The Longest Road

Yesterday was a day no parent should have to experience. No friend or family member should have to be called on for support. Yesterday, we laid our precious Harlynn Renae to rest.

It has been one week. One week since I went in to labor and delivered a beautiful baby girl, who was never able to take her first breath outside my womb. Never able to feel my kiss upon her forehead. Feel her daddy's whiskers upon her cheek. Our baby girl who would never hear her sister's sweet, high voice, telling her how cute she is. One week. That my baby would die before ever physically feeling our touch, before ever hearing our voices, before ever being comforted in our arms - I can't wrap my mind around it. I can't help but feel she died so alone. So coldly. Please, dear God, please somehow let me know she knew and felt every ounce of love we had for her. That we always will have for her.

As Brent and I went to bed last night, I felt like I should stay awake until 12:16, the time I delivered her. I don't know why. I don't know what comfort that brought, if any. It's one more thing for me to hold on to I suppose. One tangible thing I can control since Harlynn is no longer tangible to me. The box of mementos we brought home from the hospital sits undisturbed on our entry table. It's full of tangible reminders and I can't bring myself to lift the lid. The booties I finished knitting for her mere hours before going in to labor. Her footprint. The swaddling blanket we took to the hospital, and they wrapped her in for pictures. I came home with a box....instead of my baby.

Sunday evening, as a wicked winter storm swept our area, we had Harlynn's visitation. Despite the weather, we had droves of people show up in support. Brent and I were moved by all of the hugs, tears, and prayers that were shared with us. I lost it a few times. What mother wouldn't? Every person who came and showed us love was so special. Some made me cry harder than others. Some made me laugh. The fact that they braved the weather meant even more. Each individual was proof that God puts people in your lives for a reason. Even if it's just a hug, it's a divine reason. We needed that night. When the evening was over, we drove home, having had to cancel Monday's funeral and reschedule for Tuesday due to the weather. Only in North Dakota...

It was a decision I didn't want to have to make, but it turned out to be a blessing. Monday was a break. A day I could just be with my thoughts and emotions, raw as they were. As much as I didn't want to have to reschedule Harlynn's service, I was so thankful for one more day I didn't have to bury her. One more day she wouldn't seem so permanently gone. One more day. I needed my space. I needed to not be smothered by the affection of others. I needed a break. I don't think our uncharacteristic weather was an accident. I spent the afternoon and evening in fits of tears. I soaked Brent's shoulders with sobs and relied on him to hold me up as I collapsed in my emotions. I held him close and prayed I wouldn't become more of a burden on him. My wonderful, amazing husband. I can't imagine having anyone else alongside me, alongside Haley, as we go through this journey.

Yesterday, our worst experience of losing Harlynn came full circle. We were gathering to mourn her loss, and commit her to the ground. I can't even type the words without feeling the weight of my grief resting in the knot in my throat. When we walked in to the church and I once again saw her tiny casket at the front, my heart just sunk. Sweet baby girl, how I longed to have you in a bassinet. How I longed to have you wake me up every two hours in the middle of the night. How I longed to be covered with your drool, and even your messy diapers. But instead I had to choose a permanent resting place for you. I'll never be woken up by your cries. I'll never be rushing to wash your clothes due to a blow-out. I'll never be able to hold you, save for one last time as we carry your casket to the cemetery. I bent over and kissed her casket. I told her I loved her. I sat down in the front pew and just stared at the tiny pink box that would forever hold my Harlynn.

The order of events is somewhat a blur. I know there were lots of people there in support of Brent, Haley, and me. I couldn't bring myself to look at any of them as we walked into the sanctuary. My legs were moving to the front of the church, but I felt like jello. This whole experience, I've felt like I've just been running under water. I can't move, let alone in any particular direction, and everything is moving so fast around me. This has been the longest road I've ever been called to walk. We made it to the front and I sat down, mere feet from my baby girl. I kept hearing Haley's words from earlier ringing in my ears, "Mommy, just open it! I want to open it to see Harlynn." I had to fight the urge to just grab the casket and run. Anywhere. This can't be happening. I can't be saying good bye.

Before long it was over. It was time to place Harlynn's casket in the hearse. Brent and I stood and I heard him take a deep breath before he bent over to pick his daughter up. I placed my hands on the casket as he wrapped his arms around it. We turned to walk outside. He stopped walking and his knees buckled as he let out a heart-wrenching wail. Every ounce of agony we've felt over the last week was expressed in that brief moment as he stood there, holding that tiny pink casket. He caught his breath. We slowly walked to the hearse and placed her inside. I bent over and kissed her again.

Once back inside the church, people had begun lining up to hug us. I wish I could remember everything people said, but the truth is I don't remember most of it. I remember pieces. I remember seeing my doctor and weeping once again on her shoulder. I remember seeing my 35 under 35 classmates, one after the other, filtering through the line to support me as I cried into their arms. I remember seeing people of immeasurable strength and faith shedding tears right along with us. I remember seeing complete strangers. Then I remember it being time to go to the cemetery.

"Commit her to the ground" I believe were the pastor's words. They stung so harshly. This was it. My daughter was going to be buried. Underground. The ceremony was brief, as we stood on the snow-covered ground. Just after the pastor finished speaking, the sun broke through the clouds and shone on us all. I remember thinking, "She finally gets to see it." I stood there for a long while, just staring. I didn't want to leave. If I left, it was all over. Over. I bent over and placed my hand on her casket and lost control. I wept into my scarf as I wished I were holding her hand instead of the pink fabric lid. I tried to catch my breath, but I couldn't. I sobbed. I felt Brent's hand on my back, and it was comforting to feel something. Anything. I stood, kissed the casket one last time, told Harlynn I loved her, and eventually told Brent I was ready to go. As he took one step sideways, I squeezed his hand. I lied. I wasn't ready. I didn't want to leave her. Ever. I would have stood out there for hours. Days. I wanted to crawl into the ground with her. Don't make me leave my baby. Eventually we walked back to the vehicles. I turned to watch her one last time. The sun still shone, and her tiny casket looked even smaller there in the middle of the cemetery. As we drove away, I put my hand on the window, wishing for one more clutch of her hand. Wishing I never had to leave her. Wishing this had all been different.

I can't describe how much this hurts. How much my heart aches. I can't describe to you how my arms literally ache as they themselves long to be holding her. Now that we've had the funeral I feel like we're expected to move on. Like since that chapter has ended, we should just turn the page and start going on as normal. Everyone else will. And that's okay - I know life will go on around us. I know every day will continue to tick, no matter what we go through or experience. But I have no idea what to do. How to move. Where to start.

Without the support of family, friends, and strangers, we wouldn't have fared at all over this last week. I don't think people realize how much just being there for someone else means. We literally have been held and carried by thoughts, prayers, words - and I'm sure it seems so insignificant to those who share them, but they have been instrumental to us. Please don't stop. Please also understand that while sometimes we'll need a shoulder, other times we'll need space. No one knows what to say or do, including us, and know that's okay.

I told Brent on Monday, as I so intensely grieved, that I felt the Lord grieving with us. I don't think it's hocus-pocus, and I can assure you it isn't wishful thinking on my part. I have literally felt God's heart breaking right along with us. He knows. He has counted every tear before I've shed it. He has walked my road. He knows the pain and agony. There will be times where His arms are the only ones I'll be able to find, to hold on to. Despite this immeasurable, unimaginable heartache we've experienced, Brent and I know we have been so blessed. At every turn, we've had people right where they were supposed to be, right when they were supposed to be there. There have been no coincidences. God has placed pillars for us to lean on along this entire journey. I know He won't abandon us; I know He hasn't. I thank God we know Him, because without his grace, peace, and comfort, we would have no hope to continue. Harlynn is in His glory, and while I would still give anything to be telling a different story, Heaven has been made all that much sweeter knowing she is there, waiting for us.

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Prev: The Horrible, Blessed Truth

The Horrible, Blessed Truth

What's the hardest part? That question gives the false impression any part of this is easy. I find I'm asking myself, "Was I there for others who have been through this? Have I comforted the grieving? Have I helped anyone who has suffered this kind of loss?" I don't think I have. It's not something anyone is ever planning on facing. It's not something anyone ever anticipates dealing with. When it happens, I certainly don't want to think it could happen to me.

But it has. I have to deal with it. Our daughter is dead.

That word is so awful, isn't it? It just hangs in the air. I heard a nurse use it while she was talking to us about "next steps" and the word itself knocked the wind out of me. So final. So irreversible.

This week has been a whirlwind. There are times I wake up and think, "Oh good, it was just a dream." But it wasn't. I remember the morning after when I woke up in the hospital, I felt her moving in my belly and I thought, "Everyone! It's okay! She's moving around inside of me!" But it wasn't her. She was no longer there. I was no longer pregnant. It wasn't okay.

I have relived that moment of Harlynn being placed on my chest a million times. Her body sunk right into mine. She was so peaceful. She was so beautiful. She bounced up and down on me as I wept. How could this be real? How can I be holding my baby girl, and she's dead?

When the doctor, after viewing the ultrasound, said there was no heartbeat, I remember just putting my hand up to my face - I couldn't cry, because I was thinking, "It's okay. Her heart is stopped, they can fix this. They can fix this. They'll do something." I don't know why I was thinking this. I couldn't think anything else, though. The doctor gave us a few minutes to discuss how I wanted to deliver. She had said, since I was only at 2 cm, it would probably be a very lengthy process to deliver vaginally. I interrupted her to say I wouldn't be able to emotionally handle a vaginal delivery. We would do a repeat cesarean. She left the room and Brent and I held each other, crying. Somewhere in the conversation and contractions my mind had realized it couldn't be fixed. There was no bringing her back.

The contractions grew so strong, so fast. The noises that were coming from my mouth were so guttural. I had never heard myself do that, and I couldn't stop. The nurse kept trying to prep me for surgery. I asked if I could stand up to fight through a contraction. She and Brent helped me up off the triage bed. I immediately crouched down, hovering above the floor. I reached across the width of the bed and was literally biting the mattress. I wanted nothing more than to just be strong and quiet, and breathe through the pain. But I had no control. Within no time, I couldn't tell one contraction from another. They were incessant. The nurse asked if I wanted her to check how dilated I was. I shook my head. "Isn't there something you can give me to make these stop?! I can't do this. I don't want to do this!" She left the room at one point to get a bedside pan for me and it was almost immediately after she came back in the room that I determined I was going to stand up and get back on the bed. I slowly stood. My legs were shaking. I was still making noises. Hollering. Wailing. I tried to talk. "My water just broke." She asked if I felt like I needed to push. I lied and said no. The doctor came in and after seeing and hearing all that was going on, said, "Val, get back on the bed and let me check you." I don't know how I got on the bed. I don't know if I had help or if I somehow just made it climbing back on. The doctor checked me and said, "Val, you're complete. She's completely dilated. We need to get her to the delivery room."

"Val, you're complete."

No. No, I'm not. You're going to make me deliver this baby, who I don't get to bring home with me. Who I'll never get to breastfeed. This baby who I will have to put in a coffin instead of a crib. I am NOT complete. I am broken. I am shattered.

My eyes had been closed through all of the intense contractions, and were closed still as they wheeled the triage bed to the delivery room across the hall. I don't know much of what happened next. I was clinging to Brent. How he was able to even stand up when I was just pulling at him, I don't know. I was wailing so loudly. I was pushing and trying not to with each wave of pain. Someone administered an intrathecal. They were trying to explain to me what they were doing and I didn't care. "Just do it! Just do it!" I cried. I still couldn't open my eyes. I laid back down. I pushed. Four contractions, and fifteen pushes.

"One more push and you'll have a baby." But I won't. I pushed her out and felt the wave of pressure leave my abdomen. "Beautiful baby girl. She just looks like she's sleeping. Dad? Did you want to cut the cord?" He didn't answer...he just somberly reached for the scissors. After the cord was cut, they placed her on my chest. She was warm from being inside me. She was heavy. She was real. And she was gone. I kept pleading in my head, "Just cry! Just cry! Whimper, make a noise, anything!"

After I had held Harlynn for a long while, I asked Brent if he wanted to hold her. At first he shook his head, but then he began to nod, as he cried. I handed her over. He gazed at her. You could see the longing in his eyes - he was thinking the same thing I had, "If I just can make her cry, she'll be okay..." I put my head in my hands. There was no way this could be real. Everything was fine. What happened? Why? I looked back over at Brent, and saw how lovingly he looked upon Harlynn. His daughter. Our daughter. Haley's baby sister. My heart just broke for him. He's such a good daddy. Harlynn, your daddy is such a good daddy.

Eventually we let the nurse take her for weight and length measurements, and then take her to the nursery to clean her. Brent and I held each other. We wept. We comforted each other. We tried to process what had just happened. I reached for his hand and we prayed.

Later the same day, we had pictures taken of Harlynn. We held her again. We wept over her. We let Haley see her. That was so tough, but we didn't want to have regrets on any of our parts years later that she couldn't "meet" her baby sister. I would look across the room at the little cart that had the blanket pulled over Harlynn's face and just yearn, long, for a peep - a noise - a breath. Later that night, Brent and I knew we had to say goodbye. We had to let her go. We walked over to her and pulled the blanket back. We held her hand. We stroked her hair. We kissed her. We wept more. We told her how loved she was. I told her, over and over, I was so sorry. So, so sorry.

We told the nurse it was time. She took Harlynn out of our room. We will never see her on earth again. The last time I carry my baby, she'll be in a casket and I will place her in the cemetery. Her baby book will be a registry of people who attended her funeral. None of this makes any sense. None of this seems possible.

I was so angry. There was no one to blame. There was nothing to point to. But my baby is gone. It was several hours later into the next day that I was able to reflect and see how God's hand - the very hand I was angry with - played such a gracious and loving role in the entire situation. Harlynn's heart had stopped beating a while before I had gone in. The fact that I decided to go to the hospital despite being told it wasn't sounding like real labor, was a blessing. I had contemplated toughing contractions out at home. I reached a point where I couldn't do that, though.

When I delivered Haley by emergency cesarean at 32 weeks, I felt like I was robbed of her birthing. I wanted nothing more than to deliver Harlynn vaginally. When we got to the hospital and found out she had died in my womb, I knew that vaginal delivery was out of the question. Emotionally, physically, I wouldn't be able to handle it.

God knew better. Had I gone in to the hospital any earlier, there would have been no choice but surgery. We couldn't save her, but we could save my need, my emotional need, to deliver her the way I wanted. The fact that I went in and labor progressed so rapidly was a blessing. The fact that I chose not to tough it out at home was even more of a blessing. It would have gone so fast, and no one would have had time to take me anywhere - plus, I wouldn't have been warned ahead of her birth that she would be stillborn. That would have been far more traumatic for me.

The nurses, even the doctor that were there when we went in - everyone was there who was supposed to be. The timing was blessed. The care I received afterward was second to none. Each nurse I had was a God-send. She was exactly what I needed, exactly when I needed her. I had two doctors come to my room - the doctor who was my OB when I was pregnant with Haley (and who had seen me twice during this pregnancy) came in and held me as I wept. She cupped my face in her hands. The doctor who ended up delivering Haley and who was my OB during this pregnancy came in and held me as I collapsed in her arms, again, weeping. She just held my head tight against her. These were doctors. The fact that they even stopped by, and made me feel like a person instead of a chart number - I can't even tell you the value of that experience. These two women I have always been fond of, but now, I can't even express how important their roles in my life are.

Our church family - our wonderful, amazing church family - once again surrounded us with love and support. So many friends, family members, complete strangers, surrounded us with support. I commented to Brent that it's one thing to have people share condolences and feel bad for us, but people are literally grieving with us. Alongside us. It's surreal.

Today, Harlynn's death notice is in the paper. Tomorrow her obituary will appear. Tomorrow is also Harlynn's visitation. Monday is her funeral. I'm not sure how I'll make it through either. Yet, I know I will. I will never forget Harlynn, my precious baby. I will never recover from losing her. But I will go on and aim to be the woman I would have wished to raise her to be. I will be Haley's Mommy, and I will do a damn good job. She will know beyond a shadow of a doubt she is always going to be Mommy's special girl. I will be Brent's wife and make sure not a day goes by where he isn't assured of how wonderful, amazing, and strong he is. I will mourn, and I will cry, and I will break down at every remembrance of my precious Harlynn...and I won't apologize for it.

Sometimes these things happen. It wasn't that God willed Harlynn to die. It wasn't that it was His plan to break our hearts. God wouldn't will this suffering on His children. Sometimes, these things happen. He has her now, of that I'm sure. If she can't be in her mommy's arms, I can't think of a better place for her to be.

Harlynn, your mommy and daddy can't express how much we love you, or how much we miss you. Your sister Haley can't communicate how she longs to be able to play with you, and how sorry she is that you died. But we all long to share in your peace, your dwelling, and your dancing with the angels. One day our hearts will be mended, and we'll see you in your perfect form, and we'll be together, praising the One who brought us through the tragedy of losing you. We will celebrate with you, baby girl.

Next:  The Longest Road
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If I Could Save Time In A Bottle

It's my Dad's favorite song, by Jim Croce, and it continues, "The first thing that I'd like to do, is to save every day till eternity passes away, just to spend them with you." Oh baby girl....if only I could. If only.

I'm raw with emotion. I'm not sure what emotion(s) I'm feeling, I just know that every ounce of me hurts, aches, and feels so stung. So very, very stung.

I felt like what I was experiencing wasn't right. I called the hospital and told them I was coming in. My contractions, though inconsistently timed, were so very painful. I arrived and was admitted. We knew from the moment we arrived, essentially, something was wrong. They couldn't find her heartbeat on the fetal monitor. We hoped we were misunderstanding. The ultrasound confirmed her heart was no longer beating. Our baby girl had died within my womb. After everything had been perfect, flawless, and she was such a perfect baby - she was suddenly gone. I don't know that I will ever forget the doctor's words: "I'm so sorry, but I don't see her heart beating."

We didn't answer. We couldn't. We were all looking at the screen, with the motionless chamber. We all knew the sickening, wrenching truth. She was gone.

Brent called our family to let them know...sharing the news we never wanted to explain. I had to decide how she would be delivered. I thought a cesarean was the only logical answer. I couldn't emotionally handle delivering her otherwise. They called a team together and were about to prep me for surgery.

That's when the contractions intensified and would not stop. I was trying to be tough and quiet, but I was in so much pain and the contractions were so strong and close together, I don't think I got a break. I was clinging to my husband - the room was full of people, but he was the only one I could focus on. He helped me through each fit of screaming pain. I was hollering, and most directly in his ear. I didn't understand how they got so bad so quickly. I tried to get back on the bed, as I had been squatting to try to fight through the contraction pain. They needed to get me wheeled back to the OR. As I stood up and fought through another contraction, I felt my water break. That was a feeling I had been longing to experience. When it happened then, it was the last thing I thought I wanted. Water breaking was supposed to be representative of a new life, but in that moment it was representative of the life that should have been, and wouldn't be. And there was nothing I could do. Nothing. This mommy couldn't do a damn thing to save her baby. My heart was broken long before my water was.

As soon as that happened, and from the intensity of my contractions, everyone knew I wasn't making it to surgery. This baby was going to be delivered in a hurry. I was begging, pleading, with everyone in the room to make the contractions stop. I couldn't do this. I didn't want to do it this way. I didn't have a choice, though. My labor was moving so fast. No one expected it. But it was happening. I pushed during four contractions, and she was out. They asked if I wanted to hold her. I nodded through my sobs.

They placed little Harlynn Renae on my chest. She was beautiful. She had so much hair, and she looked so much like her big sister, only fuller-faced. She looked so peaceful...so perfect. She felt so soft and as she was wrapped in the swaddling cloth, I was trying to look over and memorize every single one of her features. Trying to understand why I would never hear her cry. Never change her diaper. Trying to understand why I would have to plan her funeral rather than her first birthday party. I don't understand any of it. We don't know why her heart stopped beating. We don't know anything, other than the fact that she's gone.

We held her, Brent and I, for quite a while. I held her hand. I kissed her forehead. I told her how much we loved her, how much her big sister loved her. I tried to keep her wrapped in the blanket, as if keeping her warm was making her comfortable. The weight of holding her against me was far heavier than I expected. I didn't want to give her up, to watch her be taken away. I didn't want any of this to happen the way it did. I was supposed to have a full-term, healthy, crying baby. I was so proud to have made it to 37 weeks. Yet there, holding her, I would have given anything to deliver prematurely if it meant she would be with us.

We believe she is in the best possible place - Heaven - and we take comfort, though minimal right now, in knowing we will be reunited with her again. We are struggling to wrap our minds around what happened. We can't fathom how our over-active baby girl suddenly left us without reason. We can't determine how to accept we don't get to take her home with us. We don't get to hear her cry, coo, giggle.

Today has been a blur. An emotional blur. I keep wanting to wake up and realize it's all been a bad dream. I want to bring my baby girl home. Sweet, precious, Harlynn. Now, I'll have to pack away the baby clothes and swaddling blankets. Put the bottles back in storage. Cling to the sight of her perfect little face. Live without her.

We don't know what's up ahead for us. We don't know what decisions to make, or what decisions are even out there needing our attention. We don't even know how to grieve. The support, love, and prayers we've received has far stretched beyond our expectations. We know we are loved, and we know little Harlynn was loved in circles outside of our little family. To all of you who have shared your love through words, visits, gestures - your support is unmatched. We can't appropriately thank you for how you've been there for us - with us - through this.

We believe God is good. We believe He has a perfect plan. We believe He is with us as we mourn this intense, inexplicable loss. We believe He is holding Harlynn, and sharing with her how loved she was, is, and always will be. I would be lying to you, though, if I said I wasn't questioning His plans, if I said I wasn't hurt in my belief, or if I said I wasn't devastated. I am broken. I prayed I would be spared this pain, this experience. Instead, I'm left turning to puddles of tears, missing my sweet baby girl. Wanting nothing more than to have her alive and well. Watch her smile at her daddy. Watch her torment her older sister.

My precious Haley...I know you don't understand. I know you may never understand. You're still the best big sister in the world. We are so blessed to have you.

My precious Harlynn...our hearts ache so intensely for having lost you. My prayer is that you knew, in whatever fashion, how very loved you were and are still.

Next:  The Horrible, Blessed Truth