Some days I think I'm doing alright, then the next day I wake up feeling horrible. Sometimes it's something someone says or something we have to do as a family, and I become acutely aware of Christopher's absence. We recently took our Christmas card photos and we had struggled with a way to include him. I still struggle with whether or not we should get him a stocking to hang next to Charlie's. I should. I want to. But is it just torment to put his name up everywhere? We had wanted to donate gifts or money for Christmas to children the same age Christopher would be. It's a week away from Christmas and I still have no idea who or what to give to.
As a mother, I'm supposed to nurture and make my home a loving place. As a grieving mother, I am sometimes left with this question of how to do that for a child who isn't with us. More than four months after we lost him, his handprint and footprint finally hang in our dining room alongside mine, Darrell's and Charlie's. It makes me feel good to see him. It makes me feel awful to know that this is one of the few physical reminders I have of him. I have photos of him I want to hang in the house too, but have yet to find the energy to sort through them and organize it.
Sometimes loving and nurturing him requires a sort of emotional detachment. I have to look at the positive side of making his presence felt in our lives. I have to look at hanging the handprints and footprints as a sweet reminder of the time he spent with us, not as a reminder of how he was so unfairly taken from us. I looked at including sunflowers in our Christmas photo as a bright, beautiful symbol of him--we used sunflowers at his celebration of life--not as the replacement for the baby we couldn't hold in our arms.
I have found myself going through quiet phases, needing to turn away from trying to be normal and carrying on with my life. I sometimes ignore emails, calls and texts for days, until I am feeling up to being myself again. I feel guilty for pushing family away, and even pushing my husband away sometimes. But then I remind myself that there really are no rules for grieving and that sometimes it's okay to be selfish, to take a little time for myself. Sometimes getting through the day with Charlie requires every ounce of energy I have, so there is nothing left...sometimes not even for myself.
Charlie is a very sweet and very independent boy. He never stops amazing me. He's so observant, loving and affectionate. He's challenging and sometimes he's just a stubborn toddler. He can be manipulative in the best ways--he snuggles in for more hugs at bedtime, just to avoid having to go to bed. Smart boy. Softie mom. There are days when it's extremely difficult, but I try to appreciate all of these things, even the tantrums. We are so lucky and blessed to have Charlie in our lives, and I can honestly say that I'm not sure how, or even if, we would be getting through this loss without him. He continues to be a warm light in a very dark time.
There is so much beauty and so much sadness in this journey that sometimes it's hard to reconcile it. Of course, if I could change how things turned out, I would. I would give so much to have Christopher in our lives. But now it's a part of my journey to figure out how to continue living a fulfilling life while sorting through the sadness. I am constantly lifted up and shown the way by some of the most amazing people who have stepped up to be there for us during this time, and am eternally grateful for their love.
Stars shine brighter in the darkest skies, and I've definitely felt the presence of some very bright stars in the past several months
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Dear Christopher...
Dear Christopher,
Yesterday you would have been three months old. I watched the clock all day. Around 7:00pm, I was thinking that was about the time I started feeling the horrible pain of the rupture. At 7:40pm, I thought of you being born, me being unconscious on the operating table, not knowing that my world was falling apart around me. I was thinking that it would be several hours later when I would wake up in recovery and see Grandma--Daddy was at the children's hospital with you. I remember that the only words I could get out were "the baby?" I had no idea the severity of what had happened to us both.
I keep wondering what you would be doing as a three month old. I know we would be enjoying your smiles and laughter. Perhaps you would be a better breastfeeder than your brother was and I would still be enjoying that close bond between us. Maybe you would be trying to sit up like Charlie had at that age. I know your brother would be madly in love with you by now, long since forgetting that he was the center of attention until a few months ago. We would have taken you to the pumpkin patch last weekend and we would be thinking of how to dress you for Halloween. We would be thinking of what to get you for your first Christmas and how in the world we would travel to see family with two boys.
My mind has been with you so much lately, even though there has been so much else going on. I talk to you all the time--I don't know if you hear me. That sounds silly, I know. I just still want to be your mother, but I guess I'll have to learn how to do that differently than I would have expected. I am finally pulling out the handprints and footprints Daddy and I got at the hospital--your footprint is perfect and your handprint is beautifully smudged all over--and will hang them on the wall with Charlie's, Daddy's and mine. You are eternally a part of our family and I want to find ways to make you a part of the things we do.
I miss you so much, Christopher. I wish I could hold you in my arms and see the little boy you'd be growing into day by day. I wish I could be one of the moms complaining about how crazy her day is and how she doesn't know how she deals with two boys. Trust me, your brother keeps me busy, but there's an emptiness where you're supposed to be. I hope that some day we are able to bring more children into our home, and I hope that you will be with us, watching over us.
I love you so much and will always do my best to honor your sweet spirit.
Love,
Mommy
Yesterday you would have been three months old. I watched the clock all day. Around 7:00pm, I was thinking that was about the time I started feeling the horrible pain of the rupture. At 7:40pm, I thought of you being born, me being unconscious on the operating table, not knowing that my world was falling apart around me. I was thinking that it would be several hours later when I would wake up in recovery and see Grandma--Daddy was at the children's hospital with you. I remember that the only words I could get out were "the baby?" I had no idea the severity of what had happened to us both.
I keep wondering what you would be doing as a three month old. I know we would be enjoying your smiles and laughter. Perhaps you would be a better breastfeeder than your brother was and I would still be enjoying that close bond between us. Maybe you would be trying to sit up like Charlie had at that age. I know your brother would be madly in love with you by now, long since forgetting that he was the center of attention until a few months ago. We would have taken you to the pumpkin patch last weekend and we would be thinking of how to dress you for Halloween. We would be thinking of what to get you for your first Christmas and how in the world we would travel to see family with two boys.
My mind has been with you so much lately, even though there has been so much else going on. I talk to you all the time--I don't know if you hear me. That sounds silly, I know. I just still want to be your mother, but I guess I'll have to learn how to do that differently than I would have expected. I am finally pulling out the handprints and footprints Daddy and I got at the hospital--your footprint is perfect and your handprint is beautifully smudged all over--and will hang them on the wall with Charlie's, Daddy's and mine. You are eternally a part of our family and I want to find ways to make you a part of the things we do.
I miss you so much, Christopher. I wish I could hold you in my arms and see the little boy you'd be growing into day by day. I wish I could be one of the moms complaining about how crazy her day is and how she doesn't know how she deals with two boys. Trust me, your brother keeps me busy, but there's an emptiness where you're supposed to be. I hope that some day we are able to bring more children into our home, and I hope that you will be with us, watching over us.
I love you so much and will always do my best to honor your sweet spirit.
Love,
Mommy
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Giving Thanks
There is something I've been wanting to do since the early days after we lost Christopher. I just haven't been able to find the right words to reach out to all those who touched our lives and who helped carry us through our most difficult time, just to simply say thank you. So I've been putting it off until I could find the right words. You'd think those two words would carry the message, but when your heart is broken and your soul is devastated and there are times you wonder how you'll possibly put one foot in front of the other to get through to the next day...when people care enough to lift you up and carry you through, thank you is just not enough.
In the days between Christopher's birth and death, there were doctors and nurses who cried with us and helped us gently realize that the worst was happening. Doctors I had seen for over ten years now sat in a hospital room, hugging us and crying with us, even calling at home in the days and weeks afterward to see how we were doing and to patiently answer the questions we had asked so many times already. Nurses I had never met before cared for us so lovingly and did everything in their power to give us what they could to make us comfortable. Some reached out more than that and let us know on a personal level that their hearts were breaking for us. NICU doctors and nurses gave special one-on-one care to Christopher and tenderly helped us take him from the bassinet so we could hold him. They helped us arrange a special photo shoot for him before he passed, they helped us take his foot and handprints with paint so we could hang it at home with the Charlie's, they lovingly bathed him after he had passed and they helped us let him know he was our son and we love him very much.
Family members reached out. My brother, who lives on the other side of the country and who I get to see so rarely, flew out immediately to spend the week with us. Grandparents and extended family sent lovely words of support. My mom, who deals with health issues of her own, took care of Charlie with my dad and made it so that we didn't have to worry about anything while we were in the hospital. So much selflessness and love. Sometimes you forget that you are worthy of receiving it.
Close friends, old friends, distant friends and strangers reached out. Former colleagues arranged for meal delivery for a few weeks--an absolute lifesaver. Friends who had experienced similar losses and were all too familiar with the unimaginable heartbreak told me their stories and by doing so, helped me realize that there will be happiness again--healing first, and then joy will ease back into my life. Friends of friends and total strangers sent me emails and messages and let me know that they too had been through it. Hearing their journey, telling us that grieving is hard, exhausting and necessary, telling me ways they include their child in their family...all of those are comforting in so many ways. Other friends have reached out to me, telling me how much our story has changed their life, how they stopped taking so much for granted and how much they now realize that they are truly blessed with all they have. Those are the stories that make me feel that somehow, Christopher's passing was not completely in vain and that this beautiful boy who lived only three days has touched many lives over many miles.
There are the amazing people who took time out of their day to send off a balloon and message to Christopher on the day we had his life celebration. It was just overwhelming to see just how many people cared and wanted to participate. The messages were beautiful and tearful, and the pictures everyone shared with us were amazing. I plan to create a memory book for Christopher and there will be pages and pages of these pictures and messages. I know that sweet little boy was reveling in all the love. I can just imagine how his face might have lit up, seeing all those balloons!
How can I adequately thank those who reached out and relived their own heartbreak, or those who simply opened their hearts and cried with us, sharing some of this terrible burden? How can I thank the doctors who saved me and the nurses who went above and beyond to care for us? How do I thank the doctors who cared for my son and tried all they could to stop the damage? During this horribly devastating time, I find myself at the lowest of lows--never in my life have I felt such pain, confusion and helplessness. But, never in my life have I been surrounded by people who will give, support and love so generously and selflessly. I know the road ahead is a long one and my heart will always break for the loss of Christopher's life, but it is also healed by every single person who, in some way, has reached out to us.
When your soul is shattered into a million pieces, and when someone takes the time to help you find a piece and put it back in its place, saying thank you is not enough. I just can't find the words to express my gratitude but I promise you that my broken heart is screaming and crying those words of gratitude through the healing scars.
In the days between Christopher's birth and death, there were doctors and nurses who cried with us and helped us gently realize that the worst was happening. Doctors I had seen for over ten years now sat in a hospital room, hugging us and crying with us, even calling at home in the days and weeks afterward to see how we were doing and to patiently answer the questions we had asked so many times already. Nurses I had never met before cared for us so lovingly and did everything in their power to give us what they could to make us comfortable. Some reached out more than that and let us know on a personal level that their hearts were breaking for us. NICU doctors and nurses gave special one-on-one care to Christopher and tenderly helped us take him from the bassinet so we could hold him. They helped us arrange a special photo shoot for him before he passed, they helped us take his foot and handprints with paint so we could hang it at home with the Charlie's, they lovingly bathed him after he had passed and they helped us let him know he was our son and we love him very much.
Family members reached out. My brother, who lives on the other side of the country and who I get to see so rarely, flew out immediately to spend the week with us. Grandparents and extended family sent lovely words of support. My mom, who deals with health issues of her own, took care of Charlie with my dad and made it so that we didn't have to worry about anything while we were in the hospital. So much selflessness and love. Sometimes you forget that you are worthy of receiving it.
Close friends, old friends, distant friends and strangers reached out. Former colleagues arranged for meal delivery for a few weeks--an absolute lifesaver. Friends who had experienced similar losses and were all too familiar with the unimaginable heartbreak told me their stories and by doing so, helped me realize that there will be happiness again--healing first, and then joy will ease back into my life. Friends of friends and total strangers sent me emails and messages and let me know that they too had been through it. Hearing their journey, telling us that grieving is hard, exhausting and necessary, telling me ways they include their child in their family...all of those are comforting in so many ways. Other friends have reached out to me, telling me how much our story has changed their life, how they stopped taking so much for granted and how much they now realize that they are truly blessed with all they have. Those are the stories that make me feel that somehow, Christopher's passing was not completely in vain and that this beautiful boy who lived only three days has touched many lives over many miles.
There are the amazing people who took time out of their day to send off a balloon and message to Christopher on the day we had his life celebration. It was just overwhelming to see just how many people cared and wanted to participate. The messages were beautiful and tearful, and the pictures everyone shared with us were amazing. I plan to create a memory book for Christopher and there will be pages and pages of these pictures and messages. I know that sweet little boy was reveling in all the love. I can just imagine how his face might have lit up, seeing all those balloons!
How can I adequately thank those who reached out and relived their own heartbreak, or those who simply opened their hearts and cried with us, sharing some of this terrible burden? How can I thank the doctors who saved me and the nurses who went above and beyond to care for us? How do I thank the doctors who cared for my son and tried all they could to stop the damage? During this horribly devastating time, I find myself at the lowest of lows--never in my life have I felt such pain, confusion and helplessness. But, never in my life have I been surrounded by people who will give, support and love so generously and selflessly. I know the road ahead is a long one and my heart will always break for the loss of Christopher's life, but it is also healed by every single person who, in some way, has reached out to us.
When your soul is shattered into a million pieces, and when someone takes the time to help you find a piece and put it back in its place, saying thank you is not enough. I just can't find the words to express my gratitude but I promise you that my broken heart is screaming and crying those words of gratitude through the healing scars.
Monday, September 10, 2012
A Day to Celebrate
Just over two weeks ago, we had Christopher's celebration of life. It was beautiful, peaceful and just about as perfect as we could have hoped. We smiled and cried. We spent time and shed tears with friends and family, and honored the little boy our hearts ache for every day. Though his life was so short, it felt right to have a tribute to him and share our words of love, sadness and hope with everyone who came. And while the celebration offered me a sense of peace, I don't yet know if I can say I feel any closure. I definitely don't feel any less sad...perhaps just more aware that all of this is real and not some terrible dream. The thought of his little body shutting down and the complete injustice that his life ended too soon still crosses my mind unexpectedly and makes me shudder. There are some days when not even the intense, uncontrollable sobbing can purge all the pain. There are always and will always be remnants of it left behind. No amount of therapy, tears or medication will completely heal this kind of broken heart. Not even time will do it. My hope is just that it will get a little easier. We have fortunately been surrounded by amazing, supportive people since Christopher passed, and their love has kept us afloat. I have been touched by the stories of perfect strangers who have reached out to me. People I knew as distant acquaintances have become closer and have lifted us up. I have also been a part of an amazing mom's group that went above and beyond with their love, prayers, support and humor. As I sat drowning in my grief, a wonderful group of people sent out the lifeboat to let my family and I know that we were not alone, that they are here for us. While many of them simply cannot understand the depth of our grief, their support has shown no limits and I am absolutely blown away by how much people put their hearts out to others. Some of these people have shown me what it means to be giving and generous.
I have also been blown away by how much our tragedy has touched the lives of others. One of the many amazing mothers in my mom's group asked me if she could release a balloon for Christopher on the day of his life celebration. Since she lived across the country, this was a way for her to be a part of the celebration and send love up to Christopher. I responded eagerly to her that it was a wonderful idea and it quickly snowballed into what was probably over 100 balloons released for Christopher that day. Other mothers in the group, out of state friends, friends of Darrell's and family that couldn't attend all sent off balloons...even a few out of the country! I have yet to put all the photos together, but there are some beautiful ones...and even some videos that brought me to tears.
I send endless gratitude to everyone who released a balloon for Christopher. You have no idea how much this has meant to Darrell and I. It goes beyond words that people care so much for us and our family. In the midst of questioning why we were so unlucky to have this tragedy in our lives, I also find myself asking why we are so lucky to be blessed by so many amazing people in our lives. Christopher would have been two months old today. While I have so much to be thankful for, it's so hard to go about my days and weeks without thinking of what is missing. I can't say with any certainty if that will ever change, but I do feel in my heart that Christopher knows how much we love and miss him, and he has inspired so much love and touched so many lives all over the country--it's just amazing. I can't help but feel that even though he can't be with us, he is one very special little boy.
I love you, Little Man. I think of your sweet face constantly.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
A Father's Heartbreak
As we prepare for Christopher's celebration on Sunday, my husband and I both took time to write to the officiant to give her our thoughts about all that has happened. He sent his today and while I share so many of his feelings, I was struck by the things he said that I couldn't find words for and his heartbreak as a father. With his permission, I'm sharing some of his thoughts here to be included as part of our story.
As compared to many of my friends, I started the marriage and kids route later in life. I don’t know if that affected my perception of parenthood – but I know that I approached it with a different sense of maturity and responsibility. When Charlie was born in 2010, I was 40 years old and truly had no idea what to expect. Sure, I had friends with kids and I got along great with them, but at the end of the day I could always go home to my quiet “kid-free” space. So, when Charlie arrived it brought home the reality of the commitment that all children require and deserve. I immediately fell in love with his puffy little face and squishy arms, and embraced parenthood fully. I had a friend put it to me one day that parenthood was the best thing he never knew he wanted – I couldn’t agree more. I love being a dad. It is something you just don’t “get” until you are actually there – and once you get there you can’t imagine your life without it. I have told Jennifer many times that I wished we had started having kids earlier.
When we found out that we were pregnant again, it was wonderful because now I knew what to expect and relished in the thoughts of having a new baby in the house. It was more than just something for us, it was something for Charlie. I was an only child to my parents, who divorced when I was three. Both of my parents remarried, and at various times growing up, I lived with stepsisters who were the children of my respective step parents. So while I was not entirely foreign to having a sibling, I certainly never experienced it on an everyday basis. When we found out that it was going to be a boy, I think my anticipation and excitement went through the roof. I began “planning” all of the things we were going to do with our “boys.” Little league, Giant’s games, camping, Disneyland . . . everything that I never experienced with a male sibling. I think that Jenn became equally excited as she was going to be “mom” to her little men – toting them around and watching them make her laugh. I thought back to all of my friends growing up who had brothers, and how they were sometimes inseparable. I beamed at the thought of Charlie loving his brother, showing him the ropes of being in our family and watching my two boys become friends.
In many ways, I have felt that I took everything for granted during Jennifer’s pregnancy. Because she was not a high risk pregnancy, I never even considered “problems” during delivery – let alone our tragic turn of events. I made plans and dreamed dreams of what life would be like with my boys, before I had my boys. In many ways it was the cruelest of ironies that we were forced to come from such a high to such a low, all without warning. And while much of this sounds like feeling sorry for myself, my deepest pain lies in what Christopher will never experience. He was undeserving of any of this, and I’m so devastated by his loss of everything that life has to offer. The mere thought that he will never nurse from his Mommy, fall asleep on my chest, or look into our eyes with wonderment at this strange new world simply breaks me and my spirit.
I’ve never been a religious man and have no strong ties to the concepts of heaven and hell. As such, Christopher’s passing has been particularly painful to me, in that I cannot say with faithful conviction that he is “in a better place” or rests in heaven looking down on us. I so want to believe that death is not just an ending of darkness and emptiness, and is rather a transition to light, love and beauty -- but I simply do not know how to take that step. And because I have never experienced such personal tragedy, it has never felt so important to me that there actually be something there. On the other hand, by finding faith I would struggle with the “why” of our situation and want to know for what reason was this perfect little boy never given the chance to live – what spiritual justification outweighs Christopher being with his parents.
When Jennifer and I planned the celebration ceremony there was a sense of confusion of what to do and how to do it. How do you celebrate a life of three days? How do you share stories and reminisce over good memories that do not exist? How do you draw anything happy out of this? I’ve struggled mightily with these questions, and can only come to one conclusion – that I take this time to thank my son Christopher for what he has given to us. I thank Christopher for the three days that he gave us to meet him, hold his hand and tell him that he was loved. I thank Christopher for opening his eyes in hospital and looking at us, showing us that he had beautiful blue eyes like Mommy, Daddy and his big brother Charlie. I thank Christopher for the nine hours that he bravely fought and breathed on his own – showing us that he was a fighter. I thank Christopher for the gift of time that he gave Jennifer and I to be alone with him, as a family. I love my son with all of my heart, but there will always be a hole for him – never to be filled.
One last thought that I would like to share with you. Over the weekend of the 11th, Jennifer and I came to Squaw Valley to celebrate her birthday. On Sunday night we ate dinner at Westshore Café and sat out on the deck overlooking the lake. Although that weekend had been filled with hot, cloudless days, Sunday proved to be a little cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms. As we sat there eating our food, the music on the restaurant’s sound system played a series of songs that made us think of Christopher. I made the comment to Jennifer that perhaps it was Christopher saying “hello” to us and letting us know that he was there. She got tears in her eyes and gave me a look like “don’t you dare make me burst out into tears right here,” so I said no more. However, as we sat in our quiet moment, we looked out over the lake to see that in the middle there was a cloud burst of rain with the sun concurrently setting over the hill. Well, the rainbow that developed was quite beautiful – quickly drawing the attention of everyone on the deck and pier. And while we shared that rainbow with those strangers, both Jennifer and I quietly smiled thinking that Christopher was in fact saying hello to us.
Thank you to my husband for letting me share this and for being my strength during this time. You put me back together when I'm shattered into pieces...every time. Thank you to our officiant, Christa, who married us in Squaw Valley back in March of 2007--she was pregnant with her son at the time she married us and it's fitting that she play a significant role in this celebration and stage of our life too. I could write a novel of gratitude to all those who have surrounded us with love during this time. I continue to be in awe of the outpouring of support.
As compared to many of my friends, I started the marriage and kids route later in life. I don’t know if that affected my perception of parenthood – but I know that I approached it with a different sense of maturity and responsibility. When Charlie was born in 2010, I was 40 years old and truly had no idea what to expect. Sure, I had friends with kids and I got along great with them, but at the end of the day I could always go home to my quiet “kid-free” space. So, when Charlie arrived it brought home the reality of the commitment that all children require and deserve. I immediately fell in love with his puffy little face and squishy arms, and embraced parenthood fully. I had a friend put it to me one day that parenthood was the best thing he never knew he wanted – I couldn’t agree more. I love being a dad. It is something you just don’t “get” until you are actually there – and once you get there you can’t imagine your life without it. I have told Jennifer many times that I wished we had started having kids earlier.
When we found out that we were pregnant again, it was wonderful because now I knew what to expect and relished in the thoughts of having a new baby in the house. It was more than just something for us, it was something for Charlie. I was an only child to my parents, who divorced when I was three. Both of my parents remarried, and at various times growing up, I lived with stepsisters who were the children of my respective step parents. So while I was not entirely foreign to having a sibling, I certainly never experienced it on an everyday basis. When we found out that it was going to be a boy, I think my anticipation and excitement went through the roof. I began “planning” all of the things we were going to do with our “boys.” Little league, Giant’s games, camping, Disneyland . . . everything that I never experienced with a male sibling. I think that Jenn became equally excited as she was going to be “mom” to her little men – toting them around and watching them make her laugh. I thought back to all of my friends growing up who had brothers, and how they were sometimes inseparable. I beamed at the thought of Charlie loving his brother, showing him the ropes of being in our family and watching my two boys become friends.
In many ways, I have felt that I took everything for granted during Jennifer’s pregnancy. Because she was not a high risk pregnancy, I never even considered “problems” during delivery – let alone our tragic turn of events. I made plans and dreamed dreams of what life would be like with my boys, before I had my boys. In many ways it was the cruelest of ironies that we were forced to come from such a high to such a low, all without warning. And while much of this sounds like feeling sorry for myself, my deepest pain lies in what Christopher will never experience. He was undeserving of any of this, and I’m so devastated by his loss of everything that life has to offer. The mere thought that he will never nurse from his Mommy, fall asleep on my chest, or look into our eyes with wonderment at this strange new world simply breaks me and my spirit.
I’ve never been a religious man and have no strong ties to the concepts of heaven and hell. As such, Christopher’s passing has been particularly painful to me, in that I cannot say with faithful conviction that he is “in a better place” or rests in heaven looking down on us. I so want to believe that death is not just an ending of darkness and emptiness, and is rather a transition to light, love and beauty -- but I simply do not know how to take that step. And because I have never experienced such personal tragedy, it has never felt so important to me that there actually be something there. On the other hand, by finding faith I would struggle with the “why” of our situation and want to know for what reason was this perfect little boy never given the chance to live – what spiritual justification outweighs Christopher being with his parents.
When Jennifer and I planned the celebration ceremony there was a sense of confusion of what to do and how to do it. How do you celebrate a life of three days? How do you share stories and reminisce over good memories that do not exist? How do you draw anything happy out of this? I’ve struggled mightily with these questions, and can only come to one conclusion – that I take this time to thank my son Christopher for what he has given to us. I thank Christopher for the three days that he gave us to meet him, hold his hand and tell him that he was loved. I thank Christopher for opening his eyes in hospital and looking at us, showing us that he had beautiful blue eyes like Mommy, Daddy and his big brother Charlie. I thank Christopher for the nine hours that he bravely fought and breathed on his own – showing us that he was a fighter. I thank Christopher for the gift of time that he gave Jennifer and I to be alone with him, as a family. I love my son with all of my heart, but there will always be a hole for him – never to be filled.
One last thought that I would like to share with you. Over the weekend of the 11th, Jennifer and I came to Squaw Valley to celebrate her birthday. On Sunday night we ate dinner at Westshore Café and sat out on the deck overlooking the lake. Although that weekend had been filled with hot, cloudless days, Sunday proved to be a little cloudy with a chance of thunderstorms. As we sat there eating our food, the music on the restaurant’s sound system played a series of songs that made us think of Christopher. I made the comment to Jennifer that perhaps it was Christopher saying “hello” to us and letting us know that he was there. She got tears in her eyes and gave me a look like “don’t you dare make me burst out into tears right here,” so I said no more. However, as we sat in our quiet moment, we looked out over the lake to see that in the middle there was a cloud burst of rain with the sun concurrently setting over the hill. Well, the rainbow that developed was quite beautiful – quickly drawing the attention of everyone on the deck and pier. And while we shared that rainbow with those strangers, both Jennifer and I quietly smiled thinking that Christopher was in fact saying hello to us.
Thank you to my husband for letting me share this and for being my strength during this time. You put me back together when I'm shattered into pieces...every time. Thank you to our officiant, Christa, who married us in Squaw Valley back in March of 2007--she was pregnant with her son at the time she married us and it's fitting that she play a significant role in this celebration and stage of our life too. I could write a novel of gratitude to all those who have surrounded us with love during this time. I continue to be in awe of the outpouring of support.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Preparations
This Sunday is Christopher's celebration of life. Once we knew he wasn't going to live, I knew we could not honor his life with a funeral but needed instead to honor it with a celebration of peace and beauty. Because that's what he was and that's what I felt when I looked at his sweet, sleeping face.
Trying to put together a ceremony that honors your three day old baby is...beyond words. How do you begin? We had so little time with him. We barely got to know him. Somehow I know we will pull it together and it will be beautiful. As we sort through passages and music, flowers and settings, things seem to fall into place as if they were meant to be. Meanwhile, I'm devastated all over again. Choosing meaningful music, flowers, passages and books to read from has forced me to connect with the grief at its core. These past couple days, the sadness feels heavier than it ever has, even the day he passed or the day I picked up his ashes. It's soul-crushing--an emotional reaction so strong that it's physical as well. I don't know how to handle it, except to sob uncontrollably at the pain I feel and how much I miss him.
I hope the celebration will truly honor his life and while we intended it to be less sad than a funeral, there's no way to avoid the sadness and tears. Considering that we cried when we visited the venue for the first time, I anticipate completely falling to pieces...and that'll have to be okay.
There are so many facets of this that are difficult to process. I can't hold my baby that I carried for nine months. I can't soothe his tears or nurture him with food. My heart aches so badly to do these things. I feel like I have been looking for him in everything I do, everywhere. Desperately. A couple weeks ago, in a place that's very special to my husband and I, we sat at the waterfront of a lake at sunset as some thunderclouds rolled overhead. The setting sun caught some falling rain and created a small rainbow. Call me crazy, call me desperate for signs...call me whatever you want. That peaceful, beautiful moment was him. It was him wrapping his arms around us and sending his love.
The night he passed, I held him, kissed him and told him I love him and to sleep peacefully. In the words of a song we'll play at the close of his service, "Godspeed little man. Sweet dreams little man. My love will fly to you each night on angel wings."
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Time will heal
Six weeks ago on a Tuesday evening my life changed in a way I could have never imagined. Six weeks ago I gave birth to my second son, and nothing went as planned. As my husband and I anxiously waited at the hospital for labor to progress, we were unknowingly approaching this life-altering moment. I labored for nearly 18 hours and in the last hour before my son was born, my uterus ruptured and my son was deprived of oxygen. I felt the pain. It didn't feel like the labor pains I had felt with my first son, but this only being my second birth, I had no idea that it wasn't normal. As the nurses and doctors were telling me it probably meant it was time to push, I think I began to feel deep down that something wasn't right. I could not push through this pain. Not only that, I was losing strength by the minute, and losing a lot of blood.
I was rushed into an emergency c-section, put under general anesthesia and my son was born not breathing. I believe that's when the doctors discovered my uterus had ruptured. They had to make a decision whether to remove it or repair it, and they were fortunately able to repair it. My son was rushed to the NICU and then later onto Children's Hospital Oakland where he was put under the cooling cap to try to reduce the inflammation in his brain. Unfortunately the EEG and another test that I can't remember the name of showed that he had no brain activity.
I woke up several hours after he was born after having surgery, a transfusion and several tests. The doctors told me what had happened to me and all I could say was "the baby?" I was told he was sick, but I was too medicated to really understand or feel anything. I woke up again several hours later in the ICU, where my doctors began to visit and the hospital's social worker visited and I began to understand that things were not looking good for him. I don't know if I understood yet that he might not survive. They told us they were transferring him back to our hospital so we could spend time with him, since there wasn't anything more Children's Hospital could do. I waited, still heavily medicated and not absorbing what all of this meant.
He arrived later that afternoon and I was finally able to meet him. It shattered my heart to see him. He was perfect in every way. He looked like a sleeping baby. Beautiful and peaceful. You would never know how sick he was except for the ventilator and the monitors he was hooked up to. I got to hold him, and just sobbed and sobbed. My brain was not processing what was going on, but my heart already knew. I was going to lose my baby.
We knew he had fetal acidosis and that was shutting his body down. We could do things to intervene, but the bottom line was that he was essentially brain dead so if we kept him alive, he would almost certainly live in a vegetative state with ventilators, feeding tubes and all sorts of support to keep his body functioning. That seemed so cruel to him, and selfish of us. We knew the right thing to do was remove the ventilator and let him go on his own, and we spent some time with him before we made the decision to do this.
During the time we had with him, we read him stories, held him, changed his diaper, snuggled with him and tried to show him all the love we possibly could. We brought grandparents by and his older brother Charlie to meet him. In a moment that broke my heart even more, I saw the pain on Charlie's face as he briefly held his little brother's hand. I would have never guessed that at 20 months old, he would have any idea what was going on and maybe it was just my imagination, but I swear he knew and he felt it.
We also finally gave him a name the first night that I met him. I felt so strongly that I just needed to meet him before deciding. Christopher had always been a frontrunner name, and as he lay in his bassinet his left hand was curled into a "C". The doctors and nurses told us that the way he was holding his hands and arms was all part of the posturing of a brain damaged baby, and maybe that's all it was. But it felt like a sign from him.
It was Friday night around 5:00 when we decided to take the ventilator out. He gave us nine more hours before he passed. He lived for just over three days. There are times when I still don't believe it, and there are days when my heart and whole body ache with the sadness and emptiness. You expect to lose your parents. You don't expect to lose your children. You don't expect to ever have to pick up your child's ashes or have a memorial service for them. I still don't know how to process this. I never imagined this would be my story, not in a million years, yet here we are trying to keep it together day by day and process this loss.
I'm also trying to find any possible silver lining in this. One is that I have Charlie. He keeps me looking ahead and laughing, even through the tears. If it wasn't for him, I don't know how we would survive. Another is that I actually lived--ruptures can be fatal to both mom and baby and I know I was lucky, even though we still have no idea why this happened. Lastly, the doctors saved my uterus and we can try to have another baby next year. Another baby will never "replace" Christopher, nor will it fill the emptiness in my heart. That spot that he carved out was always meant for him and will always be his, until the day I die.
There's a phrase in a book we read to Charlie frequently that captures everything I feel about both of my sons:
"I'll love you forever
I'll like you for always
As long as I'm living,
my baby you'll be."
Rest in peace, my sweet Christopher. My angel. Time will heal, but my world is forever changed.
I was rushed into an emergency c-section, put under general anesthesia and my son was born not breathing. I believe that's when the doctors discovered my uterus had ruptured. They had to make a decision whether to remove it or repair it, and they were fortunately able to repair it. My son was rushed to the NICU and then later onto Children's Hospital Oakland where he was put under the cooling cap to try to reduce the inflammation in his brain. Unfortunately the EEG and another test that I can't remember the name of showed that he had no brain activity.
I woke up several hours after he was born after having surgery, a transfusion and several tests. The doctors told me what had happened to me and all I could say was "the baby?" I was told he was sick, but I was too medicated to really understand or feel anything. I woke up again several hours later in the ICU, where my doctors began to visit and the hospital's social worker visited and I began to understand that things were not looking good for him. I don't know if I understood yet that he might not survive. They told us they were transferring him back to our hospital so we could spend time with him, since there wasn't anything more Children's Hospital could do. I waited, still heavily medicated and not absorbing what all of this meant.
He arrived later that afternoon and I was finally able to meet him. It shattered my heart to see him. He was perfect in every way. He looked like a sleeping baby. Beautiful and peaceful. You would never know how sick he was except for the ventilator and the monitors he was hooked up to. I got to hold him, and just sobbed and sobbed. My brain was not processing what was going on, but my heart already knew. I was going to lose my baby.
We knew he had fetal acidosis and that was shutting his body down. We could do things to intervene, but the bottom line was that he was essentially brain dead so if we kept him alive, he would almost certainly live in a vegetative state with ventilators, feeding tubes and all sorts of support to keep his body functioning. That seemed so cruel to him, and selfish of us. We knew the right thing to do was remove the ventilator and let him go on his own, and we spent some time with him before we made the decision to do this.
During the time we had with him, we read him stories, held him, changed his diaper, snuggled with him and tried to show him all the love we possibly could. We brought grandparents by and his older brother Charlie to meet him. In a moment that broke my heart even more, I saw the pain on Charlie's face as he briefly held his little brother's hand. I would have never guessed that at 20 months old, he would have any idea what was going on and maybe it was just my imagination, but I swear he knew and he felt it.
We also finally gave him a name the first night that I met him. I felt so strongly that I just needed to meet him before deciding. Christopher had always been a frontrunner name, and as he lay in his bassinet his left hand was curled into a "C". The doctors and nurses told us that the way he was holding his hands and arms was all part of the posturing of a brain damaged baby, and maybe that's all it was. But it felt like a sign from him.
It was Friday night around 5:00 when we decided to take the ventilator out. He gave us nine more hours before he passed. He lived for just over three days. There are times when I still don't believe it, and there are days when my heart and whole body ache with the sadness and emptiness. You expect to lose your parents. You don't expect to lose your children. You don't expect to ever have to pick up your child's ashes or have a memorial service for them. I still don't know how to process this. I never imagined this would be my story, not in a million years, yet here we are trying to keep it together day by day and process this loss.
I'm also trying to find any possible silver lining in this. One is that I have Charlie. He keeps me looking ahead and laughing, even through the tears. If it wasn't for him, I don't know how we would survive. Another is that I actually lived--ruptures can be fatal to both mom and baby and I know I was lucky, even though we still have no idea why this happened. Lastly, the doctors saved my uterus and we can try to have another baby next year. Another baby will never "replace" Christopher, nor will it fill the emptiness in my heart. That spot that he carved out was always meant for him and will always be his, until the day I die.
There's a phrase in a book we read to Charlie frequently that captures everything I feel about both of my sons:
"I'll love you forever
I'll like you for always
As long as I'm living,
my baby you'll be."
Rest in peace, my sweet Christopher. My angel. Time will heal, but my world is forever changed.
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