The Last "First"

I feel like today is the last nail in the coffin. That's the mental picture that comes to mind. Today is the last 'first', other than her funeral date.

It's incredible how quickly time passed and how much life has changed, and then equally incredible how much it hasn't. Last night I heard thunder and saw flashes of lightening through the blinds. It was almost as if nature was mourning with me. I was dreading today and now that it's here I just want to sleep through it.

A year ago I was woken up at about 4:30 in the morning by an urgent voice. The attending NICU nurse informed my very sleepy and exhausted brain that my daughter didn't have much time to live, and that we needed to get down there asap. Luckily we were staying in the Ronald McDonald House so we were only a few minutes away from the level 3 NICU. I remember telling my husband to get dressed and that we needed to go, although I think he already knew what a phone call at that hour meant.

I remember racing down that really long hallway where they displayed patients' artwork. And then passing the milk bank that I would never use in hopes of my daughter's release ever again.

I remember hasting to her side, knowing I didn't have enough time left with her. One of the residents tried to approach me, probably to tell me what I already knew. I brushed her away as I was sobbing and could barely make out a sentence. I fell over her incubator and cried and cried and cried. My husband allowed the resident to explain things to him, but to me it just didn't matter anymore. I didn't want to spend the last few precious moments talking about why she wouldn't make it, or what they had tried to prevent this.

They really did all they could and for that we are so grateful. I remember seeing the looks of frustration on the young residents as they would try everything at their disposal to make our daughter all better. I remember them calling in the cardiologists, contacting different units in the hospital just to make sure they were doing everything possible to save this little girl's life.

I remember how glib they were about her small improvements that she would make, maybe trying to send silent signals to us not to get our hopes up too high.

:::

I have spent the entire past year disappointed in God. And most of the past year I have been angry at him. My endless questioning seems to not get any farther than the ceiling though. Why God would give me such a beautiful gift and take her away so soon? Why she made it past her birth and fought so hard, only to suffer and die anyway? My questions may have credence, but as you can see they wouldn't change my reality even if God did answer them.

I was hoping today I might turn a new leaf in this grief, and be suddenly past the anger, guilt and disappointment. But today's realization is that it's all still here.

From here until I die, I will be more than a year without her, starting at 5:06 in the evening. That makes me sad to know that tomorrow she will have died more than a year ago...


I wrestle with God with that question almost everyday in my heart... why'd you let her live only to let her die??? Why did she prove the doctor wrong and was born alive only to die 13 days later???


And then I remember, sometimes forcing myself... she had a purpose. She fought for her life for 13 days to stay with us, but what if the entire time I saw this tiny fighting NICU baby girl, God was singing to her and telling her how much her visit would change her parents one day? And what if she really didn't feel all that pain because she was that close to Heaven the entire time?

I see life as even more of a gift after watching her fight for every breath. Life comes so easy to those to whom it is given, but when you have to fight for it, or watch a loved one fight for life, it changes you to the core. I watch Joseph's chest rise and fall... rise and fall... rise and fall... I am keenly aware of how fragile life is. I don't take his ability to breath on his own for granted.

I wish I knew what Heaven's purpose for Jenna's short life was, but while I am here I will always be trying to make her life count. It won't ever make sense to me, and maybe it's not supposed to. And maybe that's the mystery of faith. To be able to trust the God who you don't quite understand.

He does know what's best, and he knew what was best for Jenna. When I can wrap my mind around how much God loves my daughter, I am humbled that he would choose me to carry such a precious little girl. She fought hard, she fought long, she fought well.

She is my constant motivator and inspiration to keep going. To keep loving, to keep believing.

Most people in this world will have children, and sadly will never fully know how blessed they are. But that's never the case when you've lost one of your own. I am blessed by both of my babies.

"...we were pressed out of measure, above strength, insomuch that we despaired even of life: But we had the sentence of death in ourselves, that we should not trust in ourselves, but in God which raiseth the dead:"
-2 Corinthians 1:8b,9