On the day you joined us there was joy and terror.
I was too scared to scream.
I was too upset to cry.
I was too relieved to think.
Someday I'll be able to tell you that it matters that you were born safe and healthy
And it also matters that it didn't go as planned
And that I was scared out of my mind.
Someday I'll tell you how I grieve that I was asleep and didn't see you until you were clean and wrapped and had sat with Abba by my bed for hours.
Some day
I'll also tell you that when I gave you milk I felt that you were truly born at last
That I finally felt you mine.
Some time
I'll have the courage to tell you
I had pain and horror
But
You were the best medicine there was.
Someday you'll be old enough to understand why I won't read you On the Day You Were Born
But I'll read Love You Forever
And I'll mean it.
I'm still sorry for both of us
Your poor little body suffered too
I'll always regret that.
The day you joined us was among the most terrifying
Scariest
Hardest things I've ever done
But I'd do it again to have you here.
I would die for you but that's not what you need.
Living is harder
But I'll do that too.
And some day I'll hold you
And tell you your story
And I hope I'll be able to help you understand
Though I never want you to have to live through it
No matter what it was worth it.
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Grief. Show all posts
Monday, September 07, 2015
Monday, November 21, 2011
In Gratitude and Rememberance
Eleven months.
Today marks 11 months since Becky joined and left our family at the same instant, without a breath or a cry.
It's almost a year. It's been a long 11 months. It's been a HARD 11 months. But in that time, I have seen some of the purpose in Becky's life being so short; I have learned a lot from her.
It's the time of year for Christmas music. Last year Annie Lennox released a new Christmas album. Becky LOVED it. It was her very favorite thing to listen to (though she also liked Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog, and the Wiggles, this was the number one dance album for her.) This was one of her favorite songs on the album. It's a cool video too, so I'd like to share it with you as I remember her.
Becky left me with a lot of happy memories of the time I had with her, even if it was all in-utero (well, at least most of it. I know she has been with me since then too, but... in different ways.)
She also saved my life, and possibly her sisters'. You see, if I had never been pregnant with her, or had miscarried early on, we would still have been driving our Corolla when we were in our crash. And if she had lived, she would have been in the second row, and me in front on that trip. As it was, we all survived with minor injuries (well, except Maggie, who was completely uninjured becasue she was rear-facing and was protected by that.)
I believe so strongly that she knew what had to happen, and that she made this choice. The only time we could have known exactly what was wrong was during our follow-up high-level ultrasound with Dr. Devore. She was active before and after the ultrasound. During, she took a nap. The knot in her cord was behind her. They poked and prodded and tried to get her to move so they could see the back of the cord, but she just wouldn't. She just didn't move. In the end, they concluded that something was "off" a bit with the cord flow, but since she was growing (she'd jumped from the 15th to the 60th percentile), they were thinking it was okay. If she had moved away, if they had seen the knot behind her, she would have been born by scheduled c-section or emergency c-section if I went into labor. I'd have been upset by that, sure, but I'd have had time to come to terms with it and she would have almost certainly been born healthy. But because of her choice, her actions- it didn't happen that way. And so, because she stayed still when she needed to and did that flip that tightened the knot when she had to, she died just as she was born, and saved me.
Why would she do this? I can only guess that it's because it was necessary for me to stay here. I have work to do. Part of that work is advocating for child passenger safety. I'm a Child Passenger Safety Technician, and have been for about two and a half years now; I'm also currently on the board of Safety Belt Safe USA, an organization which provides education for techs and parents as well as advocating on the state and federal level for improvements in standards, laws, and policies regarding child passenger safety and occupant protection, and advocating for proper use in the media.
I have felt called to this work since I kind of "fell into" it. I have felt like I've found the work I'm meant to do, at least in part. And I feel that Becky's sacrifice for us was in part so that I can continue it- so that, through continued advocacy, spreading the lessons our crash story can teach, and the work I can do to help Safety Belt Safe in their mission, other mamas' babies will be saved.
So in that spirit I'd like to ask three things of you in the next month if you are reading this and care to, to commemorate Becky's life and help me express my gratitude for her gift to us of how she joined our family. They are:
1. Please make sure the children in your care, or those you care for who are in the care of those you can reach with this message (family, friends) are riding as safely as possible in the car. (Let me know if you need information on what that means or how to accomplish it!)
2. Please share my crash story in the link above (there's a brochure ready to print) with at least one person who has a child 12 or under riding in his or her car on a regular basis. This can be via Facebook, email, or by printing out the brochure and handing it to someone.
3. I know budgets are tight, especially this time of year, so this one's the hard one to ask for. If you have a few dollars to spare, even $1, and would like to make a donation in Becky's memory, please consider making a (tax-deductible) donation to Safety Belt Safe. If you go to their website there is a button that says "Make a Donation." Click and a button will pop up. Enter the amount you wish to donate and click "Update Total." Then log in to your paypal account. On the next page, click the button that says "add additional instructions." If you'd like to make your donation in honor of Becky, please write "In memory of " (or "in honor of") "Becky Hamilton." These donations, as a group, will be acknowledged and a little blurb placed in her honor in the January issue of the Safety Belt Safe newsletter. You can also make a donation by check or money order by sending to
SafetyBeltSafe U.S.A., Box 553, Altadena, CA 91003 with a note stating that it is in honor of Becky.
Whether you do any of these things or not, I appreciate your love and support. It would mean a lot to me if you are willing to do any or all of these things for me in memory of Becky, though. Thank you for your friendship.
Today marks 11 months since Becky joined and left our family at the same instant, without a breath or a cry.
It's almost a year. It's been a long 11 months. It's been a HARD 11 months. But in that time, I have seen some of the purpose in Becky's life being so short; I have learned a lot from her.
It's the time of year for Christmas music. Last year Annie Lennox released a new Christmas album. Becky LOVED it. It was her very favorite thing to listen to (though she also liked Doctor Horrible's Sing Along Blog, and the Wiggles, this was the number one dance album for her.) This was one of her favorite songs on the album. It's a cool video too, so I'd like to share it with you as I remember her.
Becky left me with a lot of happy memories of the time I had with her, even if it was all in-utero (well, at least most of it. I know she has been with me since then too, but... in different ways.)
She also saved my life, and possibly her sisters'. You see, if I had never been pregnant with her, or had miscarried early on, we would still have been driving our Corolla when we were in our crash. And if she had lived, she would have been in the second row, and me in front on that trip. As it was, we all survived with minor injuries (well, except Maggie, who was completely uninjured becasue she was rear-facing and was protected by that.)
I believe so strongly that she knew what had to happen, and that she made this choice. The only time we could have known exactly what was wrong was during our follow-up high-level ultrasound with Dr. Devore. She was active before and after the ultrasound. During, she took a nap. The knot in her cord was behind her. They poked and prodded and tried to get her to move so they could see the back of the cord, but she just wouldn't. She just didn't move. In the end, they concluded that something was "off" a bit with the cord flow, but since she was growing (she'd jumped from the 15th to the 60th percentile), they were thinking it was okay. If she had moved away, if they had seen the knot behind her, she would have been born by scheduled c-section or emergency c-section if I went into labor. I'd have been upset by that, sure, but I'd have had time to come to terms with it and she would have almost certainly been born healthy. But because of her choice, her actions- it didn't happen that way. And so, because she stayed still when she needed to and did that flip that tightened the knot when she had to, she died just as she was born, and saved me.
Why would she do this? I can only guess that it's because it was necessary for me to stay here. I have work to do. Part of that work is advocating for child passenger safety. I'm a Child Passenger Safety Technician, and have been for about two and a half years now; I'm also currently on the board of Safety Belt Safe USA, an organization which provides education for techs and parents as well as advocating on the state and federal level for improvements in standards, laws, and policies regarding child passenger safety and occupant protection, and advocating for proper use in the media.
I have felt called to this work since I kind of "fell into" it. I have felt like I've found the work I'm meant to do, at least in part. And I feel that Becky's sacrifice for us was in part so that I can continue it- so that, through continued advocacy, spreading the lessons our crash story can teach, and the work I can do to help Safety Belt Safe in their mission, other mamas' babies will be saved.
So in that spirit I'd like to ask three things of you in the next month if you are reading this and care to, to commemorate Becky's life and help me express my gratitude for her gift to us of how she joined our family. They are:
1. Please make sure the children in your care, or those you care for who are in the care of those you can reach with this message (family, friends) are riding as safely as possible in the car. (Let me know if you need information on what that means or how to accomplish it!)
2. Please share my crash story in the link above (there's a brochure ready to print) with at least one person who has a child 12 or under riding in his or her car on a regular basis. This can be via Facebook, email, or by printing out the brochure and handing it to someone.
3. I know budgets are tight, especially this time of year, so this one's the hard one to ask for. If you have a few dollars to spare, even $1, and would like to make a donation in Becky's memory, please consider making a (tax-deductible) donation to Safety Belt Safe. If you go to their website there is a button that says "Make a Donation." Click and a button will pop up. Enter the amount you wish to donate and click "Update Total." Then log in to your paypal account. On the next page, click the button that says "add additional instructions." If you'd like to make your donation in honor of Becky, please write "In memory of " (or "in honor of") "Becky Hamilton." These donations, as a group, will be acknowledged and a little blurb placed in her honor in the January issue of the Safety Belt Safe newsletter. You can also make a donation by check or money order by sending to
SafetyBeltSafe U.S.A., Box 553, Altadena, CA 91003 with a note stating that it is in honor of Becky.
Whether you do any of these things or not, I appreciate your love and support. It would mean a lot to me if you are willing to do any or all of these things for me in memory of Becky, though. Thank you for your friendship.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Bathing Becky
A friend linked this story (warning: it's about being there at the death of a friend) on someone's blog in a thread on a forum I'm on. The mindfulness of the moment, the sense of it being her job, something about it reminded me powerfully of when my mom came, to be with me and help me get ready while Becky was photographed.
She was covered in meconium. The nurses had given her a quick wipe but then just wrapped her up, not washed her except her face, because they didn't know how soon we would want her. It was the first time I had noticed this, even though I had held her all night, because I had been clinging to her so hard I hadn't even thought to unwrap her.
So my mom went and got a wash basin from the nurses, and some soft washcloths. And she filled it with warm water, and we washed Becky. We first washed her arms, little fingers, carefully cleaning the fingernails and being very, very gentle so as not to bruise her skin. Being careful not to tip her over onto her face, because I had found overnight that her body was already breaking down, and bloody liquid of a nature I didn't want to really think about would ooze from her nose if we did. Then she got some soap and we washed her hair. I reminded my mom that she has been the first one to wash each of my babies' hair, that she is the one who taught me to wash Emma's hair, cradling her over the sink, holding a washcloth over her forehead while pouring water with a cup over the sink to rinse it without getting the shampoo in her eyes. She is the one who first scrubbed cradle cap off Bridget's scalp with me and washed her hair, which was curly and reddish (it isn't any more.) She gave Maggie her first hair wash, too, when she had a diaper blowout at her house that got into her hair. And now she was washing Becky's hair with me. Gently, gently, being so careful of the fontanelle.
We cleaned the folds of her ears too. She has ears like me. I reminded my mom how she had remarked that all our ears are "complicated." I laughed, gently, as if the sound would break her skin too, or possibly just our emotions. I almost felt as if I was not supposed to feel like laughing. But at the same time I knew- yes, I had lost my beloved child, but that did not mean the world was devoid of laughter. She wouldn't want it to have meant that, and I didn't either. My life had changed but it wasn't over yet. Laughter and love go hand in hand.
We wiped her legs and feet. We washed between her toes as well as we could without hurting her- no, she couldn't feel it, but neither of us wanted to hurt her body anyway. We washed her little bottom, and wrapped it in a bit of gauze; she had no diaper, but we wanted to be sure nothing would leak out and mar her dress.
We put her dress on. Her pretty Christmas dress, the one that matched her sisters' (exact match with Bridget's, coordinating with Emma's and Maggie's.) The dress I had bought just in case she came before Christmas. The dress I had planned to put her in for portraits as a family and with her sisters, in their matching dresses. The dress I had stalked ebay for, feeling such joy when I got such good prices on all the dresses. Her arms were stiffer than a newborn's usually are, and yet she did not fight. It was strange how we had to fight her in, but there was no screaming like babies usually make when they get dressed. Almost a cognitive dissonance to dress her and not hear screaming. As we pulled the dress over her head my mom turned it sideways- she knew from experience with my girls (and remarked upon it) that it wouldn't fit without turning it, they get such long heads from Jeff. Maggie was the only one whose head wasn't quite so disproportionately brachiocephalic as a baby. I buttoned the buttons at the neck. She did not hold her head up as we dressed her. It was hard to think that she would never use those strong neck muscles, which I could see were just as unusually strong as the other girls' had been at birth, to look around at me, at her Abba, at Grandma, at a sister.
We put the bow on her head, the bow I had bought in a multi-pack at Target the day I saw it, a bit before Thanksgiving, because I had already bought the Christmas dresses, and the bow headbands for her sisters from Gymboree, and I knew this would perfectly complement her dress and coordinate with theirs. I have used bow headbands with all my girls since Bridget, but usually smaller bows- this was the biggest baby bow I had ever bought, and it was huge on her tiny head. It was flashy and bright and screamed "look at me!" As I put it on I thought of the irony- that bow that I had bought to elicit oohs and aahs from all my baby-loving friends and family would not be worn out to church, to family gatherings, to Christmas dinner. Instead, it would be photographed, and then it would lie in her coffin. I didn't want to think about what would happen to it after that. It was enough that for now, she looked beautiful, and that she got to wear it. It was so important to me that she wear that dress; most of the clothes I had washed and ready for her were ones her sisters had worn, or that I had picked up at the thrift store here and there "for the next baby" and not specifically for HER. This dress and headband were bought just for her. Just for my Becky, after she had a name. One of a set of four, the only single outfit, other than the outfit to go home in that I had bought only for her that was newborn-sized. The most special dress that I had spent hours deliberating over and shopping for. This was the outfit I had chosen with love, and now it was wrapping her cold little body, the warm fleece soft against my skin, my love wrapped around her, my mom helping me dress her.
My mom asked if I knew what color her eyes were. I didn't. I didn't look and I didn't want to. She was born asleep, her eyes closed, her heart done beating when the cord was cut, no energy to ever open them again. I wanted to leave her with that peace, and leave peace in my heart, not open her eyes and see them without life behind them, or risk bruising the delicate, purple-veined eyelids. I'm sure they were blue-grey; all my babies have had blue-grey eyes of various shades. I didn't need to disturb her to know the color. My mom agreed. Perhaps they were more blue than grey, as she was my blondest baby yet, with the sparsest hair. My mom said her hair was just like mine when I was born; it would have been curly, very curly, as it grew out.
And then we took photographs. Once we were done we wrapped her back up. She had to go down to the morgue. No one ever said morgue. They just said that it was time to take her downstairs, and that we could hold her again later before she left. They didn't say before the hearse came to pick her up but that is what they meant. And they meant morgue. I almost wished they would say morgue. They were trying to be gentle but I know what a morgue is. I know that they refrigerate bodies so they don't deteriorate as fast. I knew they would put my baby in a metal tray in the refrigerated wall. I hoped they would leave her in her bassinet, the bassinet that someone had made up for a living baby and which held her body instead, instead of putting her directly on the cold hard metal. But I didn't ask. I knew the nurses I was talking to were not the technicians who would be responsible, so I felt I shouldn't put my wants onto them. And I winced as the nurse tenderly, lovingly laid a blanket over her bassinet before wheeling her down the hall to be handed off to the assistant who would take her to the morgue. But I didn't say anything. I recognized, even in my grief and my outrage that she had to be hidden from view, covered, just to walk down the hall where babies were wheeled down all the time, that the sight of her might upset other mothers, and that I didn't really want to do that. No, it wasn't fair that my baby was dead and theirs were alive, but it was how it was.
That's the thing about Becky. That's the blessing of her life, the blessing she gave me. She is a teacher. That is her mission, I feel that so strongly. In saving my life in our crash, by her refusal to let us see the knot in her cord, by joining our family knowing that she would never get to meet us until our mortal lives are done so that the greater purpose could be served, she gave me the opportunity to teach, to spread the story in ways that may well save other mommies' babies' lives. And she's taught me more compassion. I like to think I was not devoid of it before, but in my grief, even in those first few days, I knew that MY wants and needs were not all that mattered. That I was not alone, not isolated. I knew that I was part of a long experience of the human race, death and life, in a way that I had never felt before. She gave me that. She has taught me to love better, forgive more readily, enjoy my life, be more patient, and find friendship, love, comfort of the Holy Ghost and strength even when my world may be crashing down around me. She's taught me that I can live through my greatest fears. And I know that she's got more to teach. That's my Becky. And one day I'll tell her how glad I am that she's my daughter, and how proud I am of her, face to face.
She was covered in meconium. The nurses had given her a quick wipe but then just wrapped her up, not washed her except her face, because they didn't know how soon we would want her. It was the first time I had noticed this, even though I had held her all night, because I had been clinging to her so hard I hadn't even thought to unwrap her.
So my mom went and got a wash basin from the nurses, and some soft washcloths. And she filled it with warm water, and we washed Becky. We first washed her arms, little fingers, carefully cleaning the fingernails and being very, very gentle so as not to bruise her skin. Being careful not to tip her over onto her face, because I had found overnight that her body was already breaking down, and bloody liquid of a nature I didn't want to really think about would ooze from her nose if we did. Then she got some soap and we washed her hair. I reminded my mom that she has been the first one to wash each of my babies' hair, that she is the one who taught me to wash Emma's hair, cradling her over the sink, holding a washcloth over her forehead while pouring water with a cup over the sink to rinse it without getting the shampoo in her eyes. She is the one who first scrubbed cradle cap off Bridget's scalp with me and washed her hair, which was curly and reddish (it isn't any more.) She gave Maggie her first hair wash, too, when she had a diaper blowout at her house that got into her hair. And now she was washing Becky's hair with me. Gently, gently, being so careful of the fontanelle.
We cleaned the folds of her ears too. She has ears like me. I reminded my mom how she had remarked that all our ears are "complicated." I laughed, gently, as if the sound would break her skin too, or possibly just our emotions. I almost felt as if I was not supposed to feel like laughing. But at the same time I knew- yes, I had lost my beloved child, but that did not mean the world was devoid of laughter. She wouldn't want it to have meant that, and I didn't either. My life had changed but it wasn't over yet. Laughter and love go hand in hand.
We wiped her legs and feet. We washed between her toes as well as we could without hurting her- no, she couldn't feel it, but neither of us wanted to hurt her body anyway. We washed her little bottom, and wrapped it in a bit of gauze; she had no diaper, but we wanted to be sure nothing would leak out and mar her dress.
We put her dress on. Her pretty Christmas dress, the one that matched her sisters' (exact match with Bridget's, coordinating with Emma's and Maggie's.) The dress I had bought just in case she came before Christmas. The dress I had planned to put her in for portraits as a family and with her sisters, in their matching dresses. The dress I had stalked ebay for, feeling such joy when I got such good prices on all the dresses. Her arms were stiffer than a newborn's usually are, and yet she did not fight. It was strange how we had to fight her in, but there was no screaming like babies usually make when they get dressed. Almost a cognitive dissonance to dress her and not hear screaming. As we pulled the dress over her head my mom turned it sideways- she knew from experience with my girls (and remarked upon it) that it wouldn't fit without turning it, they get such long heads from Jeff. Maggie was the only one whose head wasn't quite so disproportionately brachiocephalic as a baby. I buttoned the buttons at the neck. She did not hold her head up as we dressed her. It was hard to think that she would never use those strong neck muscles, which I could see were just as unusually strong as the other girls' had been at birth, to look around at me, at her Abba, at Grandma, at a sister.
We put the bow on her head, the bow I had bought in a multi-pack at Target the day I saw it, a bit before Thanksgiving, because I had already bought the Christmas dresses, and the bow headbands for her sisters from Gymboree, and I knew this would perfectly complement her dress and coordinate with theirs. I have used bow headbands with all my girls since Bridget, but usually smaller bows- this was the biggest baby bow I had ever bought, and it was huge on her tiny head. It was flashy and bright and screamed "look at me!" As I put it on I thought of the irony- that bow that I had bought to elicit oohs and aahs from all my baby-loving friends and family would not be worn out to church, to family gatherings, to Christmas dinner. Instead, it would be photographed, and then it would lie in her coffin. I didn't want to think about what would happen to it after that. It was enough that for now, she looked beautiful, and that she got to wear it. It was so important to me that she wear that dress; most of the clothes I had washed and ready for her were ones her sisters had worn, or that I had picked up at the thrift store here and there "for the next baby" and not specifically for HER. This dress and headband were bought just for her. Just for my Becky, after she had a name. One of a set of four, the only single outfit, other than the outfit to go home in that I had bought only for her that was newborn-sized. The most special dress that I had spent hours deliberating over and shopping for. This was the outfit I had chosen with love, and now it was wrapping her cold little body, the warm fleece soft against my skin, my love wrapped around her, my mom helping me dress her.
My mom asked if I knew what color her eyes were. I didn't. I didn't look and I didn't want to. She was born asleep, her eyes closed, her heart done beating when the cord was cut, no energy to ever open them again. I wanted to leave her with that peace, and leave peace in my heart, not open her eyes and see them without life behind them, or risk bruising the delicate, purple-veined eyelids. I'm sure they were blue-grey; all my babies have had blue-grey eyes of various shades. I didn't need to disturb her to know the color. My mom agreed. Perhaps they were more blue than grey, as she was my blondest baby yet, with the sparsest hair. My mom said her hair was just like mine when I was born; it would have been curly, very curly, as it grew out.
And then we took photographs. Once we were done we wrapped her back up. She had to go down to the morgue. No one ever said morgue. They just said that it was time to take her downstairs, and that we could hold her again later before she left. They didn't say before the hearse came to pick her up but that is what they meant. And they meant morgue. I almost wished they would say morgue. They were trying to be gentle but I know what a morgue is. I know that they refrigerate bodies so they don't deteriorate as fast. I knew they would put my baby in a metal tray in the refrigerated wall. I hoped they would leave her in her bassinet, the bassinet that someone had made up for a living baby and which held her body instead, instead of putting her directly on the cold hard metal. But I didn't ask. I knew the nurses I was talking to were not the technicians who would be responsible, so I felt I shouldn't put my wants onto them. And I winced as the nurse tenderly, lovingly laid a blanket over her bassinet before wheeling her down the hall to be handed off to the assistant who would take her to the morgue. But I didn't say anything. I recognized, even in my grief and my outrage that she had to be hidden from view, covered, just to walk down the hall where babies were wheeled down all the time, that the sight of her might upset other mothers, and that I didn't really want to do that. No, it wasn't fair that my baby was dead and theirs were alive, but it was how it was.
That's the thing about Becky. That's the blessing of her life, the blessing she gave me. She is a teacher. That is her mission, I feel that so strongly. In saving my life in our crash, by her refusal to let us see the knot in her cord, by joining our family knowing that she would never get to meet us until our mortal lives are done so that the greater purpose could be served, she gave me the opportunity to teach, to spread the story in ways that may well save other mommies' babies' lives. And she's taught me more compassion. I like to think I was not devoid of it before, but in my grief, even in those first few days, I knew that MY wants and needs were not all that mattered. That I was not alone, not isolated. I knew that I was part of a long experience of the human race, death and life, in a way that I had never felt before. She gave me that. She has taught me to love better, forgive more readily, enjoy my life, be more patient, and find friendship, love, comfort of the Holy Ghost and strength even when my world may be crashing down around me. She's taught me that I can live through my greatest fears. And I know that she's got more to teach. That's my Becky. And one day I'll tell her how glad I am that she's my daughter, and how proud I am of her, face to face.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Why am I writing this?
I honestly don't know.
I felt like I should write on my blog tonight. (It's been more than a month... again. Maybe I'm guilting myself, lol.)
Life goes on. We've had hot weather and icky colds. I went through a week of horrible side effects as I took the first step down on my dose of antidepressant (it turns out the one I'm on- which worked wonders for me when I needed it- is one of the absolute worst drugs to get off of. Horrible withdrawl.) I had such a bad migraine Thursday that my sister and mom took the kids for a few hours so I could try to sleep it off.
The week before that, we went to the beach with "Grandma Sheri." I stayed on the pier... I hate the beach. The kids loved it, until it was time to clean the sand off-- ick! And then they of course didn't want to go home, but we rode the Beach Bus and, well, didn't want to have to walk! ;)
Two weeks before that was our adventure in Hawaii. I feel like that should have its own post... but it probably won't! My album of Hawaii pics on Facebook is kind of a photojournal though if you're interested. I was really glad to get to spend a few days getting to know Mike, my friend Yvette's beloved, for a few days. He's really, really, really great. He reminds me of Jeff- can there be higher praise for a man? ;)
Overall, right now, my life feels... strange to me sometimes, but mostly good. I find it funny how after going through such a low place when we lost our Becky, I seem to have come out higher than I started. I feel better about myself. I feel better about my other kids. I feel better about being alive. I don't even know what to call that... it's just where I am. I almost feel like I should feel guilty for feeling that I am blessed by losing my daughter. But I'm not... I'm just blessed. I know that she loves me and that she knows I love her. I think I'm beginning to feel like she's here to bless my life- just away right now. And it will be a while til I see her but I know that's ok, she's in good hands...
It's hard to be reminded of her when it's not on my terms, though, still. I like to look at her pictures, sing songs she liked, touch what I've kept of her little clothes and the things that were lovingly made for her. But then they went and named a hurricane her middle name, the name I gave her because it symbolized such joy for me... Let's just say I'm not reading the news much right now.
It's so crazy to think that Bridget is a "kindergartener" this year. (She's 5... So she's not officially on the school paperwork, but she'll probably be learning to read some time in the next 9 months or so.) Maggie doesn't look at all like a baby any more. She definitely looks toddlerish. And Emma comes up with things that... Well, they remind me of me at her age, only deeper. 'Nuff said. :p
I still don't have the energy I want to. (Cannot WAIT to get off the BCP- found out when I took a week off in HI that it's causing a lot of this energy lag, etc.) My house is not clean (and, uh, probably never will be. :/ ) I'm not doing as much cooking as I should. But, I think I like our life, even as I think what it could have been... I like it. It's a good life. It's the best one we can make right now and so... it's good.
I don't really know what else to write. I think I'm out of things to say. Now THAT is an unusual occurrence!
I felt like I should write on my blog tonight. (It's been more than a month... again. Maybe I'm guilting myself, lol.)
Life goes on. We've had hot weather and icky colds. I went through a week of horrible side effects as I took the first step down on my dose of antidepressant (it turns out the one I'm on- which worked wonders for me when I needed it- is one of the absolute worst drugs to get off of. Horrible withdrawl.) I had such a bad migraine Thursday that my sister and mom took the kids for a few hours so I could try to sleep it off.
The week before that, we went to the beach with "Grandma Sheri." I stayed on the pier... I hate the beach. The kids loved it, until it was time to clean the sand off-- ick! And then they of course didn't want to go home, but we rode the Beach Bus and, well, didn't want to have to walk! ;)
Two weeks before that was our adventure in Hawaii. I feel like that should have its own post... but it probably won't! My album of Hawaii pics on Facebook is kind of a photojournal though if you're interested. I was really glad to get to spend a few days getting to know Mike, my friend Yvette's beloved, for a few days. He's really, really, really great. He reminds me of Jeff- can there be higher praise for a man? ;)
Overall, right now, my life feels... strange to me sometimes, but mostly good. I find it funny how after going through such a low place when we lost our Becky, I seem to have come out higher than I started. I feel better about myself. I feel better about my other kids. I feel better about being alive. I don't even know what to call that... it's just where I am. I almost feel like I should feel guilty for feeling that I am blessed by losing my daughter. But I'm not... I'm just blessed. I know that she loves me and that she knows I love her. I think I'm beginning to feel like she's here to bless my life- just away right now. And it will be a while til I see her but I know that's ok, she's in good hands...
It's hard to be reminded of her when it's not on my terms, though, still. I like to look at her pictures, sing songs she liked, touch what I've kept of her little clothes and the things that were lovingly made for her. But then they went and named a hurricane her middle name, the name I gave her because it symbolized such joy for me... Let's just say I'm not reading the news much right now.
It's so crazy to think that Bridget is a "kindergartener" this year. (She's 5... So she's not officially on the school paperwork, but she'll probably be learning to read some time in the next 9 months or so.) Maggie doesn't look at all like a baby any more. She definitely looks toddlerish. And Emma comes up with things that... Well, they remind me of me at her age, only deeper. 'Nuff said. :p
I still don't have the energy I want to. (Cannot WAIT to get off the BCP- found out when I took a week off in HI that it's causing a lot of this energy lag, etc.) My house is not clean (and, uh, probably never will be. :/ ) I'm not doing as much cooking as I should. But, I think I like our life, even as I think what it could have been... I like it. It's a good life. It's the best one we can make right now and so... it's good.
I don't really know what else to write. I think I'm out of things to say. Now THAT is an unusual occurrence!
Sunday, June 05, 2011
Waiting For You
I'm not a patient waiter.
I was never one to sit quietly and wait my turn,
To find a pleasant way to pass the time,
I have turned back because the line's too long, often.
I was waiting for you for a year, for it to be the right time for you to come.
Then I waited months more, learning to be patient,
Not impatient as I had been before,
Learning to tame my mind,
To calm my thoughts,
To wait for you to come
Patiently.
I thought I was getting better at it.
And as soon as you came you were gone
And now I have to wait again.
I have to learn to walk without you
I have to learn to laugh without you
I have to learn to sleep without you
I have to learn to BE without you.
Even when you're here, I can't know.
Even if you are busy, I can't see.
Even though it was time, I can't count
Each minute
Each breath
Each smile
Each tear
Each song
With you.
I have to wait
And I
Hate
To wait.
But you're worth it
And so I'll spend the rest of my life
Waiting for you.
I was never one to sit quietly and wait my turn,
To find a pleasant way to pass the time,
I have turned back because the line's too long, often.
I was waiting for you for a year, for it to be the right time for you to come.
Then I waited months more, learning to be patient,
Not impatient as I had been before,
Learning to tame my mind,
To calm my thoughts,
To wait for you to come
Patiently.
I thought I was getting better at it.
And as soon as you came you were gone
And now I have to wait again.
I have to learn to walk without you
I have to learn to laugh without you
I have to learn to sleep without you
I have to learn to BE without you.
Even when you're here, I can't know.
Even if you are busy, I can't see.
Even though it was time, I can't count
Each minute
Each breath
Each smile
Each tear
Each song
With you.
I have to wait
And I
Hate
To wait.
But you're worth it
And so I'll spend the rest of my life
Waiting for you.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Wow.
It's been a while hasn't it? I didn't realize how long it's been since I blogged...
I've been busy. Busy, busy, busy, seems like we've been DOING for two months straight. April is always super-busy for us and with Bridey's broken leg was more so this year. We spent several weeks at my mom's house, then came home just in time to get ready for Easter and birthdays and... Yeah. While at my mom's house we had lots of help, which is good as for 2 weeks I could not lift and Bridey could not bear weight. The Relief Society stepped up and I also had help from family, friends, and even my family's friends-- my sisters' friend's mom came and helped us several days (and gained the girls' undying love by making cupcakes with them and making them princess outfits out of tissue paper and ribbon and tape...)
Right before the end of tax season (which was 3 days late this year) I worked a check at the Petersen Auto Museum with SafetyBeltSafe, and we got a "Safety Belt Saved" award. The coolest part of this for me was my button. I keep it on my purse. It's teh awesome.
Here is a picture of the girls in their Easter dresses, as is tradition all matchy and adorable:
And wearing their hats, yes, hats are also tradition, bonnets until 2 or 3 and then hats thereafter:
Then there was May. My brother was confirmed a member of the Catholic church (he converted) and had his First Communion; we attended to support him in his desire to renounce evil and turn to God. We had a family birthday party for me and the girls the same day.
Bridey got her cast off, and after a slight snafu (we realized the next week or so that she still seemed to have a stitch in; we had my dad remove what turned out to be TWO, and thereafter her limping and complaining of pain stopped) she's doing great.
We got a new van! It's a 2005 Odyssey-- after we were protected so well by our 2002, buying anything else was kinda out of the question for us. We love it. We went out to Corona and found out that it will be a cinch for us to get swivel screens added in the back rows so rear-facers can watch the DVD player! That will be kinda super-cool as the older two tell me they want to rear-face again to feel safe, and we're going to oblige them with Swedish seats...
I had a few private seat checks in there too-- including one for a friend whom I think I know now better than I did when we were in high school, but either way, I'm glad to know her. And so glad she cares to keep her sweet kids as safe as possible. :)
My uncle who has ALS has been in the hospital; we downloaded Audacity and recorded a CD for him. It has some hymns from me, a song with all of us singing, Emma reading a story, us telling jokes, Ems and Mags singing songs with me (Bridget was not in the mood, lol, typical), and I hear it was a hit. The kids and Jeff learned a new song for it-- the "Alleluia/Praise Ye the Lord" caller/response song-- and it was very amusing to me that Jeff couldn't remember his part on his own. So after Emma learning the whole "Alleluia" tune with me, she had to switch to his side to lead him in "Praise Ye the Lord" because he couldn't remember the notes without a strong singer leading him! LOL! Note to self, if we ever sing a group thing as a family, put Emma with Jeff...
I had a birthday. It was kind of a hard day, being 5 months anniversary of Becky's birthday. I crashed a bit hard the day after. The day of though, my aunt watched the girls and we went to a movie. Then we had dinner with my dad. The day before we had dinner with my friends Melina and Leslie and their mom Celia at their house (I also consider Celia my friend, actually.) We have known each other since Meli and I were in Brownies together... We go way back. They're pretty much family at this point. Isn't it great how your family can grow to include people who you love even if they weren't born into your family? I have a lot of friends like that. Some I've met online, some IRL, but all are now family. Love that.
Anyway, in between ALL that business-- we've been sick over. and over. and over. Ick. It seems like when we're not busy, I'm sick, and when I'm not busy or sick, I have a hard grief day. I'd say I'm ready for a break but, um... I don't know that there's one in the foreseeable future coming up... I'm looking forward to stuff like flying to Ohio to help with a friend's son's birthday party, getting together with local-ish online friends, a trip to Reno, etc. But still.
That's ok. I'd rather be busy doing good things, making happy memories for my kids, and helping and supporting others. I mean, that's life, you know? Even with some grief and illness mixed in-- it's good. And I'm glad I get to experience it.
I've been busy. Busy, busy, busy, seems like we've been DOING for two months straight. April is always super-busy for us and with Bridey's broken leg was more so this year. We spent several weeks at my mom's house, then came home just in time to get ready for Easter and birthdays and... Yeah. While at my mom's house we had lots of help, which is good as for 2 weeks I could not lift and Bridey could not bear weight. The Relief Society stepped up and I also had help from family, friends, and even my family's friends-- my sisters' friend's mom came and helped us several days (and gained the girls' undying love by making cupcakes with them and making them princess outfits out of tissue paper and ribbon and tape...)
Right before the end of tax season (which was 3 days late this year) I worked a check at the Petersen Auto Museum with SafetyBeltSafe, and we got a "Safety Belt Saved" award. The coolest part of this for me was my button. I keep it on my purse. It's teh awesome.
Here is a picture of the girls in their Easter dresses, as is tradition all matchy and adorable:
And wearing their hats, yes, hats are also tradition, bonnets until 2 or 3 and then hats thereafter:
Then there was May. My brother was confirmed a member of the Catholic church (he converted) and had his First Communion; we attended to support him in his desire to renounce evil and turn to God. We had a family birthday party for me and the girls the same day.
Bridey got her cast off, and after a slight snafu (we realized the next week or so that she still seemed to have a stitch in; we had my dad remove what turned out to be TWO, and thereafter her limping and complaining of pain stopped) she's doing great.
We got a new van! It's a 2005 Odyssey-- after we were protected so well by our 2002, buying anything else was kinda out of the question for us. We love it. We went out to Corona and found out that it will be a cinch for us to get swivel screens added in the back rows so rear-facers can watch the DVD player! That will be kinda super-cool as the older two tell me they want to rear-face again to feel safe, and we're going to oblige them with Swedish seats...
I had a few private seat checks in there too-- including one for a friend whom I think I know now better than I did when we were in high school, but either way, I'm glad to know her. And so glad she cares to keep her sweet kids as safe as possible. :)
My uncle who has ALS has been in the hospital; we downloaded Audacity and recorded a CD for him. It has some hymns from me, a song with all of us singing, Emma reading a story, us telling jokes, Ems and Mags singing songs with me (Bridget was not in the mood, lol, typical), and I hear it was a hit. The kids and Jeff learned a new song for it-- the "Alleluia/Praise Ye the Lord" caller/response song-- and it was very amusing to me that Jeff couldn't remember his part on his own. So after Emma learning the whole "Alleluia" tune with me, she had to switch to his side to lead him in "Praise Ye the Lord" because he couldn't remember the notes without a strong singer leading him! LOL! Note to self, if we ever sing a group thing as a family, put Emma with Jeff...
I had a birthday. It was kind of a hard day, being 5 months anniversary of Becky's birthday. I crashed a bit hard the day after. The day of though, my aunt watched the girls and we went to a movie. Then we had dinner with my dad. The day before we had dinner with my friends Melina and Leslie and their mom Celia at their house (I also consider Celia my friend, actually.) We have known each other since Meli and I were in Brownies together... We go way back. They're pretty much family at this point. Isn't it great how your family can grow to include people who you love even if they weren't born into your family? I have a lot of friends like that. Some I've met online, some IRL, but all are now family. Love that.
Anyway, in between ALL that business-- we've been sick over. and over. and over. Ick. It seems like when we're not busy, I'm sick, and when I'm not busy or sick, I have a hard grief day. I'd say I'm ready for a break but, um... I don't know that there's one in the foreseeable future coming up... I'm looking forward to stuff like flying to Ohio to help with a friend's son's birthday party, getting together with local-ish online friends, a trip to Reno, etc. But still.
That's ok. I'd rather be busy doing good things, making happy memories for my kids, and helping and supporting others. I mean, that's life, you know? Even with some grief and illness mixed in-- it's good. And I'm glad I get to experience it.
Friday, March 04, 2011
Muscle Memory
It's funny the things that get stored away in your brain. When I was about 10 I took piano lessons. I stopped after 2 1/2 years; I never got very far, and now I can barely pick out a melody. But I did learn a lot that stuck with me. One of the things I learned about is muscle memory.
My piano teacher talked about muscle memory. When you practice playing a piece, or scales, or anything, over and over, after a while your brain stops having to consciously think about where to put your fingers. Your fingers learn to "know" the feel of the song, or scale, and how to move and reach to the right place. I've found the same thing applies to many other things. Walk the same route enough and you stop having to think about where to turn; even if you've got your nose in a book (as I often did when walking to the library after school in high school) your feet seem to turn at the right place, your brain goes into automatic on it, and you don't have to think, you just feel and know.
It may seem silly, but when I was holding Becky, I knew I would have to let her go. I didn't want to forget-- so I made use of my muscle memory. I held her in my arms, cradled as my other babies have been by my side in my bed. I stroked her hair, and most of all, I traced her features, especially her ears, with my hands. (I love baby ears. I have always been a fan of nice ears-- they were one of the most attractive things, physically speaking, about my husband when we met, I know that's silly but I do love nice ears. But there's something special to me about baby ears. How other people feel about baby feet, I feel about baby ears-- just in awe that they can be so tiny and yet so perfect from the minute they are born.)
I stroked those ears over and over, tracing the ins and outs and lines with my fingertips, cradling her head in my whole hand, also touching lips, eyes, forehead, nose, chin, but always back to those ears, those perfect ears. I laid her head against my arm just where her sisters always cuddled to sleep. And though it may seem strange to some to want to do all this with a dead baby-- I'm glad I did.
You see, it seems to me I knew her soul, at least a little bit, before she was born. But every mother also wants to know and marvel over the sight and smell and feel of her baby's physical body. I don't have a great visual memory. I have an excellent auditory memory-- I can "play" whole CDs in my head and remember a movie line for line, note for note of orchestration of the background music, etc.-- but I have a very hard time visualizing things, whether real memories or imagining something. Thankfully, Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep sent a photographer to help us remember forever how Becky LOOKED. Even if I can't close my eyes and "see" her, I can look at photos. But the feel-- I was so afraid I would not remember the feel.
But I can. Because I touched her over and over and over, and held her so long, I can remember. Late at night sometimes I lie in my bed, close my eyes, and remember the feel of her weight cuddled against my side, her head pillowed on my arm. I reach out my fingers-- and they feel the downy hair, the tiny chin, those little ears. And I'm so glad. It's a comfort to me, to know that I can remember. To know that just as I can feel, if I concentrate, how Emma, or Bridey, or Maggie felt when they were newborns cuddled in my arms-- I can feel how Becky felt too.
I'm sure that might be bizzare to some. But to me, it's a precious gift. And I'm grateful for it.
My piano teacher talked about muscle memory. When you practice playing a piece, or scales, or anything, over and over, after a while your brain stops having to consciously think about where to put your fingers. Your fingers learn to "know" the feel of the song, or scale, and how to move and reach to the right place. I've found the same thing applies to many other things. Walk the same route enough and you stop having to think about where to turn; even if you've got your nose in a book (as I often did when walking to the library after school in high school) your feet seem to turn at the right place, your brain goes into automatic on it, and you don't have to think, you just feel and know.
It may seem silly, but when I was holding Becky, I knew I would have to let her go. I didn't want to forget-- so I made use of my muscle memory. I held her in my arms, cradled as my other babies have been by my side in my bed. I stroked her hair, and most of all, I traced her features, especially her ears, with my hands. (I love baby ears. I have always been a fan of nice ears-- they were one of the most attractive things, physically speaking, about my husband when we met, I know that's silly but I do love nice ears. But there's something special to me about baby ears. How other people feel about baby feet, I feel about baby ears-- just in awe that they can be so tiny and yet so perfect from the minute they are born.)
I stroked those ears over and over, tracing the ins and outs and lines with my fingertips, cradling her head in my whole hand, also touching lips, eyes, forehead, nose, chin, but always back to those ears, those perfect ears. I laid her head against my arm just where her sisters always cuddled to sleep. And though it may seem strange to some to want to do all this with a dead baby-- I'm glad I did.
You see, it seems to me I knew her soul, at least a little bit, before she was born. But every mother also wants to know and marvel over the sight and smell and feel of her baby's physical body. I don't have a great visual memory. I have an excellent auditory memory-- I can "play" whole CDs in my head and remember a movie line for line, note for note of orchestration of the background music, etc.-- but I have a very hard time visualizing things, whether real memories or imagining something. Thankfully, Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep sent a photographer to help us remember forever how Becky LOOKED. Even if I can't close my eyes and "see" her, I can look at photos. But the feel-- I was so afraid I would not remember the feel.
But I can. Because I touched her over and over and over, and held her so long, I can remember. Late at night sometimes I lie in my bed, close my eyes, and remember the feel of her weight cuddled against my side, her head pillowed on my arm. I reach out my fingers-- and they feel the downy hair, the tiny chin, those little ears. And I'm so glad. It's a comfort to me, to know that I can remember. To know that just as I can feel, if I concentrate, how Emma, or Bridey, or Maggie felt when they were newborns cuddled in my arms-- I can feel how Becky felt too.
I'm sure that might be bizzare to some. But to me, it's a precious gift. And I'm grateful for it.
Friday, January 21, 2011
Through the Deep Waters
The rivers of woe shall not thee overflow,
For I will be with thee, thy troubles to bless,
And sanctify to thee thy deepest distress.
Wednesday, January 05, 2011
A Bend in the Road
If I could I'd tell you now,
There are no roads that do not bend,
And the days, like flowers, bloom and fade,
And they do not come again.
Now we've only got these times we're living in.
We've only got these times we're living in.
-Kate Wolf, "These Times We're Living In"
The older I get the more I hear in Kate Wolf's songs. I grew up listening to her and appreciating the music as well as the vivid imagery and beautiful metaphor she wove through her startlingly real portraits of people and life, but like most great works of art (be they visual art, music, or literature) the more life experience I gain, the more they gain meaning as I gain understanding.
I was struck by those lines today. There are no roads that do not bend-- there is no life that goes exactly the way we hope and plan. I have had friends and family members lose babies before (though most before a full-term birth, many were quite far into their pregnancies) but though I'd obviously known that this is a huge shock and loss, I never thought about the changes in plan it entails.
That road trip we were going to take? Well, we won't be doing it with a baby. The trip to Disneyland? Won't be navigating it with a baby in tow. The plans for next Christmas? We won't have a one year old along. The picture of how my family will be spaced? Maggie will now be probably 4 or even 5 when the next sibling comes along, instead of being less than 3 when she gets used to having a baby in the house. Yes, Becky will always be in our hearts, and part of our family-- but she won't be living here, she won't be part of the household routine, it will be very different spacing-wise than what I'm used to, and planned for. Add in that I had a c-section (unexpected since I've always said I'd only consent to one when it was a life-or-health-of-the-baby-or-me situation in MY estimation) and it changes my short term plans due to my physical ability, and my next birth will now be "labeled"-- I'll be a "VBAC" with a slightly higher risk (before I was a "medium risk" patient, I probably still am, but still, it's a word I'll hear that I wasn't expecting, not that it's a bad one or anything.)
Basically, there's not much that will be happening the way I thought it was going to. So now, I have to walk that bend in the road and start trying to plan out the route ahead all over again, since my life has turned 40 degrees to the side of where I thought it would be going. There will be stops along the new route that are more sorrowful and difficult than I was expecting. Off to the side lies a little grave. But I can't stay here, can I? I guess I have to keep walking. Because I've only got this life, I don't get a choice. We can choose our path but sometimes it's not the path we thought it would be. We've only got these times we're living in.
There are no roads that do not bend,
And the days, like flowers, bloom and fade,
And they do not come again.
Now we've only got these times we're living in.
We've only got these times we're living in.
-Kate Wolf, "These Times We're Living In"
The older I get the more I hear in Kate Wolf's songs. I grew up listening to her and appreciating the music as well as the vivid imagery and beautiful metaphor she wove through her startlingly real portraits of people and life, but like most great works of art (be they visual art, music, or literature) the more life experience I gain, the more they gain meaning as I gain understanding.
I was struck by those lines today. There are no roads that do not bend-- there is no life that goes exactly the way we hope and plan. I have had friends and family members lose babies before (though most before a full-term birth, many were quite far into their pregnancies) but though I'd obviously known that this is a huge shock and loss, I never thought about the changes in plan it entails.
That road trip we were going to take? Well, we won't be doing it with a baby. The trip to Disneyland? Won't be navigating it with a baby in tow. The plans for next Christmas? We won't have a one year old along. The picture of how my family will be spaced? Maggie will now be probably 4 or even 5 when the next sibling comes along, instead of being less than 3 when she gets used to having a baby in the house. Yes, Becky will always be in our hearts, and part of our family-- but she won't be living here, she won't be part of the household routine, it will be very different spacing-wise than what I'm used to, and planned for. Add in that I had a c-section (unexpected since I've always said I'd only consent to one when it was a life-or-health-of-the-baby-or-me situation in MY estimation) and it changes my short term plans due to my physical ability, and my next birth will now be "labeled"-- I'll be a "VBAC" with a slightly higher risk (before I was a "medium risk" patient, I probably still am, but still, it's a word I'll hear that I wasn't expecting, not that it's a bad one or anything.)
Basically, there's not much that will be happening the way I thought it was going to. So now, I have to walk that bend in the road and start trying to plan out the route ahead all over again, since my life has turned 40 degrees to the side of where I thought it would be going. There will be stops along the new route that are more sorrowful and difficult than I was expecting. Off to the side lies a little grave. But I can't stay here, can I? I guess I have to keep walking. Because I've only got this life, I don't get a choice. We can choose our path but sometimes it's not the path we thought it would be. We've only got these times we're living in.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Sometimes, there are unsurvivable crashes.
Last Saturday, a friend of mine was on the highway and hit a patch of ice. She skidded, flipped, and went over a fence, hit a water tower and slid some more, landing sideways. Her two year old son was in the car. He was properly restrained in his car seat, which was correctly installed. He was unharmed in a crash that could have been fatal if he had not been. I was so glad to hear that. I knew my time teaching her had been well spent, and this little boy I love had benefited from it.
But sometimes, there are unsurvivable crashes. The big rig's brakes go out and it smashes into the minivan, which plows into another truck or a building. The force is so great that there is nothing anyone can do. The children can all be in proper car seats, and they die anyway.
This week, we had an unsurvivable crash in our own life, though not in a vehicle.
Once there was a little girl named Rebecca Irene, but everyone called her Becky. She had a personality. She didn't like pepperoni, but she loved fruit and she liked chocolate cake, too. She danced a lot. She especially enjoyed The Wiggles, and A Christmas Cornucopia, the new Christmas album by Annie Lennox. She liked warm baths. She knew her father's voice and would wiggle when she heard him. She liked to hear her sisters talk or sing or giggle, and got agitated when they fought or screamed. She was a joyful child and she knew love when she experienced the sound or feel of it.
She was also very active. Last Sunday night, she decided to do a flip. She turned upside down, then sideways, then back down again, as she had done many times before. But this time, she was getting cramped. Like her mommy, grandpa, and sisters, she had a very long umbilical cord. She was running out of room and somehow, when she flipped this time, she tightened a knot that had been tied in her cord a long time back, and the cord also wrapped around her neck three times, whether before or after this, we don't know.
By the next morning she was getting sleepy. Her kicking slowed down, and her mommy thought she was getting a little quiet because it was almost time for her to be born (her due date was later that week, after all.) Soon she stopped moving altogether. Her brain went to sleep; she lost function in her body as slowly the non-essential, then many of the essential parts of her brain shut down. Her mommy thought she was napping, as she did sometimes. Then her mommy started to worry a little. Her mommy listened to her heart, and was reassured to hear her heartbeat. Her mommy also felt her move once in a while, though later her mommy would find out that these movements were most likely reflexive muscle contractions and actually weren't what we would think of as "movements" at all. Her mommy worried enough to call the doctor. The doctor's call service had a problem, and she didn't get a call back. But her mommy fell asleep.
The next morning, Becky still didn't move. Her mommy worried a lot, and counted the minutes until the doctor's office opened. She called as soon as they did, and they told the mommy to come in. The mommy called the daddy and the grandma, and as soon as grandma got home to stay with Becky's sisters, the mommy and daddy went to the doctor's office.
At the office, the nurse put a monitor on Becky. They found a heartbeat, all right. But, it wasn't doing what it was supposed to. Even when they buzzed a loud noise at her and fed her mommy juice, the heartbeat didn't change. The doctor was very worried. He sent the mommy to the hospital, and she went up to L&D. They put another monitor on. Becky had one of her reflexive movements right about this time, though she was still asleep. No one knew that she was already so sleepy there was no chance she would ever wake. There was no way to know. But when no more heart variations came after that last one, the doctor came in and told the mommy that something was wrong. The mommy agreed it was time for Becky to come out, and they began an induction.
After a few hours of the induction, the doctor came in again. They were having trouble keeping the monitor in the right place as the mommy tried to remain comfortable and moved around. The doctor said it was very important to find out what was going on. He asked, and she agreed, to break the mommy's bag of amniotic fluid, and put internal monitors in.
When the water was broken, the doctor got even more worried. There was a lot of meconium. It was what he called "plus four meconium." That meant there was a whole lot of it, and it had probably happened a long time ago. Becky's bowels probably released when her brain first went to sleep.
After a few minutes, the nurses realized that Becky was not tolerating the contractions. They called the doctor. They gave the mommy a medicine to stop the contractions, and the doctor came in and told the mommy that it was time to get the baby out by c-section.
The mommy was very scared and angry. She did not want a c-section. She had a great fear of them. She asked her doctor to please tell her the risks of a c-section (which she already knew) and the risks of not doing a c-section. The doctor still thought there was a good chance to save the baby at this point. He didn't know her brain was already asleep, or that it had probably been that way since yesterday. He told the mommy and daddy what they needed to know, and then he sent the anesthesiologist in.
The mommy didn't like the anesthesiologist. The mommy has a fear of female doctors. She was already panicking and this made it worse. She was given a choice: spinal block or general anesthesia. Again, she discussed the risks and benefits. Then she asked for the doctor to leave while she talked to the daddy.
The mommy was very, very, very scared. She called her mommy. She couldn't make herself make the decision she needed to. She called the anesthesiologist back in to ask if she had the spinal block, could she change her mind. The doctor said yes, but it would be easier on her to do the general in the first place if she thought she'd end up with it-- and that after talking to the mommy, she thought that was likely.
The daddy and mommy talked. The mommy told the daddy that she was sorry. She wanted the daddy to be able to be in the room for the baby's birth. But she couldn't make herself do it. The daddy loved the mommy very much. He knew how scared she was. He told her that he wanted her to do whatever would make it okay for her. She got mad and said it wasn't okay. He said he knew. But it had to be done.
The doctor came back in. He said the baby's heart was getting worse. He understood this was a hard decision but it needed to be made now, and he would make it if she couldn't. The mommy finally told him, "Just put me under. I can't do this awake." He told her he understood as he ran out of the room and began to scrub in the OR down the hall.
The nurses ran in. They began to move the bed. The daddy walked into the hall with the mommy, and then he had to kiss her and go back. The mommy was very, very scared. She felt like this couldn't be happening.
She got to the OR and they tried to put a catheter in as the anesthesiologist got ready. It didn't go in the first time and the doctor ordered them to give up. A little pee was the least of his worries and he needed them doing more important things RIGHT NOW. The mommy got more scared but at that point, the anesthesiologist (who really wasn't a bad person; just in the wrong place at the wrong time or the mommy might have liked her) apologized that this was going to hurt. A nurse came and held her throat as the medicine began to burn in her arm and chest. As the mommy fell asleep, the nurse held her hand and stroked it, and looked her in the eyes. She whispered, "It's all right. I know you're scared. I'm sorry."
The next thing the mommy knew, she was in a strange room with strange people. Her doctor whom she trusted was not there. There was a strange nurse who was talking loudly to her. She didn't like it. She felt empty in her tummy and her heart. Her throat hurt, and her body was very tense. It was so tense that she was grabbing the bedrails, which her wrists were strapped to, and could not let go, and her body was shaking so violently that she thought there were vibrating cushions in the bed. She knew something was horrible. She moaned, "I want to go back to sleep. Please let me go back to sleep."
The nurse came over with a shot and said, "I am going to give you a shot for pain, ok?" The mommy yelled, "No! I don't want the shot!" She was still not thinking very clearly. She asked, "Where is my baby? Is my baby okay?" No one answered her. In the other bed she heard an old man being taken upstairs after his surgery. The lights were very bright in her eyes. She still couldn't let go of the bed rails. The nurse unstrapped her wrists and told her to let go. She couldn't make herself do it. She asked again, "Is my baby okay? Is my baby okay?" The nurse said, "Honey, I wasn't in the room. I'm just in Recovery." That wasn't really an answer. The mommy felt that she should know the answer. She asked, "Would you please look in my chart?" The nurse seemed not to hear. At this point, the mommy gave up. She was pretty sure that the nurse knew where her baby was and didn't want to tell her. She hoped that the baby was being life-flighted to a NICU. But in the bottom of her heart, the mommy feared that what she had felt when she woke up was true-- that her baby was gone from this life.
The mommy started to think a little more clearly. She said, "I want the shot now." The nurse gave her the shot. She relaxed enough to let go of the bedrails when asked, though she did not want to. She waited a little longer, pretending that she was calming down, while inside she felt more and more like screaming. She asked what floor they were on. For some reason she needed to know. Tears ran down the mommy's face. They wheeled the mommy back upstairs, and in the elevator the mommy asked what time it was, and found out that about an hour had passed since she went to sleep.
When the mommy got to the room, the daddy was there waiting. She couldn't see his face, as she had taken off her glasses before surgery. She asked for her glasses. The daddy went to find them. He said, "I know they're in one of these bags." As the daddy looked she grew impatient. She said, "What happened?" He said, "Let me find your glasses. Then I'll tell you." She knew then that he didn't want to tell her. But she had to know. She almost yelled at him, "I need to know! Tell me what happened!" It wasn't angry screaming. She wasn't scared. She was terrified.
The daddy came back, and sat down. He held the mommy's hand. He said, "She didn't make it." He cried. She cried. She asked again, "What happened?"
The daddy said that he had waited in the room, then went out and was directed to the waiting room. Half an hour later the doctor came in. The daddy knew it was very bad when the doctor asked the other man in the room to leave. The doctor told the daddy that Becky was born less than ten minutes after the mommy went in the room. She never took a breath, and her heart never beat outside the womb. It turned out that the umbilical cord with the knot had sustained just enough function that it was like life support. When the cord was cut, the plug was pulled on the life support machines. Becky's brain had already died. It couldn't make her heart beat on its own. The doctor told the daddy that they tried for 20 minutes to make Becky's heart beat and make her breathe.
The mommy couldn't quite believe this was happening. She asked again for her glasses. The daddy found them and she put them on. The mommy began to cry again. She said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Then the doctor walked in. He asked, "Does she know?" The daddy choked down a sob and nodded.
The doctor was in shock. He looked it, and he said it. He said in 26 years this had never happened. He had had babies that he knew would not make it die, but he had never expected that Becky would not live. He had expected that she would be saved. The mommy said that she should have done something sooner. She should have gone in on Monday. Gently the doctor explained that it wouldn't have made a difference. Becky's brain was already asleep. When that happened, by the time the mommy could notice that something was wrong, it was too late already. The same thing would have happened, just a day earlier. The doctor sat with them for a long time, and he answered a lot of questions. He said he was very, very sorry. The mommy could see that the doctor was sad. She said, "I think you feel almost as bad as us." The doctor said, "I can't imagine how you feel. But I do feel very bad. I'm so, so sorry. I never thought this would happen. None of us wanted this. We tried our best and it wasn't enough." The mommy was not angry at the doctor. She trusted the doctor with her life, and her babies' lives. She knew that if he was not able to save Becky, she could not be saved. And she knew that he was telling her the truth. Though she still felt like a bad mommy for waiting so long, for that one extra day of not worrying enough, she knew, in her heart, that the doctor would not lie just to make her feel better. He was not hedging. He told her straight out that Becky was already gone by the time anyone could know something was wrong, and that nothing would have made a difference.
The doctor left, telling the mommy and daddy that he knew they would have more questions the next day, and that he would make extra time to talk to them as much as they needed. Then the mommy and daddy were alone in the room.
The mommy began to say sad and angry things. She said a lot that she didn't remember later, though she knew she probably said some things that hurt the daddy some. She mostly cried. And she said over and over that she was sorry. She knew it wasn't her fault but she was still sorry. She felt like she had failed to protect her baby.
After a while a nurse came in. She gave the mommy more pain medicine. The mommy's body was still very tense, and as her uterus contracted she stiffened all over and it hurt. But she couldn't focus on the pain in her body, because the pain in her heart hurt too much. The mommy and daddy cried together. The nurse came back, and asked gently if they wanted the baby in the room. They were not ready yet to meet Becky.
The mommy got her phone. The daddy had already called the relatives to let them know. The mommy called a friend. Her friend cried. The mommy was sorry but she couldn't talk much. She posted on Facebook. It was hard but she knew people would want to know. She knew people were worried for her and Becky and they deserved the truth.
The grandma came by with Becky's sisters. When they walked in they wanted to know where the baby was. The mommy explained that Becky's body had stopped working and that she was dead. The sisters had a lot of questions. Well, the older two did. The mommy answered them. The littlest sister just looked at the mommy. She was scared to see the mommy lying in the bed crying. The mommy's heart hurt for Becky, and it hurt because she had to tell the sisters news that was going to make them sad.
After a while the mommy and daddy asked for Becky to be brought in. They asked if the sisters wanted to stay or go. Two of them decided to go in the hall. The oldest sister stayed. The baby was brought in. Becky looked like she was asleep. The sister did not want to touch her. That was okay. The mommy asked to hold the baby. Then the daddy held her. Then the mommy held her some more. The next sister walked in and wondered why the baby was asleep. The mommy had to explain again. The two oldest sisters left. The daddy went out to be with them and the grandma came in. She held the baby too for a while. After a while the littlest sister came in with the daddy. She looked at the baby. She wanted to kiss the mommy but didn't like leaning over to do it. The daddy asked the sisters to say goodbye to Becky. The middle sister didn't understand why Becky couldn't come home, and the mommy explained again. The biggest two sisters said goodbye, and the grandma and daddy took the sisters home. The grandpa came by. He held the baby too. He talked to her, and to the mommy. The mommy told him all the most horrible thoughts she had had, and why she felt so bad. He told her that it was okay. We all think and say things when we are scared, that we don't mean. She knew that he meant it. She was comforted.
The daddy slept on the chair that folded out in the room that night. The mommy didn't sleep much. Most of the night she held Becky. She sang songs in the long, long rainy night. She sang all the favorite songs that she had looked forward to singing to Becky once she was born. She had wondered which would be Becky's favorite and now she would never know. But she sang the songs anyway, to get through the painful, rainy, sad night. She was in a lot of pain. She kept getting the daddy up to help her. She felt bad doing so, and apologized each time. But she needed help and tonight, she needed him. She could not ask a nurse, a stranger, to come in and help with little things. She only wanted the daddy to help.
The next day people started asking to help. The mommy accepted their help. A very nice photographer came from the Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep Foundation. The night before a friend had contacted them and the daddy had called. He couldn't call again, he was too upset, so the friend kindly made the hard phone calls for the mommy and daddy. The daddy left and the grandma came, and helped wash and dress the baby, and the pictures were taken. The great-grandma was there too. The mommy dressed Becky in the Christmas dress and bow she had bought for her, that matched her sisters' dresses. The mommy and grandma cried. The photographs done, the photographer left. The great-grandma left. The grandma stayed with the mommy until the nurse came to take the baby down to the morgue so that she could stay the way she was, until the daddy was ready to come say goodbye.
That night the daddy and mommy said goodbye to Becky. They signed some release papers to let Becky go to the people who would take care of her for her burial preparations. They told her they loved her. They told her everything they needed to tell her. They kissed her, and they called the nurse in. The nurse tucked her in lovingly and gently. Then she wheeled her away, and the daddy and mommy held hands and cried together. It was probably the hardest thing they had ever done, to let her go out that door. The daddy went home to be with the sisters, and the grandma came to sit with the mommy.
The story isn't over. There is another day, and another, and another. Next week the mommy and daddy will go to a cemetary with their Stake President, whom they have known for a long time (he knew them before they married; he witnessed their wedding certificate in the Temple and he performed their ring ceremony; he has known each of their girls as a baby, and he was looking forward to meeting Becky.) He will consecrate her grave and they will put her body in the ground. There will be a place where people can go, and know that Rebecca Irene, whom everyone always called Becky, existed. There will be no way for them to know her, and they will not be able to see, looking at her grave marker, how joyful her very short time with her family was. They will probably never even know that she never took a breath or had a heartbeat outside of the womb. But they will know that she had a name, and a family who love her, and who wrote her name down so that people can see that she was here, and part of their family.
Becky will always be a part of the family. She may not be seen, but she will be present in their lives. The mommy and daddy and sisters were brought joy by her life. They always have and always will love her. And they believe that they will see her one day. The wait will be hard, but it will be worth it. And they will know her when they get there. They don't know how that will happen, but they know it will happen. They will know Becky, and Becky will know them. And once again, there will be joy.
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This is the first photograph we have. There are many more but the photographer rush edited it so we would have it right away.
Rebecca Irene
Born still on Dec. 21, 2010 at 5:32 PM
7 lbs., 0 oz.
20 inches long
We will love her forever.
But sometimes, there are unsurvivable crashes. The big rig's brakes go out and it smashes into the minivan, which plows into another truck or a building. The force is so great that there is nothing anyone can do. The children can all be in proper car seats, and they die anyway.
This week, we had an unsurvivable crash in our own life, though not in a vehicle.
Once there was a little girl named Rebecca Irene, but everyone called her Becky. She had a personality. She didn't like pepperoni, but she loved fruit and she liked chocolate cake, too. She danced a lot. She especially enjoyed The Wiggles, and A Christmas Cornucopia, the new Christmas album by Annie Lennox. She liked warm baths. She knew her father's voice and would wiggle when she heard him. She liked to hear her sisters talk or sing or giggle, and got agitated when they fought or screamed. She was a joyful child and she knew love when she experienced the sound or feel of it.
She was also very active. Last Sunday night, she decided to do a flip. She turned upside down, then sideways, then back down again, as she had done many times before. But this time, she was getting cramped. Like her mommy, grandpa, and sisters, she had a very long umbilical cord. She was running out of room and somehow, when she flipped this time, she tightened a knot that had been tied in her cord a long time back, and the cord also wrapped around her neck three times, whether before or after this, we don't know.
By the next morning she was getting sleepy. Her kicking slowed down, and her mommy thought she was getting a little quiet because it was almost time for her to be born (her due date was later that week, after all.) Soon she stopped moving altogether. Her brain went to sleep; she lost function in her body as slowly the non-essential, then many of the essential parts of her brain shut down. Her mommy thought she was napping, as she did sometimes. Then her mommy started to worry a little. Her mommy listened to her heart, and was reassured to hear her heartbeat. Her mommy also felt her move once in a while, though later her mommy would find out that these movements were most likely reflexive muscle contractions and actually weren't what we would think of as "movements" at all. Her mommy worried enough to call the doctor. The doctor's call service had a problem, and she didn't get a call back. But her mommy fell asleep.
The next morning, Becky still didn't move. Her mommy worried a lot, and counted the minutes until the doctor's office opened. She called as soon as they did, and they told the mommy to come in. The mommy called the daddy and the grandma, and as soon as grandma got home to stay with Becky's sisters, the mommy and daddy went to the doctor's office.
At the office, the nurse put a monitor on Becky. They found a heartbeat, all right. But, it wasn't doing what it was supposed to. Even when they buzzed a loud noise at her and fed her mommy juice, the heartbeat didn't change. The doctor was very worried. He sent the mommy to the hospital, and she went up to L&D. They put another monitor on. Becky had one of her reflexive movements right about this time, though she was still asleep. No one knew that she was already so sleepy there was no chance she would ever wake. There was no way to know. But when no more heart variations came after that last one, the doctor came in and told the mommy that something was wrong. The mommy agreed it was time for Becky to come out, and they began an induction.
After a few hours of the induction, the doctor came in again. They were having trouble keeping the monitor in the right place as the mommy tried to remain comfortable and moved around. The doctor said it was very important to find out what was going on. He asked, and she agreed, to break the mommy's bag of amniotic fluid, and put internal monitors in.
When the water was broken, the doctor got even more worried. There was a lot of meconium. It was what he called "plus four meconium." That meant there was a whole lot of it, and it had probably happened a long time ago. Becky's bowels probably released when her brain first went to sleep.
After a few minutes, the nurses realized that Becky was not tolerating the contractions. They called the doctor. They gave the mommy a medicine to stop the contractions, and the doctor came in and told the mommy that it was time to get the baby out by c-section.
The mommy was very scared and angry. She did not want a c-section. She had a great fear of them. She asked her doctor to please tell her the risks of a c-section (which she already knew) and the risks of not doing a c-section. The doctor still thought there was a good chance to save the baby at this point. He didn't know her brain was already asleep, or that it had probably been that way since yesterday. He told the mommy and daddy what they needed to know, and then he sent the anesthesiologist in.
The mommy didn't like the anesthesiologist. The mommy has a fear of female doctors. She was already panicking and this made it worse. She was given a choice: spinal block or general anesthesia. Again, she discussed the risks and benefits. Then she asked for the doctor to leave while she talked to the daddy.
The mommy was very, very, very scared. She called her mommy. She couldn't make herself make the decision she needed to. She called the anesthesiologist back in to ask if she had the spinal block, could she change her mind. The doctor said yes, but it would be easier on her to do the general in the first place if she thought she'd end up with it-- and that after talking to the mommy, she thought that was likely.
The daddy and mommy talked. The mommy told the daddy that she was sorry. She wanted the daddy to be able to be in the room for the baby's birth. But she couldn't make herself do it. The daddy loved the mommy very much. He knew how scared she was. He told her that he wanted her to do whatever would make it okay for her. She got mad and said it wasn't okay. He said he knew. But it had to be done.
The doctor came back in. He said the baby's heart was getting worse. He understood this was a hard decision but it needed to be made now, and he would make it if she couldn't. The mommy finally told him, "Just put me under. I can't do this awake." He told her he understood as he ran out of the room and began to scrub in the OR down the hall.
The nurses ran in. They began to move the bed. The daddy walked into the hall with the mommy, and then he had to kiss her and go back. The mommy was very, very scared. She felt like this couldn't be happening.
She got to the OR and they tried to put a catheter in as the anesthesiologist got ready. It didn't go in the first time and the doctor ordered them to give up. A little pee was the least of his worries and he needed them doing more important things RIGHT NOW. The mommy got more scared but at that point, the anesthesiologist (who really wasn't a bad person; just in the wrong place at the wrong time or the mommy might have liked her) apologized that this was going to hurt. A nurse came and held her throat as the medicine began to burn in her arm and chest. As the mommy fell asleep, the nurse held her hand and stroked it, and looked her in the eyes. She whispered, "It's all right. I know you're scared. I'm sorry."
The next thing the mommy knew, she was in a strange room with strange people. Her doctor whom she trusted was not there. There was a strange nurse who was talking loudly to her. She didn't like it. She felt empty in her tummy and her heart. Her throat hurt, and her body was very tense. It was so tense that she was grabbing the bedrails, which her wrists were strapped to, and could not let go, and her body was shaking so violently that she thought there were vibrating cushions in the bed. She knew something was horrible. She moaned, "I want to go back to sleep. Please let me go back to sleep."
The nurse came over with a shot and said, "I am going to give you a shot for pain, ok?" The mommy yelled, "No! I don't want the shot!" She was still not thinking very clearly. She asked, "Where is my baby? Is my baby okay?" No one answered her. In the other bed she heard an old man being taken upstairs after his surgery. The lights were very bright in her eyes. She still couldn't let go of the bed rails. The nurse unstrapped her wrists and told her to let go. She couldn't make herself do it. She asked again, "Is my baby okay? Is my baby okay?" The nurse said, "Honey, I wasn't in the room. I'm just in Recovery." That wasn't really an answer. The mommy felt that she should know the answer. She asked, "Would you please look in my chart?" The nurse seemed not to hear. At this point, the mommy gave up. She was pretty sure that the nurse knew where her baby was and didn't want to tell her. She hoped that the baby was being life-flighted to a NICU. But in the bottom of her heart, the mommy feared that what she had felt when she woke up was true-- that her baby was gone from this life.
The mommy started to think a little more clearly. She said, "I want the shot now." The nurse gave her the shot. She relaxed enough to let go of the bedrails when asked, though she did not want to. She waited a little longer, pretending that she was calming down, while inside she felt more and more like screaming. She asked what floor they were on. For some reason she needed to know. Tears ran down the mommy's face. They wheeled the mommy back upstairs, and in the elevator the mommy asked what time it was, and found out that about an hour had passed since she went to sleep.
When the mommy got to the room, the daddy was there waiting. She couldn't see his face, as she had taken off her glasses before surgery. She asked for her glasses. The daddy went to find them. He said, "I know they're in one of these bags." As the daddy looked she grew impatient. She said, "What happened?" He said, "Let me find your glasses. Then I'll tell you." She knew then that he didn't want to tell her. But she had to know. She almost yelled at him, "I need to know! Tell me what happened!" It wasn't angry screaming. She wasn't scared. She was terrified.
The daddy came back, and sat down. He held the mommy's hand. He said, "She didn't make it." He cried. She cried. She asked again, "What happened?"
The daddy said that he had waited in the room, then went out and was directed to the waiting room. Half an hour later the doctor came in. The daddy knew it was very bad when the doctor asked the other man in the room to leave. The doctor told the daddy that Becky was born less than ten minutes after the mommy went in the room. She never took a breath, and her heart never beat outside the womb. It turned out that the umbilical cord with the knot had sustained just enough function that it was like life support. When the cord was cut, the plug was pulled on the life support machines. Becky's brain had already died. It couldn't make her heart beat on its own. The doctor told the daddy that they tried for 20 minutes to make Becky's heart beat and make her breathe.
The mommy couldn't quite believe this was happening. She asked again for her glasses. The daddy found them and she put them on. The mommy began to cry again. She said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Then the doctor walked in. He asked, "Does she know?" The daddy choked down a sob and nodded.
The doctor was in shock. He looked it, and he said it. He said in 26 years this had never happened. He had had babies that he knew would not make it die, but he had never expected that Becky would not live. He had expected that she would be saved. The mommy said that she should have done something sooner. She should have gone in on Monday. Gently the doctor explained that it wouldn't have made a difference. Becky's brain was already asleep. When that happened, by the time the mommy could notice that something was wrong, it was too late already. The same thing would have happened, just a day earlier. The doctor sat with them for a long time, and he answered a lot of questions. He said he was very, very sorry. The mommy could see that the doctor was sad. She said, "I think you feel almost as bad as us." The doctor said, "I can't imagine how you feel. But I do feel very bad. I'm so, so sorry. I never thought this would happen. None of us wanted this. We tried our best and it wasn't enough." The mommy was not angry at the doctor. She trusted the doctor with her life, and her babies' lives. She knew that if he was not able to save Becky, she could not be saved. And she knew that he was telling her the truth. Though she still felt like a bad mommy for waiting so long, for that one extra day of not worrying enough, she knew, in her heart, that the doctor would not lie just to make her feel better. He was not hedging. He told her straight out that Becky was already gone by the time anyone could know something was wrong, and that nothing would have made a difference.
The doctor left, telling the mommy and daddy that he knew they would have more questions the next day, and that he would make extra time to talk to them as much as they needed. Then the mommy and daddy were alone in the room.
The mommy began to say sad and angry things. She said a lot that she didn't remember later, though she knew she probably said some things that hurt the daddy some. She mostly cried. And she said over and over that she was sorry. She knew it wasn't her fault but she was still sorry. She felt like she had failed to protect her baby.
After a while a nurse came in. She gave the mommy more pain medicine. The mommy's body was still very tense, and as her uterus contracted she stiffened all over and it hurt. But she couldn't focus on the pain in her body, because the pain in her heart hurt too much. The mommy and daddy cried together. The nurse came back, and asked gently if they wanted the baby in the room. They were not ready yet to meet Becky.
The mommy got her phone. The daddy had already called the relatives to let them know. The mommy called a friend. Her friend cried. The mommy was sorry but she couldn't talk much. She posted on Facebook. It was hard but she knew people would want to know. She knew people were worried for her and Becky and they deserved the truth.
The grandma came by with Becky's sisters. When they walked in they wanted to know where the baby was. The mommy explained that Becky's body had stopped working and that she was dead. The sisters had a lot of questions. Well, the older two did. The mommy answered them. The littlest sister just looked at the mommy. She was scared to see the mommy lying in the bed crying. The mommy's heart hurt for Becky, and it hurt because she had to tell the sisters news that was going to make them sad.
After a while the mommy and daddy asked for Becky to be brought in. They asked if the sisters wanted to stay or go. Two of them decided to go in the hall. The oldest sister stayed. The baby was brought in. Becky looked like she was asleep. The sister did not want to touch her. That was okay. The mommy asked to hold the baby. Then the daddy held her. Then the mommy held her some more. The next sister walked in and wondered why the baby was asleep. The mommy had to explain again. The two oldest sisters left. The daddy went out to be with them and the grandma came in. She held the baby too for a while. After a while the littlest sister came in with the daddy. She looked at the baby. She wanted to kiss the mommy but didn't like leaning over to do it. The daddy asked the sisters to say goodbye to Becky. The middle sister didn't understand why Becky couldn't come home, and the mommy explained again. The biggest two sisters said goodbye, and the grandma and daddy took the sisters home. The grandpa came by. He held the baby too. He talked to her, and to the mommy. The mommy told him all the most horrible thoughts she had had, and why she felt so bad. He told her that it was okay. We all think and say things when we are scared, that we don't mean. She knew that he meant it. She was comforted.
The daddy slept on the chair that folded out in the room that night. The mommy didn't sleep much. Most of the night she held Becky. She sang songs in the long, long rainy night. She sang all the favorite songs that she had looked forward to singing to Becky once she was born. She had wondered which would be Becky's favorite and now she would never know. But she sang the songs anyway, to get through the painful, rainy, sad night. She was in a lot of pain. She kept getting the daddy up to help her. She felt bad doing so, and apologized each time. But she needed help and tonight, she needed him. She could not ask a nurse, a stranger, to come in and help with little things. She only wanted the daddy to help.
The next day people started asking to help. The mommy accepted their help. A very nice photographer came from the Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep Foundation. The night before a friend had contacted them and the daddy had called. He couldn't call again, he was too upset, so the friend kindly made the hard phone calls for the mommy and daddy. The daddy left and the grandma came, and helped wash and dress the baby, and the pictures were taken. The great-grandma was there too. The mommy dressed Becky in the Christmas dress and bow she had bought for her, that matched her sisters' dresses. The mommy and grandma cried. The photographs done, the photographer left. The great-grandma left. The grandma stayed with the mommy until the nurse came to take the baby down to the morgue so that she could stay the way she was, until the daddy was ready to come say goodbye.
That night the daddy and mommy said goodbye to Becky. They signed some release papers to let Becky go to the people who would take care of her for her burial preparations. They told her they loved her. They told her everything they needed to tell her. They kissed her, and they called the nurse in. The nurse tucked her in lovingly and gently. Then she wheeled her away, and the daddy and mommy held hands and cried together. It was probably the hardest thing they had ever done, to let her go out that door. The daddy went home to be with the sisters, and the grandma came to sit with the mommy.
The story isn't over. There is another day, and another, and another. Next week the mommy and daddy will go to a cemetary with their Stake President, whom they have known for a long time (he knew them before they married; he witnessed their wedding certificate in the Temple and he performed their ring ceremony; he has known each of their girls as a baby, and he was looking forward to meeting Becky.) He will consecrate her grave and they will put her body in the ground. There will be a place where people can go, and know that Rebecca Irene, whom everyone always called Becky, existed. There will be no way for them to know her, and they will not be able to see, looking at her grave marker, how joyful her very short time with her family was. They will probably never even know that she never took a breath or had a heartbeat outside of the womb. But they will know that she had a name, and a family who love her, and who wrote her name down so that people can see that she was here, and part of their family.
Becky will always be a part of the family. She may not be seen, but she will be present in their lives. The mommy and daddy and sisters were brought joy by her life. They always have and always will love her. And they believe that they will see her one day. The wait will be hard, but it will be worth it. And they will know her when they get there. They don't know how that will happen, but they know it will happen. They will know Becky, and Becky will know them. And once again, there will be joy.
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This is the first photograph we have. There are many more but the photographer rush edited it so we would have it right away.
Rebecca Irene
Born still on Dec. 21, 2010 at 5:32 PM
7 lbs., 0 oz.
20 inches long
We will love her forever.
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