,
in Jerusalem, God’s city.
Hallelujah!
October 09, 2014
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.
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, 2013
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 ...
May 12, 2013
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 ... ❤
May 02, 2013
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.
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.
March 11, 2012
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 ...
Thanks for listening ...
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