Purple

He said it all and more to the point than I could. Go see for yourself here. This is what we deal with, what we try to process, every minute of every day.

I do have reminders. Constant reminders. The bruise on my arm from when they drew blood is fading, but still present. The pain and discomfort from recovering from a fast and furious delivery is very evident, daily. Trying to keep my shirts dry from lactating. Producing food for a baby I should be feeding, but who isn't here.  My belly. The very belly that I felt her moving in constantly, to the point where I nicknamed her "Jackie Chan", is hollow. It's still big, but it's empty. My ring-less finger. I couldn't wear a ring in the end of pregnancy because my fingers were too big. When I finally could get it on, after wearing it for just a few days, the stone snapped off my band. I just want to wear my wedding ring. I want the world to know, to see by my hand, I have a man who has stood beside me in the darkest days of our lives, and whose strength, faith, and poise are more important to me than they were nearly ten years ago when we walked down the aisle together.

Oddly as it may seem, I crave these physical reminders. I would carry this bruise to eternity if I could. These physical aches and abnormalities are all I have to hold on to. I proudly carry the scar from Haley's cesarean birth, and I would proudly carry each of these physical reminders of Harlynn's. Your life was not in vain, baby girl. Mommy will fight tooth and nail to make sure you are remembered and treasured for always.

Despite these physical reminders, the biggest reminder of all is the quiet. There is no baby crying in my house. Daddy isn't making remarks about a smelly diaper.  Haley isn't yelling at her little sister to stay away from her toys. We're not being woken up at night by infant squeals. Quiet.

In that quiet, we wonder. What would Harlynn have liked? Would she have slept a lot? Would she be fussy? Would she grow up to love dolls, or toy cars? Teddy bears or dinosaurs? What would her giggle sound like? Would her hair be curly like Mommy's, or straight like big sister Haley's? Would she sing? Draw? Love to read? Would she fawn over her Daddy like Haley does? Would they fight each other for attention from him? Would she let me teach her how to knit? Would she drive her big sister nuts, or melt her heart? Was she a snuggler, or because she moved so frequently, would she just want freedom to flail around?

We will always wonder. We will always grieve for the things we'll never know. We will always question each stage, each anniversary of her birth, each anniversary of her due date, each milestone we live without her.

I haven't been able to get to Harlynn's grave site yet because of the flood preparation. I did get close, when I drove the van around the barricades and into the cemetery, but because of all the sandbags and equipment tearing up the roads, I couldn't get there. I nearly got stuck, and had to turn around and sneak out again. I just want to read to her. I want to sing her a lullaby. I know I can do it anywhere, at any time, but I feel like I need to be there. With her body. Away from the quiet of home. Away from people. Away from "normal" life going on around us.

I was going through pictures and videos on my phone last night.  I found the picture I took of the dress we had Harlynn buried in.  It was the dress my parents brought me home from the hospital in, 32 years ago.  I couldn't think of anything else that would make me seem all that closer to her as she rested in such finality. My parents got to bring me home in that dress, and though we would have given anything for the same outcome, it seems fitting that she say goodbye to her earthly home while wearing it.

I also came across a video I took of Jackie Chan Harlynn making my belly move in all sorts of ways. She was a little spitfire. I watched it and wondered how she could be so healthy and active one day, and inexplicably have her heart stop beating the next. I swear I felt her kick me several times first thing that fateful Tuesday morning. I even commented to Brent as he and Haley were getting ready to leave for the day, "She's going crazy."  Then the contractions took over, and I couldn't feel anything aside from them the rest of the day. I had no idea. We had no expectation. Like Brent said, this was never an option.

This Tuesday was a hard day. Tuesdays will probably always be hard. I had to stay up until 12:16 again Wednesday morning, though I was so very tired. Wednesday was even harder than Tuesday. It snowed again - it has snowed every Wednesday since she was born. This was probably the last snow we'll get for a while, but it was, in it's own weird way, comforting. I was glad for it. As blessed as the day was, it was still a rough one. My daughter would have been two weeks old. Every day I think of the would-have-beens. The should-bes.

I decided to cash in a gift card and get a pedicure yesterday. I had my toenails painted purple. For Harlynn. I'm not sure what it was that prompted me to have purple be Harlynn's color. I've never really been a fan of it, but for some reason I just knew that in order to honor her, we had to use purple. There was no question yesterday as to which color I would choose for my toes. Purple. As the woman painted my toenails, I thought of my sideways pinky toe, and how Harlynn shared the same feature. It seems so insignificant - a polish color - but my heart filled with love and remembrance as I saw my quirky toe being painted purple.

There is a verse I have always loved, and used as my "life verse" for so many years. Colossians 3:2, "Set your mind on things above, not on earthly things." I find my mind is fixed on heaven. I dream of it, I long for it, I try to picture and imagine all it is and will be. I especially want to know what Harlynn is doing, who she has met, how she adores Jesus. In that, I've found that as each day goes on, it gets a little easier to draw nearer to God. I take one little step closer, I trust Him a little more, and I open my ears to hear what He has to share.

Lord, tell me, does Heaven have purple?

Next: The Cemetery
Prev: Pieces

Pieces

My heart is in pieces. It broke the moment I found out Harlynn's heart stopped beating, and though I try to repair it, put it back together, it slips...and each piece shatters again. Even in the peaceful moments, even in the gracious smiles, the aches pulsate through the holes. The hurt finds its way through the unguarded cracks.

As we drove Haley to a play date yesterday, so she could catch a break from her parents and her own toys, she asked me, "Mommy? Is your heart broken?"  Yes, sweetie. It is. It's broken for me, and the child I will never hold. It's broken for your daddy, who lost one of his daddy's girls. It's broken for you, because you are such an amazing big sister, and you can't even experience it for your three year old self to understand. It's broken for you that you have to see your Mommy so sad. I'm so sorry, sweet girl.

Yesterday was a hard day. I can't articulate all of why, though I know the reasons. Yes I shared smiles. I even laughed a few times. It's a difficult balance, and one I'm sure I'll never maintain - if people see me smiling and laughing, they'll assume I'm doing better. They'll assume I'm moving on. It will confuse them if they see me smiling and laughing, and then they see me shedding tears, or crumpling into an emotional heap. "She was fine yesterday...?"

Will people be annoyed when I talk about Harlynn months from now? Will they tire of me missing my child?

Frankly, I don't care. I can't care. Everyone has hurts, everyone has struggles, and each one is so personal. So individualistic. Even for those who have walked the road of losing a child, each story and each situation is so different from anyone else's. I can't understand anyone else's pain or agony simply because we have this tragedy in common. I can only understand that their pain and agony exist, and rightly so. I pray people understand that in my case. In our case. My broken heart, and all of its pieces, are real. It will never fix completely, it will never be whole until I meet the One who gave it to me in the beginning. There will always be pain that seeps between each piece, even in the midst of joy.

Yesterday I felt very vulnerable. Very fragile. I wanted so badly to go to church and sing songs and just pour my heart into worship. Instead, the physical pain kept me sitting down. The emotional pain kept me in tears. And the spiritual pain kept me distanced. I'm jealous, folks. I'm jealous He has my baby girl, my Harlynn, and I don't. He welcomed her into His loving arms, and I held her lifeless body. I want so badly to draw near to Him and find His comfort, but I'm so hesitant to seek Him.

Don't set her down to carry me, Lord. I'm not mad at you, but I am. Don't make me seek you, because I don't have the strength to go looking. Just show up. Just. Something.

This morning after everyone left the house, I went and took the pictures the nurse took of Harlynn out of the little bag they were in. It was so hard for me to look at them after coming home. They're not edited. They're very real, almost gruesome, shots of Harlynn and her lifelessness. When a baby is stillborn, their skin is paper thin and it wears away during delivery and afterwards.  Their lips are red or purple, almost like they're wearing lipstick. It's not easy for just anyone to see. Today, though, I wanted to see the pictures. I wanted to look past the worn skin, and see how beautiful she was. See how real she was. Remind myself how perfectly pouty her little lips were. See that she had my toes - the funky little pinky toe that lays sideways instead of straight. It was much cuter on her feet than on mine. I wanted to see all of her.  I found myself "awww" ing over her little features.  I'm so glad I have those pictures, hard as they may be to see sometimes.

I knew today in general would be a challenge. Brent went back to work today, Haley is at daycare, and I am at home. I have lots of plans to keep myself busy today. Some of them even involve a little bit of pampering.  Before I ran my errands or indulged in spa treatments, I had one stop I was going to make. The most important stop of my day.

I got in the car and headed to the cemetery. I couldn't stand that it has been nearly a week since we laid her to rest there, and I haven't been back. I wanted to go today. I wanted to sit with her, and be as much of her Mommy as I could.  I was headed south when I saw the blockades.

No, no, no...Please don't have it closed off....

I turned the car around and took a different route, further south, directly to the entrance of the cemetery. Road closed. The city is doing preparation for the flood we're expecting, and had the street blocked off so they could dike. The flood. The natural occurrence that makes everyone sick of living here once a year. The swearword flood.

I parked the car in front of a house and watched them work a while. I could see the gate to the cemetery directly in front of me, open, yet I couldn't get in. I considered walking. They were all in hardhats and vests - would they yell at me for infringing on their work space? If I walked in, how far would I have to walk to find her grave? Would I be able to find it?  Would they chase after me if I ran past them? Could they make me leave?  I didn't have the strength to find the answers.

I called the cemetery, hoping they would tell me there was a back entrance I had somehow never known about. There wasn't one. "Maybe try to come back tomorrow...."  I hung up. I fell apart. It's one thing not to be able to hold my baby. Not to be able to have her with me. Now, I can't even sit at her grave site. I can't be with her period.

I was experiencing two simultaneous meltdowns. One of sitting in my car, crying, and just repeating, "Lord please, Lord please, Lord please...." over and over again. I don't know what I was asking for. I may never know. But they were the only words I could muster. The other meltdown was taking place in my head; it was the meltdown I wanted to have, complete with a few choice swear words. Hitting something. I heard myself speaking, "Lord please...." and continued with that meltdown instead. Crying behind the steering wheel, watching the city workers who had no idea a grieving mother was mere feet from them, longing to be even as close as they were to my child.

Reluctantly, I turned the car around and drove away. "Mommy tried, Harlynn. I'm so sorry. Mommy tried." 

I ran my errands. I came home. I sat down to type.

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God; I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. ~ Isaiah 41:10

May it be so, God. Please.



Next: Purple
Prev: My Sunshine

My Sunshine

"...to comfort all who mourn, 

and provide for those who grieve in Zion -

to bestow on them a crown of beauty

instead of ashes,

the oil of joy

instead of mourning,

and a garment of praise

instead of a spirit of despair." ~ Isaiah 61:3

Even in these darkest of days, we have had rays of light. We've experienced moments of beauty and hope. We have seen joy and comfort as we've walked through this long tunnel we found ourselves journeying through beginning just a couple of weeks ago.

There have been many things that have struck me in these last few days, that of course I never entertained the thought of before. I'm living moment to moment, and have realized that this is not a loss that will follow me simply from one moment to the next, but I will carry the heartache of losing Harlynn for the rest of my life - however many years that turns out to be. Years. When Haley graduates high school, goes to college, gets married....Harlynn won't be there. This is an enduring loss. I cannot wrap my mind around it.

It's been said (to us) that it will get "better" with time. I've decided I hate hearing that. I believe there will be days it won't be as hard as others. Days where I'll be able to revel in the sunshine. Days that it will be easier to smile and where praise will roll off my tongue rather than sputter. I do not believe it will ever be "better" not to have Harlynn with us. I don't believe it will ever be "better" knowing her big sister Haley doesn't get to share in sisterly bonds and giggles. There will be days that are better than others, no doubt, but I cannot accept that this will ever be "better".

Yet in the depths of our grief and the intensity of our heartache, we have seen and experienced bright spots. We've shared laughter. We've shared gratitude. We've shared love.  I hope over time, I have the memory, energy, and chance to share all the unique stories of the special "earth angels" God has placed in our lives to help us through this. Most of them are too humble to realize how special they indeed are. Today, I want to share the story of Michelle with you. (And I hope she's okay with that...)

Michelle is the friend of a friend of a friend. True story. This is how the 6-degrees-of-separation finds real life application. She was connected with my friend, who asked her to take pictures of Harlynn for us. Harlynn had her pictures taken and was already at the funeral home by that time, but my heart had been burdened by who would take pictures at the funeral. Being as though our time with Harlynn was too short, I wanted every available opportunity to forever capture the two days - two short days - we would honor her before her burial.  Michelle agreed without hesitation to take care of photography for us. She may never understand the impact she had on my entire family simply for being available.

I can't speak enough good of Michelle. Upon meeting her, I just knew she was as genuine as a person could be. Even in such an emotional setting, I could tell along with being compassionate and gentle, she was a fun-loving. She's the kind of person when you meet them you think, "I want to have coffee with her. At least every other Saturday."  She took amazing pictures of the visitation and the funeral, some of which I'll try to post here in a minute. I told Brent she was a photographing ninja - we had no idea she was anywhere, and when you look at the pictures she seemed to be absolutely everywhere. Ninja.

The reason it was so important to have pictures taken didn't really make sense to me until I saw them. I knew I wanted memories captured on film, yes, but when I saw the pictures Michelle took, I realized why.  These were more than just snapshots. These were moments frozen in time. I look at them and I can see and know and experience exactly what I was feeling, what I was thinking, what was happening in that one moment. When you have to say goodbye to your precious child, having time stand still means more than you can imagine. As painful as the days were for us, and as hard an event it was (and still is) for our little family, having these frozen moments is such a blessing. I wish I could explain the conundrum of having such a painful event captured on film and finding myself thinking, "this one is one of my favorites" but you have to believe in the existence of a balance between the two extremes. Just look...and see if you can see what I mean.

Even when I don't know what to say (now, for instance) I hope you're able to see what I mean. These pictures are a treasure, and ones we wouldn't have were it not for Michelle. She preserved the un-preservable for us. She is a gem of a human being. She has walked this road with us in a most powerful and irreplaceable way. She was the one who was meant to take pictures for us, I have no doubt. She was the friend of a friend of a friend. Now, she is simply a friend. I love her not only for what she did for our family, but for who she is as a person, and I have told her as much. I only hope she realizes it's true.

I don't have an awesome camera, I only have a decrepit android phone with a finger-smudged camera lens, but I'll be sharing a couple of snapshots from today. Today has been another ray of light for our family. Firstly, the sun shone. Most of you are thinking, "Of course it did, it's April 20th..." Here in the North Pole, though, we're having the longest winter of anyone's life. There is still snow on the ground. There is still snow in the forecast for the coming week. We all want to shoot Punxsutawney Phil. The sun shone very brightly today and we - I - needed it's light.

Haley and I had a mother/daughter breakfast date this morning. I took her to Perkins where we shared some scrambled eggs, she enjoyed her pancakes, and I had some tasty french toast. I was told to got to have a conversation with her fork, who happened to be wearing a pancake hat. He told me, in his deep fork voice, that he was feeding Haley and wanted to poke my lips. I declined his gesture. Haley made me laugh. Real belly laughs. She has always been a gem, of course, but I so needed her sweet, innocent spirit to spend some one-on-one time with me today. After breakfast, we went home and she immediately put on her new bathing suit. And cowgirl boots. Her daddy and I love her so much. We thank God for her. She has been a ray of light every day, and today especially.

When I was pregnant with Haley, I always sang "You Are My Sunshine", and that is still my song for her today. Dear, sweet Haley:

You are my sunshine ~ my only sunshine

You make me happy ~ when skies are gray

You'll never know, dear ~ how much I love you

So please don't take my sunshine away.

This road is a long one. It hasn't been easy, and it won't be. There will never be anything that can be done to repair the wounds of Brent's and my and Haley's hearts as we try to figure out what life without Harlynn looks like, when we so looked forward to life with her. But praise be to God who has given us these treasures - these people - these moments - filled with His light, and shining glimmers of hope into our aching souls. He will comfort us, He will carry us, and He will bring us in to His light every time we choose to see it.

Next: Pieces
Prev: The Longest Road