Monday, April 9, 2012

Still Breathing

I have been putting off blogging since we lost him, our little Levi.  This is mainly because I was thinking I had to write the story of what all happened before I started writing about our journey since then, and I wasn't ready to write the story...I'm still not.  In a Word document I've been adding to, I've written all the way up through Levi's life until the very moment my midwife could not find his heart beat using the fetal doppler, and I just cannot write on.  Writing a story like that is so unexpectedly much harder than I imagined it would be...choosing the right adjectives, trying to capture the feelings, the thoughts...It's all so intimate and still so raw that trying to write the actual story feels like dragging a fork through a gaping wound.  But as I wait to be healed enough to finish writing about his death and delivery, I keep feeling the urge to write about where I'm at now.  So, I will.

By the grace of God, I'm still breathing.  I miss him so terribly much.  I thank God all the time that I have Griffin, and I'm so glad that Levi wasn't our first.  I'm so glad we didn't come home to an empty house and have completely empty arms without him.  But at the same time, because we know what it is to be parents, to carry to term, to experience the birth of our child, to hold and kiss and breastfeed and rock and sleep and cherish, we are that much more acquainted with what we are missing out on with Levi.  A lot of the day, it makes me so heartsick that I honestly feel like throwing up out my heart.  It sounds disgusting, but that is exactly how it feels.  But I'm not without some more "level" times, and I do feel "new normal" a lot of the time too.

You know a bizarre side effect to losing a baby like this?  You join this horrible "club" of moms/parents who have lost a baby.  20 weeks is considered the cutoff for being termed a "stillbirth," and Levi was 19 weeks, 5 or 6 days.  So, I guess I'm not technically in the stillbirth club, but boy do I feel like it.  People look at you differently, or at least it feels like they do.  I feel like a pitied tragic story that marks us forever as a tragedy...  I don't want to be in this awful club.  I don't want to be marked.  I don't want to be a tragedy.  I don't want to walk around with this all my life.  It feels like some sort of terrible life sentence to be a mom who lost her baby at 20 weeks.  All the days of my life, I will carry this.  I will ache for him.  I will be the mom of one, or no...two?...  What a terrible club of us mothers who have had to deliver their babies, one way or another, lifeless into this world, silent and emptied of their souls.  What a horrific, sin-sick, death-filled, broken world we inhabit.  It is sickening.  Lord Christ, do not tarry...

I've learned so much that I do want to blog about, but tonight's entry is just a beginning, a cracking open of the cover so-to-speak.

I was so looking forward to Easter Sunday.  We lost Levi around the beginning of Lent.  I had been thinking I needed to give something up for Lent this year.  I never imagined what I would be called to give up...  As Good Friday approached, I was identifying with a sliver of Mary's pain at watching her precious Son suffer and die on the cross and marveling at God's willingness to send His ONLY and very beloved Son to die on our behalf.  After the most heart-wrenching Lenten season and Holy Week of my life, I longed for the celebration of Easter Sunday.  For some reason, I expected it to be a healing, transformative day in the grieving process.  I expected to feel different, having arrived at the day in the church calendar when Christ achieves victory over sin AND death, giving us the hope of heaven and the resurrection.  But, to be honest, I was disappointed.  I expected a little part of the gaping hole in my heart to be filled in with the promises of Jesus, but it wasn't.  Still gaping, still bleeding, still ever millimeter as big as it was the moment we saw our baby's heart completely still on that ultrasound screen.  Oliver and I were upset and/or arguing with one another a lot of the day.  I forgot about planning and Easter meal so we went to Cracker Barrel for lunch, but we had to leave before we ate our food because Griffin was being so nasty.  I wanted so badly for Easter to be a day where we began to try to create new, good family memories.  Instead, by the end of the day, I broke down into a hot mess, thinking it maybe wasn't possible for us to create any more happy memories without him.

My biggest obstacle since losing Levi has been having hope for happiness, joyful seasons, good things in this life - This past year has been very, very difficult for us with a series of pretty big, life-changing disappointments.  First, we graduated college, and Oliver was unable to find a job with his degree.  Then, we had a youth pastor position at my parents' church in Michigan that we went to Michigan for Oliver to interview for that took months and months of time to come to a point where things fell through.  During that time and beyond, I was struggling with and getting counseling for an absolutely debilitating anxiety disorder.  After that, Oliver continued to look for work and wound up hearing about a promising farm job which wound up being a big disappointment, and he proceeded to spend months and months working for a man who was downright cruel to him.  I got pregnant somewhere in there, and although there was much joy and anticipation, I struggled with anxiety and depression most of my first trimester until about 13 weeks when we found a vitamin D3 deficiency (which, once corrected, corrected the anxiety/depression).  At 20 weeks, just two short days after our big ultrasound where found out he was a HE and saw our new little man kicking, squirming, and sucking his thumb healthy as could be, we discovered that he died, most likely from the very tight knot in his umbilical cord (discovered upon delivery).  1% of babies have a knot in their cord.  98% of those babies with knots are just fine.  2% die.  Of that 2% of the 1%, the vast majority die during labor when the cord is able to be pulled tight.  Our doctor has absolutely no idea how, at his age, a knot could be tightened as tight as his was.  We were just a week and a half from moving at the time Levi died, boxes stacked to the ceiling.  We were moving to Michigan, Oliver had a landscaping job lined up, and he was going to be going to Physician's Assistant school.  We never had felt quite settled in our hearts about the move, and after we lost Levi, we realized it wasn't right for us.  Oliver had been so excited to be moving toward a career where he could finally provide for his family, but going to PA school soon was not to be.  So, this year has been one major disappointment after another.  We don't know how much more we can take, but, then again, we thought that before we lost Levi...

God doesn't promise us happiness and lots of lengthy happy, joy-filled seasons.  But we are promised suffering.  Does He care about our happiness?  Or does He just care about changing us (which happens most drastically through suffering)?  It's hard not to despair and believe we will just suffer like this all our days, be destined to lose more babies, be in a tough season all our lives.  If He were willing to allow Levi to be taken from us, why not others?  It just all makes me long for heaven, for Jesus to come back.  Yes, I know He will use all the suffering, the losses for His glory and for my good, but that can be a really rough reality for us.  C.S. Lewis said, "We're not necessarily doubting that God will do the best for us; we are wondering how painful the best will turn out to be."  That sums it up perfectly...perfectly.  I know people and have read the stories of many, many women who have had multiple stillbirths, miscarriages, AND have lost infants at 2, 3, 4 months.  The amount and capacity for suffering in the people of this earth is sickeningly astounding.  I am not promised to go on to have a baby that survives next time around just because I lost Levi.  I had a friend who, after having 2 miscarriages and a stillbirth at 24 weeks, was 10 weeks pregnant when she had a fleeting thought of something being wrong.  She remembers talking to the Lord and saying, "Surely not, Lord.  Surely you wouldn't allow this baby to be taken too..."  And yet, He did.  And the next one...

Oh, Lord, should I even ask for happy seasons, for joy-filled times?  Shall my life be dominated by sorrow, grief, suffering, and pain?  Yes, it will make me more like Christ, but even he asked for the cup to pass...  So, I will not be ashamed to ask for it to pass for us as well.  Yet, not my will but yours be done.  It's so much harder to say now.  Like Lewis said, I don't doubt God's goodness, even towards me, but I fear His will for me.  It's hard to trust with hands held open for God to carry out His will with our children, my Griffin, my future babies....even if He chooses to allow death to tear them out of our arms and into His.

Please don't confuse these ramblings of the grief-stricken heart with a theological treatise...These writings aren't meant to portray what is true of God and the world; they are meant to be me processing, with my finite and struggling brain.  It's my battles and wounds worked out in writing, so please be sensitive to that if you are interested in responding.

I will leave you with some music that has impacted me.  In the year after Steven Curtis Chapman lost his 5 year old daughter in a terrible accident, he wrote a CD of songs that he calls his "psalms." I'm not a fan of Steven Curtis Chapman's music typically, but this album, "Beauty Will Rise" is absolutely wonderful.  The title track, "Beauty Will Rise" has been the cry of my heart since it the CD was loaned to me by a friend.  It talks about the reality that God will cause beauty to rise out of the ashes of loss, no matter if we can see or feel it now or not.  I know this reality will find its ultimate completion when Christ finally returns and makes everything new, sets everything right, puts an end to mothers losing children, to separation, aching, emptiness, wounds.  But, I know (just intellectually at this point) that He will also cause beauty to rise out of the ashes in this life.  I pray this song every day.  My soul absolutely contorts with longing at the words.  I cannot explain the throbbing, aching way my heart yearns for things to be set right.  Like the song says, "I can almost feel the hand of God reaching for my face to wipe the tears away and say 'It's time to make everything new.  This is our hope.  This is a promise.'"  Yes, Lord.  May it be, and soon.  Being newly acquainted with death, I have come to realize how unnatural, how wrong, how unjust it is.  It is the final enemy.  I simply cannot wait for Jesus to put an end to the despicable way it snatches babies from their mothers, husbands from their wives, mothers from their children.  Yes, yes, God is sovereign.  But Jesus was "deeply moved" and wept at the death of Lazarus, whom he knew he was about to raise from the dead.

Here is a YouTube video with lyrics if you would like to listen to Beauty Will Rise and say a prayer that He would cause this to be true in my life, in Oliver's life, in our family.  How desperately I want God to answer this cry with more babies born who survive, more babies who outlive me, more babies who will meet me before they meet their brother, Levi.  But I am not naive and will not lull myself into a false sense of sureness just because that's easier.  The truth is that I could suffer the loss of more children (please, Lord let that cup pass from me...please), that I could have scarring from the procedure with Levi and be incapable of future pregnancies (please, Lord, let it not be).  I don't mean to be pessimistic, but I'm getting to something...  I believe that the Lord can bring beauty out of the ashes in the form of future children (at which point we will be using the middle name "Phoenix"...a beautiful bird born out of the ashes of death), but I believe He most assuredly can bring beauty out of the ashes in the form of being made into the image of Christ, in having the void filled by the only one who ever can...Jesus.  Like we sang at Levi's memorial "Be still, my soul; thy Jesus can repay from his own fullness all he takes away."  May we be filled with the fullness of Christ.  And then, may we enjoy the blessing of more children :)  Please, Father.



Here are the lyrics:

It was the day the world went wrong
I screamed til my voice was gone
And watched through the tears as everything
Came crashing down

Slowy panic turns to pain
As we awake to what remains
And sift through the ashes
That are left behind

But buried deep beneath
All our broken dreams we have this hope

Out of these ashes beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes
Out of these ashes beauty will rise
For we know joy is coming in the morning
In the morning, beauty will rise

So take another breath for now
And let the tears come washing down
And if you can't believe, I will believe for you

Cause I have seen the signs of spring
Just watch and see

Out of these ashes beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes
Out of these ashes beauty will rise
For we know joy is coming in the morning
In the morning

I can hear it in the distance
And it's not too far away
It's the music and the laughter
Of a wedding and a feast
I can almost feel the hand of God
Reaching for my face to wipe the tears away
You say it's time to make everything new
Make it all new

This is our hope
This is a promise
This is our hope
This is a promise

It will take our breath away
To see the beauty that's been made
Out of the ashes, out of the ashes

It will take our breath away
To see the beauty that He's made
Out of the ashes, out of the ashes

Out of these ashes
Beauty will rise
And we will dance among the ruins
We will see it with our own eyes
Out of this darkness
New light will shine
And we'll know the joy that's coming in the morning
In the morning
Beauty will rise

Oh, beauty will rise
Oh, oh, oh, beauty will rise
Oh, oh, oh, beauty will rise
Oh, oh, oh, beauty will rise


Honestly, I'm scared to post this first post.  I'm scared that those who read will think I'm ugly on the inside now or something.  I don't feel that way myself, but will you think that?  Maybe it's more that I'm afraid to peel the bandage back for people I don't see regularly to view my wound.  Will you recoil with disgust?  Will you think I'm grieving too hard, too long, too much?  Will you think I'm too honest, too emotional, sharing too much?  Will you compare my loss with others who have lost later term or full-term babies or their already-born infants?  Will you think I should just be thankful for what I have and choose joy instead of grief and loss?  But whatever my fears of what you all will think, I believe that God is in control, has allowed this to happen, and is prompting me to write it out, to share it with others.  Perhaps He will use it somehow in the blogosphere...29,000 mothers have lost a baby/child under 5 years old today.  7000 mothers have lost their baby in a stillbirth today (and by World Health Organization standards, "stillbirth" refers only to 28+ weeks/3rd trimester).  Stillbirths during the 3rd trimester account for more deaths than AIDS and malaria deaths combined!  The suffering...Oh, the suffering.  Jesus, come quickly.

And Jesus, can you give my boy a squeeze?  I know he is completely fulfilled in You and needs me not...but will you tell him that I love him anyway?  Tell him his little 1 1/4 inch feet are making quite the impact here.  Selfishly, how I wish he did need me.  How I wish he were still kicking around in there, getting his oxygen, nutrients, everything from me.  Like C.S. Lewis talks about in A Grief Observed, it is so selfish to want them back.  They've made it through death and to the other side of those pearly gates.  They wouldn't want to come back.


7 comments:

  1. I wish I could wrap my soul around your soul to protect you. I know it's a weird thing to say, but it's the image that went through my mind as I read your raw, honest, beautiful words. My pain cannot compare to yours, but in some small way I can relate to your longing for Christ. Sometimes I stare at the up at the circular windows in our church building and plead with God, "Please please please please please. What could You possibly be waiting for? Come now. Come NOW. Please."

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  2. thank you for writing, katie. love ya'll!

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  3. katie, what an incredible woman you are. Your rawness is simply beautiful. we will continue to pray for healing for you and your sweet family. your faith is so encouraging and those boys are blessed to have you in their life as wife and mama. you are so precious and Jesus is walking you through this tragic time in your earthly stay.

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  4. thank you for giving me (and others) a glimpse into your thought life/emotions/grief process, Katie. You are truly a gifted writer and your ability to share your soul is so refreshing. Thank you for being honest, for putting yourself out there 'on the line', and expressing your true love for your God. Your love for HIM is truly evident and it has blessed my soul to read of it. Praying for you continually as you walk through this valley, being upheld my His loving arms.

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  5. One of my first thoughts upon reading this is how BEAUTIFUL your insides are-- not ugly. You have been given such a beautiful heart for your children. Levi has been so thoroughly loved! Thank you for sharing such sincere and intimate details. Another one of my thoughts reading this was how awesomely this would translate into a book. Although it's better to talk in person, I still will look forward to seeing the Lord walk you through this time and I will look forward to seeing you use your creativity in writing to express it.

    We love you four so much.

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  6. Thanks for sharing. You are not ugly. I'm praying for you all.

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  7. Katie,

    A friend sent me a link to your blog. The timing couldn't have been better...

    I have three beautiful children (4,3 & 15 months) and in January we were thrilled to find out we were expecting number four. From day one I felt Baby was a girl. Having two girls already, it was easy to compare the pregnancies. We typically wait a few months before telling family and friends our exciting baby news, so we tried to hide our goofy grins and knowing looks. :)

    I didn't even make it to the first midwife appointment. At just around 8 weeks, my precious baby died. I'd never had a miscarriage until that day...just barely 3 months ago. We ended up telling our parents and only the closest of friends. I was broken.

    I'm a pastor's wife. It's my "job" to be there for others; to listen and offer counsel and prayer.To be an example. For three months I've been putting on a smile each week to meet our congregation and their needs and often times I've been smiling on the outside and feeling so empty and broken on the inside. I mistakenly thought that being a good pastor's wife meant always smiling and not showing when I'm sad, mad, hurt or discouraged.

    Jesus is my Rock!! He gives me the grace and peace as I need it, but it still hurts. I think about her every day, and at least once a week I end up a crying mess. :) I'm torn between wanting to tell everyone I see about my loss and the beautiful one I have waiting for me in Heaven, and feeling like if I say anything I might get hurt even more. People mean well, but all it'd take is one comment about how common miscarriages are, or how I should be thankful I already have three, or must be God thought my hands were full enough and I think I'd flip out! So instead of opening up about my biggest hurt, I bury it week after week to those around me. I can't stop thinking about how big she'd be by now; wondering if she'd be quiet nestled in my womb or if she'd be an acrobat! What color is her hair? Her eyes? Does she have dimples? I want to kiss them! So many things about her I'll never know on Earth. My body aches for her, my heart hurts, but at the end of the day, I have peace and JOY. The first face my little Casey saw was GOD'S! She is so precious that she completed her life's purpose before she was even born. She'll never have to know pain or sorrow. And she has THE best babysitter ever holding her for me until I get there! :)

    I want to thank you, Katie, for so openly sharing your family's pain and the life of Levi. It truly touched me and has challenged me to share and heal rather than hide and mask. God can use anything for good! Praying He continues to heal your heart as He heals mine and looking forward to the day we'll get to hold our little ones!! All for Jesus, I surrender ALL!

    Praying for you...

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