06-13-17 The Hazel Box

If the math was correct, next Tuesday would have been my due date, but since all of my children have been c-sections, and they typically schedule those exactly a week before, today would have been the day.

But instead of celebrating a birthday, I am staring at a box that contains all the earthly evidence that Hazel Marie ever existed. The Hazel Box… A pregnancy test, some surgery photos, and the doctor’s report from October 29th.

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I never knew you could miss someone so much that you never met. I never knew the hole that loss would leave. But it’s there, and it’s gaping, and the only thing that soothes it is to know that this isn’t the end, that one day we will meet face to face, and the first thing I will say is “I love you.”

The past few weeks have been incredibly difficult, as this day loomed on the horizon, and me unable to slow it’s approach. But it’s come and it hurt. It was made easier by the friends that reached out to me to make sure that I was ok, that checked in on me to remind me that I am loved. Thank you for that.

This evening I was in a car accident on the way home from work. It wasn’t my fault and it wasn’t serious. There wasn’t much damage, but I’m sore, and probably will be for a few days. The van will need some cosmetic work, but I’m praising God that it wasn’t worse. I’m thankful my children weren’t with me when it happened. I’m thankful the people stopped.

And in reality, I am thankful for a great many things. While my mind often wanders to the empty crib now stored in the attic, I have before me three beautiful, wonderful children, whom I love more than life itself. I have an incredible husband who has walked this painful road with me, has held me when I cried, and coaxed me out when I have spent too long in my own thoughts. I am thankful to a patient heavenly Father who has slowly, but steadily, transformed a terrible situation into evidence of His glory and faithfulness in my life. And I’m thankful for Hazel. She changed me. I’m not the same woman that I was when I woke up on October 29th, for better or worse, I’m different. And I’m not sure what that means and I’m not sure who I am becoming, but I’m eager to find out.

The LORD is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18 (NASB)

 

04-21-17 “I wish…”

“I wish we were a family of four kids,” Big E said ruefully as he was getting dressed this morning. “I wish there was another kid.”

“I do too, buddy,” I responded.

“Can we have another kid?” He asked me.

“I’m not sure. Mommy’s not the one that decides these things. God makes that decision.”

“Oh,” he said. I turned and walked out of the room as I felt the lump in my throat. “I just know we are never going to have another baby,” he called after me. I flopped down on my bed and closed my eyes.

After the ectopic, Tim and I discussed about what we would say to the kids. We decided to tell C, but we chose not to tell Big E until he is older. Our conversation with C went very well, but she has never really brought it up since then. I’m wondering now if we should have told Big E, but he is such a sensitive kid I didn’t want him so upset over something he couldn’t fix and couldn’t really grasp.

Every once in awhile I go online and check a pregnancy calculator to see how far along I would have been if I hadn’t miscarried. That probably isn’t the smartest decision, but when I’m sad I catch myself doing it. Today I would have been 31 weeks and 3 days along.

Tim took the crib down the other day and put it in the attic for storage. He had warned me he was going to do it, but I wasn’t prepared for how sad it would make me to walk into Baby E’s room and see the empty space it once occupied.

I wish I had a better answer for Big E this morning. I wish I could have held him and told him it would happen. But I don’t know. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. But whatever God’s will is for our family, I know His plan and His timing are perfect, and in Him we can find the peace that passes understanding.

03-15-17 Remembering

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I distinctly remember the sound of the bed being wheeled down the hallway, briskly, but not with the same urgency that had taken us to the ultrasound room in the first place. Tim was walking beside me, his eyes cast down, his gait heavy. The automatic doors cranked open and shut as we weaved our way through the hallways back to the Emergency Room. They wheeled my bed back into my room, the nurse said something I don’t think I ever heard and then she left. As the curtain stopped swaying and the door slid shut, Tim crawled into the bed next to me and pulled me closer to him. I laid my head on his chest.

I knew he had seen the ultrasound screen, that he knew the truth… but he didn’t offer it and I didn’t ask. I would know soon enough. I wanted to hold on for as long as I could to the hope, be it ever the slightest glimmer, that my child would survive. And try as I did to believe my lie, there were tears in his eyes that betrayed what I feared.

So we sat there in silence.

 

I’m not sure why that surfaced tonight. That’s the strange thing about grief, it ebbs and flows with little reason.