it's been a while...

It's not that I don't have anything to say, but everything to say has already been said at least a hundred times.


I miss her dearly. I glance at her brother and get flashes of her silhouette, her essence, her being. I wonder if I will always see a little bit of her in him? hmmm....


I hope so.

It's a scorcher right now in south Texas and believe it or not, I am LOVING the heat. No not because I love hot weather, I just remember the last time it was this hot...


A year ago. Even the most bitter things in life (like hot Texas summers) can be sweet when they remind me of my Jenna.


A year ago we lived in this itty bitty rent house. I LOVED that house. It was the place we went home to from the hospital after she died.


The yard was a deceit size and it just felt like home. My hubs had moved us out of our apartment while I was in bed rest, so the first time I actually got to live there was after Jenna died. I remember Pete and I would spend long afternoons, and late evenings out in the yard fixing it up. We'd never been in a house before; it was nice to have so many projects to fill our empty time.


But I am having a hard time describing just how sweet that summer was. It's like heaven's fragrance lingered from that day it had opened it's gates and taken my daughter home. There was something sweet about those long days spent outside in our two-bedroom house. I literally could have lived there forever. I remember we would play the "Jenna tunes" over and over (lots of Allison Krauss)... and it was just sweet. There's no other word for life as it was at that time.


And don't misunderstand me, those summer days were filled with sorrow and lots and lots of pain, but the anger hadn't come yet nor the disappointment. I'm really not sure how I jumped on the bandwagon of disappointment and anger. Sometimes I just wish I could get a whiff of Heaven's fragrance again. Last summer I just felt her everywhere. I knew that I knew that I knew she was just fine. And that used to be enough.


I look back and remember fearing that I would forget her if I didn't _________(fill in the blank)... but I now know how ridiculous and impossible it would be to forget her. A few weeks after she died I felt like I needed to start doing something in her name... but I ended up spending the entire summer at that two-bedroom house. I eventually went back to work, although it was never the same. Things would complicate themselves by summer's end, and in July I would find this world of babyloss mothers, hearts knitted in grief and love.


A year from that sweet summer where Heaven just felt a step away, a breath away. A footprint away from my daughter's home. I hope to continue remembering last summer as the heat blazes these next few months.


I miss my girl.




ps - I am now taking requests for Hope Collages again

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

Learning

I started writing Jenna's updates on CarePages a year ago today.

:*(

I remember accidentally stumbling upon CarePages after I opened a blogger account. I was originally going to use a blog to update everyone, but blogger seemed so complicated and I didn't have the time or energy to figure it all out. CarePages was wonderful... it helped keep everyone updated and helped us to avoid answering all the same questions fifty million times. And it was easy to use!

I look back now and wish I could go travel back in time, if even for a moment. I want that faith back, and that hope that everything WILL be alright. I never entertained her actually dying while she was in the NICU. EVER. I just didn't let myself go there. Not until I saw her suffering...

I look back now and *wonder* how I couldn't see it... how I could still hope against all hope? Blindly, naively hope... and I hated when the doctors would call her 'sick' because we didn't even know WHAT the problem was, or what 'syndrome' she actually had - if any. That drove me crazy. I didn't want to see her as sick. She was perfect to me.

Sometimes I see her little brother's eyes trail off behind me, as if he is gazing at something. Someone. And I wonder if it's her?

Tell her that I love her, I'll whisper in his ear.

I think sometimes he can pick up on my broken heart, so I try to hide it, force it away and pretend that I am okay. A big part of my heart is okay, but there is that part that was given to Jenna. That part is aching. And the aching just plain hurts. I miss my baby girl.

:::

I have been at home for a week now, away from everything to help my body heal. I wonder when I return to the normal swing of things what expectations the world has for me now? A couple of weeks after Jenna died I was expected to be 'moving on'... a couple of months passed and the world expected me to be okay around other babies and pregnancy. Six months afterwards, I was expected to be past the guilt, crying and anger of Jenna's death... a year and a rainbow baby later I fear the expectations are higher than I could ever reach.

I have learned to live with my daughter's death. But then there are days like yesterday and the paperwork for Joseph's first pedi appointment rehashed a painful reality.

"Have any siblings died?" Ummm.... actually yes. I wish I could be that person next to me filling the form out and answering "Of course not! That doesn't happen anymore, DOES IT!?"

But this is my reality and I am learning... not only to accept my daughter's death but embrace life afterwards. {keyword: learning}

Happy First Birthday in Heaven, Eliana Grace

Today I have been thinking about all the babyloss mamas I have met over the past year, and wishing everyone of you a gentle Mother's Day, filled with peace and precious memories.

I hope you can stop by Jessalyn's blog for her daughter, Eliana Grace. Today is also Eliana's first birthday in Heaven, a very bittersweet day to celebrate such an occasion.

Thank you everyone!

{photo credit}

Last Year

Dear Jenna Belle,

It seems like forever since I have written a letter to you. Even though the words in my heart may not always be outwardly expressed, inside I write to you daily. I cry daily, inside. And I have recently learned that NOTHING can ease the pain that was left for me to feel when you left this world. I passed by the medical center today and that urge to escape to your side in the NICU overcame me. A year later.

I don't think it ever stops.

A year ago I cautiously accepted "Happy Mother's Day" salutations as I braved going to church that morning. You were having a 'good day' that day. It was the only time I went to church while you were in the NICU. A year ago I had a precious baby girl who waited for me to return to her side where I belonged at Texas Children's Hospital. Something about that hospital warms my heart. Sadly it was where I said goodbye to you, but more importantly it was where I met you and got to know you. It was home for you for a very short while. And in a way, it is home for me too, to reflect and think back. Maybe one day I can volunteer there, in your memory.

But not anytime soon. The halls where we walked daily and the cafe where we would escape for short meals would bring back all those emotions that so tightly intertwined hope and fear. Faith and love. And the waiting room that was filled with so many friends and family everyday that you fought... yes, it would still be too much to face. But maybe one day.

I cried for you today, but I guess I should be thanking you.

Thank you for making me a mommy. I never knew that love could run so deep, be so pure, and last so long in my heart. I think a mother's love is the one of the closest thing to Heaven on earth.

You had a purpose, and maybe that purpose was to show me just how special a gift motherhood is. I often wonder if I would have taken motherhood for granted if it had come easy for me? That thought haunts me. Regardless, I am living this reality. And you are gone, but your memory lives on. I wish there was more of you to have here on earth. We miss you terribly, think of you often, and talk about you with everyone. You are as much a part of us today as you were a year ago.

Thank you for making me a mommy, Jenna Belle. I love you my firstborn. I miss you, and I cannot express in words, in measly typed print letters just how badly I miss you.

For me it will feel like an eternity until I get to see you again. But to you, you will not even have taken half a step, when you look back and see me following you. You won't have experienced this loss, the absence. And for that, I am thankful.

I love you, my Jenna Belle.

Thinking of you all

To all the beautiful mothers I have met through this community, I am sending all my love. Wishing we never knew this loss and pain that deeply unites us. Honored to know each of you, yet heartbroken at the same...

Missing my baby girl more than words can tell

Jenna's first picture right after birth

XO