Our Stillbirth Storm

It's hard to be a family of four, and only have three people to show for it. It's hard to know how to answer that question, "do you have children? Oh! How many?"  It's hard to not feel like I'm ambushing someone with the unexpected when I say I delivered my second child still. Silent. Straight into Heaven.  

In trying to somehow sort out the reality and navigate through the sea of grief, I have tried to create several projects to keep Harlynn's life remembered. I try to find ways I can help Haley be a big sister when she doesn't have a little sister to yell at, play with, cuddle... I try to find ways I can help Brent memorialize the Daddy's girl he'll never hold again on earth. I try to find ways I can cope. Ways I can hold something - anything - since I can't hold my precious girl.

I went to Hobby Lobby a few days back to try to tackle my own memorial project - a shadow box of the flowers Brent, Haley, and I wore during Harlynn's funeral, and one tiny rose I plucked from her casket spray. I wanted to make a floral-family-photo. The four of us. Together. An entire family.  I ended up buying two shadow boxes, because I wasn't sure which one would be the best size. After getting them home, I knew I would need to take the smaller one back to Hobby Lobby.

The day I was going to make my trip back, we got the mail, and in it was a name card made special for Harlynn. I suddenly had a different idea for the smaller shadowbox.  I had forgotten to get stickers, though, and I would need those as part of the floral-family box, so back to Hobby Lobby I went anyway.  I searched a long time for the perfect stickers. I never did find them. I found some that would work, though, and would work well.  I picked them up and started meandering around the store - mostly because I just didn't want to go back home. When I finally muster the strength to leave the house, it's sometimes hard for me to return.

I wandered over to the yarn aisles, just to browse. Everyone knows I have plenty of yarn (and then some) so I had no intentions of purchasing anything new. I just like to look and see what's available and imagine what other people will make with it.

As I was browsing, my eyes fell upon some purplish-mixed yarn. "Well that's kind of....messy looking" I thought. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands. Yes, definitely messy looking.  I turned the label to read the color.  The color of this yarn was "Storm".  

Standing there, holding this stuff in my hands, I couldn't help but let out an almost-laugh. You know the kind, where you kind of force air through your nose and crack your lips in a smirk. Storm is right. This is purple...kind of....mixed with an awful shade of green, looks like it has been drug around behind an off-roading vehicle, and it's almost...intense. Just like what we've walked through these last couple of weeks. Just like what we've had to endure. Storm indeed.

I bought five skeins. I didn't know what I was going to do with it. I just knew I had to do something. Make something representative of both the color name, and of our journey.

I came home and showed Brent the stickers. He peeked in the bag and said half sarcastically, "And you bought yarn....ooooh....."  I felt I had to defend my purchase. "It has purple and the color name is storm. I'm going to make something for Harlynn."  I imagine there will be more impulsive purchases as time goes on. I imagine I won't regret any of them. It's what I have to do to heal. At least for now.

I pieced the shadow boxes together and decided on the way I want them arranged on the wall when we hang them. Thankfully my first attempt at doing a shadowbox of any kind turned out to work. I'd give anything - anything - to be framing a family portrait instead. But because I can't bring my baby back, I'll take what I can get. For now, I can get a shadowbox with flowers that have a significant meaning to each of us.

I moved on to the yarn. I didn't know what to do with it. I finally decided I would crochet a lap blanket, and when the next "life storm" came my way, I would snuggle in the comfort of remembering my precious girl. Crocheting seems to move faster than knitting and I can't stay focused enough these days to have something other than an immediate result. I don't consider myself a crocheter. I have dabbled in it, and I have made some pretty cool things - but all by chance. I really have no idea what I'm doing, and if it's anything other than simple, I won't attempt it.  I just wanted this to work, and I wanted it to be quick.

I walked up to get my crochet hooks, and grabbed the first one that looked like it would do the job.  It just so happens, it's a purple hook.  After getting settled on the sofa, I started chaining. I thought I had better check and see what size the hook was, in case I lose it and need to find a different one the same size to finish the job.  Isn't that something....it's a size "H".

I chained 100 stitches. I decided to do that, because after entering some simple math in my smart phone (because I cannot even focus on simple math), I discovered Harlynn was born on the 100th day of the year. I started making the blanket and decided every 12th and 16th rows, I would double crochet. Harlynn was born at 12:16, and was our second child.

This blanket isn't much to look at. It isn't a work of art. But it holds an entire story within its stitches. It holds the legacy of our precious baby girl who was stillborn, yes, but she was still born. Her name is etched on our hearts, and her short little life was not in vain. In those 37 weeks, she brought us joy and excitement. She brought us laughter. She brought me to my knees (to dry heave, because of being in pain, and to pray...). She brought us together, tighter, as a family. She brought us love. She brought us hope.

One of the verses we had read at Harlynn's funeral was John 16:33. It reads, "I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world."  In the forty-five seconds I've allowed myself to say an actual prayer since this happened three weeks ago, my prayer has been something in relation to this verse. Yes, you've overcome it. But I haven't. I've been overcome by it. I'm overcome with grief. My child is gone. My hope is you come take all of us home, and you come take us home soon.

In this world you will have trouble.  Certainly that is the case. But this trouble, Lord? You couldn't spare me this trouble? I prayed against this pain! I prayed I would never walk this road, lose my child. When I crumble beneath the weight of my tears, I have to hold my hands over my heart because it feels like it's going to fall out of my chest. I feel as though I could physically fall to pieces. Why does any parent have to know this trouble? So that in me you may have peace. I'll get there. I know I'll get there. And it will only be because of you. I know this. I believe it. I'm just....I'm so overcome, God. With grief. With anger. With heartache. But take heart! I have overcome the world. 

God, grant me comfort in this storm.

Next: Don't Speak
Prev: The Due Date

The Due Date

Today started as a cloudy, rainy morning outside. I think, of course, it's fitting and symbolic. Today was Harlynn's due date. Today I would be 40 weeks. Today....two weeks ago today, we buried our beautiful baby girl. It was cloudy and rainy outside, and within the very depths of my heartbroken soul.  Yet the sun is breaking through the clouds to remind me it's still there and to remind me of the bright spots that will always remain in my heart, even when the clouds consume me.

Yesterday I was very emotional, simply in anxiety about today. Today was a day I looked forward to from the moment I saw that little pink plus sign on the pregnancy test in August. A day I knew would fill this home with joy, and forever change how we lived as a little family. Today I would hear the little cries of my baby girl, my Harlynn.  Yesterday, as these thoughts filled my mind, I thought of the injustice of how all of that hope and excitement has turned to dread and despair. I gave birth to death. That has indeed changed our little family. Instead of the cries of our baby girl, I hear my own sobs and shed my own tears. I watch for the tears from Brent's eyes. I explain to Haley why Harlynn is in Heaven and we must always remember her. Remembering her is all we have.

Before 10 am yesterday, I had been through the coffee shop drive thru, been to the cemetery to eat breakfast at my daughter's side, and hit the garage. It was a busy morning. (I clipped the frame with the side view mirror...I will now be pulling in to the garage forward instead of trying to be cool like my husband and backing in...) I tried to stay busy throughout the day. Yard work. Laundry. Errands. Shopping. Cleaning.  When I came home from an unsuccessful, frustrating two hour shopping trip, there was a box by my door.

In this box were three books I ordered. One is a devotional book for toddler girls. I had been looking for something I could read with Haley that was written specifically to get her toddler mind gears turning in relation to what Jesus is all about. We'll see if my ambitions prove fruitful. The second book was the Children's version of Heaven is For Real. I wanted her to know about where Harlynn is. Heck, I wanted to know about where Harlynn is. Therefore, the third book was the adult copy. Heaven is For Real.  Thank you Amazon.com.

I sat down on the sofa and started reading. I started reading and didn't stop (save for eating dinner, answering a phone call, and having to explain to Brent why I was crying so hard) until the book was finished. 163 pages - I read cover to cover, prologue, epilogue, about, etc. - every single word, sometimes going back and re-reading to make sure I just read what I thought I had. I cannot tell you the transformation in my heart upon finishing this book.

I am a Christian. That (hopefully) is no secret. I believe God is good, God is love, and God sent his son, Jesus, to die a horrific, cruel death on the cross to save and atone each of us for our sins that we have and will commit. I believe in hell, and I believe in heaven. I've read all the passages. I know all the hymns - How Beautiful Heaven Must Be, I've Got A Mansion, When We All Get to Heaven - I grew up singing these songs. I can't explain what I'm trying to say - but basically what it boils down to is this: I believe in all of these things, but I never stopped and thought long enough about them to believe them.  Yeah, yeah, streets of gold, blah blah, pearly gates, sure thing, being with Jesus.....Val. VAL. Face-palm, Valerie, stop and think about what you're saying. Stop and think about what you claim you know. Stop and think about Heaven.

I read this book and cried through a lot of it, but two points really hit me. Not hit me like a "duh, you idiot"... Hit me with a wave of peace. Thank you, God, for this very sentimental, very tangible answer to my pleading prayers. Thank you.

According to Colton, the little boy who spent time in Heaven during his do-or-die surgery, Jesus wears purple. Jesus is the only one in Heaven who wears purple. Also, Jesus is the first person everyone sees.

Harlynn never saw or realized color while she was in my womb. While she was rolling, kicking, and practicing karate in my belly - she never saw any rainbow of color. She never realized what color was. But according to Colton's account of what Heaven is, upon her entrance in to Heaven, the first color she saw worn by the very one who embraced her and held her close - was purple.

The second "punch of peace" I'll call it, was when Colton met his sister he never knew his parents miscarried. His sister knew who he was. She recognized him, she embraced him, she loved him. Dear God, I want so badly to believe Harlynn knows who we are. That she longs to be with us as much as we long to be with her. That she loves us. That she knows how very loved she is by us.

Did I totally fall apart and bawl? Yes. Were they tears of sorrow? Somewhat, yes. But mostly, they were tears of release - of comfort - of a sense of closure. An answer. A tangible hope.  Is it real? I don't know. The Bible doesn't give me chapter and verse of Harlynn's entrance in to Heaven. I do know that Jesus is real. I do know that Heaven is real. And I'm willing to bet Colton didn't make any of this up.

Today is still going to be hard. I'm still going to think about the what-ifs, the why's, the many unanswered questions. I'm still going to miss Harlynn. I'm still going to wish she was here, with me. With us. But I feel a sense of peace I haven't been able to feel since learning her heart was still three weeks ago. I feel like...dare I say...I feel like Harlynn has given me more than just a longing to be in Heaven to be with her, but a solidifying hope and purpose for really believing in everything Heaven is. In everything my life on earth means. In everything my God did for me so I could end up there, with Him. With her.

I feel like I finally get it. I've been a Christian for umpteen years, and I finally get it. Heaven is for real, which means Jesus is for real, which means He died to save me, which means with Him for me, who can be against me? Which means...I am loved. I am cherished. I am not suffering through this alone, or in vain. He is in my corner, and the very cracks in my shattered heart now seep hope right alongside the hurt.

There is a purpose I cannot put in to words. There is a hope I cannot explain. There is a peace that I know only within me. Harlynn, sweetie, I know you're okay. Eventually, Mommy will be too.

Next: Our Stillborn Storm
Prev: The Cemetery

The Cemetery

When we had Haley two months premature, she stayed in the NICU for 30 days. I drove to the NICU in the morning for feedings, vital checks, snuggles - and I was there almost all day. Every day. For 30 days.  I remember thinking Why me? (I wrote a recollection about one night in particular here.)  I was exhausted, I was longing to just have my baby at home, and I thought it was so unfair that all these other parents got to leave the hospital with their babies, and here I was having to come visit mine every day in the NICU.

I need you to understand typing the last sentence of the previous paragraph was very hard for me. Given the alternative, given where I have to go to visit Harlynn, I realize I didn't have it so bad three years ago.

To visit Harlynn, I have to drive to the cemetery. A trip I tried to make a few times, but was unsuccessful because of the flood preparation.  A trip that finds me not in the midst of isolettes or nurses, not among machines monitoring the life and breath of babies, but among stone markers. Among silence. Friday, yesterday, I finally made it. All the way to her grave site.

Her grave site.  The words alone sting.

When I pulled up, the first thing that struck me was the pile of dirt. "Dirt" is such a dry, empty word. At least it is for me now. It's still so fresh, losing her. Symbolically, the freshness of the entire ordeal was captured in the fact that her grave is still dirt - not grass, not stone, but raw ground.  I got out of the car and walked over, forcing each step, because my knees didn't want to bend. I saw her name and picture on the marker the funeral home provided. I choked out a "Hi, Sweetie" before the tears clouded my eyes.  I didn't have time to break down, though, because a minivan pulled up and parked in front of my car.

A mom got out from the driver's seat while her husband and son stayed inside. She was there to visit another son, I found out. He was still underneath snow, so she couldn't do what she had wanted at his grave. She crouched down next to me and said, "Hi." All I could say was, "It sucks that any parent would have to come here." She nodded. She told me her son, two sites away from Harlynn, had a brain tumor and passed away during surgery when he was 13 days old. My throat caught a knot. She looked at Harlynn's marker and asked, "Was she stillborn?" I nodded. "April 10th, that wasn't very long ago." I nodded again. She patted my knee and said, "I'll let you visit." She walked back to her van and they drove away.

I can't tell you the tangle of emotions I was feeling. Here I finally made it, after days of trying, to visit my daughter. Someone else came to visit their son, and couldn't because he was still under too much snow. While my heart ached for her - and every parent that has to endure this - I wanted time with my baby.  Harlynn was under a pile of dirt. I wished she were still on the riser from the funeral. I wished I could see her casket.  I fought the urge to start digging. I fought the urge to just lie across it and weep. I fought the urge to stand up and there in the middle of the cemetery just scream, "WHY?!" I sat down, thankful for the dry grass next to her, put my hand on the dirt, and cried.

When I could pull myself together, I took out the first little children's Bible Haley had when she was just a baby. I opened it up and told Harlynn I was going to read it to her. As I started reading, I realized she probably had already met the very people I was reading to her about. She probably already knew these stories, and in more detail than this little children's Bible shared. I turned to the story of Jesus' birth, and caught my breath in my throat. Do you see the color that adorns the angel's wings? I know it's just a children's Bible, with someone hired to produce the illustrations, but I found such comfort and reprieve in seeing it - purple.

When I finished reading, I told Harlynn about the beautiful day and how I would have walked her around our neighborhood in the stroller. How neighbors would have come out to meet her, and offer their congratulations on such a beautiful little girl. How her sister would have wanted to help push the stroller. I told her as much as I could about Haley, and what a good big sister she is. I sat there for an hour.  I confessed to her I didn't know how to do this - I wasn't sure what to do at a cemetery visit. I told her I hoped she could have a window down from Heaven once in a while to see how much her mommy, daddy, and sister love her. I begged God to let her know who we were, to let her hold us all close in her heavenly heart and to recognize us before we're ever able to see her again.  I stood up to leave, but found my legs once again unable to move. They felt so very heavy as I walked back to the car. I didn't want to leave her. Not again. Not ever.

I got in the car and turned to stare back at the dirt. I talked to her some more. I shed a few more tears. After a long while, I finally found the strength to turn the key and drive away.  As I headed out, I saw wild turkeys walking around. It was comforting and bizarre at the same time.

I was relieved I was finally able to spend time there. Relieved, and completely and totally drained. I had to lie down for a nap after I got home, because I didn't have a single ounce of strength left within me.

I went back this morning to see her again. Yesterday after leaving, I wished I had taken some of the dirt with me. It might seem weird - well, it does seem weird - but I wanted to keep some. This morning I drove back to spend some time with her, and gather some dirt. When I got to her site, I saw deer tracks next to where I parked. I noticed her casket spray had been nibbled on as well. Sure enough, there were deer tracks across her site.  Apparently she had a few animal visitors prior to my arrival.

I put some dirt in a jar, and filled a baggie with some as well. I told her my plans as I was filling the containers. The dirt in the baggie we'll use with the potting soil when we decide what to plant in her honor. The dirt in the jar will share that space with one of the roses from a bouquet from her funeral that I'm drying now. I know it seems strange, but if I had to "commit her to the ground", I wanted a piece of it. I wanted the ground to share.

I brushed some muck off her marker and kissed her little picture. I told her how much I loved her, and that it was another beautiful day. I told her what we would be doing today, and how we all wished she could be with us. As I was talking, I was interrupted....by gobbles. I smiled and shook my head. I told her the turkeys apparently had more important things to talk about than Mommy did.

I sat in the car for a long while again before I could leave. I blew her a kiss and drove away.

Thank you, Lord, for the smiles. Thank you for the sunshine. Thank you for showing me that you're holding both my daughter and me at the same time...that you've been holding us both through all of this. Thank you for my precious Harlynn.

Next: The Due Date
Prev: Purple