One Step Forward...

...eight million back.

Or so it seems.

I've known a good cry was coming any day now. It's been at the surface for several weeks, with the move coming and so many things changing so quickly without giving me much time to breathe. I'll have little cries here and there...in the car over a song (lately, Laura Story's "Blessings" comes on often and tears me up every.single.time.), or going through a bin of clothes that were Matthew's 6-9 months, or finding my journal of his pregnancy and remembering never being happier in my life than I was while pregnant with him.

Little cries as I realize that when we move, we leave the only home Matthew ever knew. The only place that was his. His room. His garden. His woods.

All his memories.

I know we'll be back.

It's just hard to leave. Harder to leave knowing that we are going to an environment that isn't Matthew's, but will be Luke's. I don't even know how to word that. At least here, nothing Luke can or will do is without Matthew as a small part...whether it's sleeping in his room with his furniture or one day playing on the zipline that John swears he is going to build in the backyard--I can still have my little piece of Matthew in all that his brother does.

Not in North Carolina. It will be all new...well, at least to Luke.

And without Matthew.

Before anybody starts preaching to me about how Luke cannot possibly be responsible for 'keeping his brother living,' please know that I realize that. I, more than anyone, want to make sure that Luke never, never lives in the shadow of his brother--but as an equally, though obviously differently loved little boy of mine. It sort of even gets at me when people note how much Luke looks like Matthew, and how great that must be for me because now I can have Matthew in Luke.

Nope, not really.

I want Matthew in Matthew.

Luke in Luke.

Separate, but both.

My heart just hurts so much right now. I'm sure that my emotions are exaggerated by the stress of getting ready to move with a lot of uncertainties up ahead, but today, and lately, my heart has been so, so heavy.

Heavy for other mothers I know (and some I don't, just know of) who have lost babies.

Heavy for Luke never getting to know his big brother, and probably never having a little brother or sister either.

Heavy for how I just cannot believe that 18 months have passed, and yet they seem to have literally flown.

When days dragged, and they did, cumulatively, they still just flew by. Now they don't drag and they fly even more quickly.

And every day, more of my life goes on, in what would 'seem' to be a pretty normally way (to someone who didn't know better), and it goes on without Matthew.

I couldn't even remember what his room looked like last night, because Luke's is so familiar and used to me. I had to look at pictures for the details I'd forgotten.

Ihad phantom kicks for months after Matthew was born...even in the early stages of Luke's pregnancy, when I *knew* it wasn't Luke.

I haven't had a single phantom kick in 5 months.

That's right...tomorrow, my Luke is 5 months old.

My prayer, every night, is that I am able to love him and raise him until my last breath.

I pray he has to bury John and me.

Because I'll be very honest...my heart aches so much right now missing Matthew, and it's been 18 months. It's like that can't-breathe-because-my-nose-is-so-stuffy-from-crying-so-much aching.

I know if something happened to Luke, I'd survive. Simply breathing every day as I have in the last 18 months is proof of that.

I just don't think I'd want to.

Missing my Matthew. Sometimes, Luke will look at me in a sweet, quiet little way and just smile with the most amazing smile. He looks right into my eyes, softly lifts his little hand to my face and sort of feels around and just smiles like I am the most amazing thing in the entire world. Like he *knows* my whole world revolves around him.

It's precious. John says Luke sure does make it easy to feel good about being his parents because he always (except for nights, lately, but that's another story!) seems to look at us with these looks that just ooze his love and gratitude. There's no doubt he knows we love him, and he loves us.

I just wish I'd had that with Matthew. Even if I didn't get to keep him...just to have that assurance that he knew how much he was loved.

Is loved.

He is so, so loved.

The One I Wish I Didn't Have To Write....

To quote John, "There's something especially cruel about going to buy flowers for your dead baby son's grave to celebrate the birth of his brother."

I wholeheartedly agree.

I'm sure I won't even begin to cover what is going on in my mind, nor what has been since Luke was born. There's just too much, and the emotions and feelings are just too complicated and intertwined for me to be able to do more than just get them out, much less be articulate in doing so. We figured that the attempt, at the very least, would give me more 'cry about it' opportunity, and there's not much more than that than we can think of me doing to work through it all.

I should preface by saying I feel a horrendous amount of guilt in these feelings. (I know, what's new?) Seriously, though, when I have this sweet little face to love on and hug on, I realize this might verge on the edge of whining and some who read may feel that I am not nearly as grateful as I should be....I just feel like there are some topics that are not really talked about--with regard to having a healthy, living and breathing child after one has lost a baby--like the fact that the world sort of seems to expect you to all of a sudden be so overjoyed with the blessing you have been given, you are magically healed of the hurt you've been going through up to this point.

It doesn't.

Or, that the blessing of another child who so strongly resembles the child who died is also such a strong, strong reminder of what you'll never see grow in that lost little one.

Or, what you imagined you lost (because you never even got to hold him) in your first child just throbs inside of you and makes your heart hurt almost as much as it did when he died because you now know (sort of) the reality of what you lost and it's a million times worse than you've ever imagined. You realize you didn't even have a clue.

At least I didn't. I guess I figured that I'd lost more and more deeply than anyone, even John, because it was ME who carried Matthew...ME who kept him alive and felt every little kick and jab and knew his personality more than ANYONE ever could. I lost more than anyone, and I pretty much felt like there was nothing I could imagine that would be worse than my feelings.

I figured that all the lost hope and dreams were just about the worst thing I could ever imagine losing. No one but me could know those as intimately and with my perspective but me.

Until I was able to hold Luke. And feel what his soft little body felt like in my arms...what every inch of his skin feels like and not just his shoulder and cheek. Until I was able kiss him and tell him I loved him and know he heard me...to be able to tell him that I would take care of him and let nothing happen to him...to drink in the smell of his little neck and every nuance of every stretch he makes.

Until all of that...and so much more...I guess I just really had no idea of how much I could miss Matthew.

I just had no frame of reference, save my imagination, for what those things felt like...and how desperately, desperately, desperately I still want to be able to have those things with Matthew too.

I've cried more in the last few days over how much my heart hurts than I have in months. I told John it's sort of like I'm losing Matthew all over again--realizing now what joy there is in all that is Luke--and knowing it will not be with Matthew.

It's hard.

Dr. Polko, God LOVE her, said they'd been concerned this might be...especially with Luke looking so much like Matthew...and is keeping an eye on the PTSD aspect. Right now, we are still in the normal 'Baby Blues' stage--where it is completely appropriate to cry because the Target cashier tells you to "Have a nice day," just in response to all the hormones one has raging through.

There's certainly not a concern about postpartum depression right now either--Luke is the highlight of our day and I can't imagine functioning for any other reason right now but to tend to his every need and want. He is doted on, fussed over and loved upon pretty much from the time I open my eyes to the time I close them.

Dr. Polko was very adamant in differentiating PTSD from Baby Blues or Postpartum...and more where I am these days. I am constantly having flashbacks to the days we lost Matthew...more the day, I guess...and the pictures (all I have, really) that we have from that time. There are times when John is holding Luke that I will literally have to tell myself to breathe (sound familiar?) because the reality I am looking at so closely matches the pictures of John holding Matthew as he died...after Matthew died....I hold Luke and snuggle him and literally just cry thinking about what would happen to my heart if I had to give him back too. I can't imagine it.

And that then leads me to John...and how unbelievably difficult it must have been for John to have that with Matthew--a sweet, precious little miracle right there in his arms...and he had to watch him take his last breath.

And give him back to the nurses.

And leave him there.

By himself.

I've always appreciated what John did that night for our son...but I never, ever could have imagined how hard that had to have been. In my most vivid of vivid imaginings, I couldn't come close.

Until now...and that's just barely....because the reality is that Luke is healthy and happy and fine. There is no reason to believe that he would be anything different, and so even though I now have a bit different perspective of just what John lost that night, it's still tempered with the joy I have in a sweet smile Luke gives, or a little wiggle he makes...John didn't even have that.

So....like I said, I am sure this doesn't even hit the surface of what I am trying to put words to, but it's something. I'm trying to sleep when Luke is sleeping, but again, flashbacks and heartache make it hard to sleep. Working on that...I'll go back in a week and see how things are and John and I will continue to see our grief counselor for a bit, especially since it seems there's a whole new dimension to grief we are now dealing with and which we never expected.

They tell you how healing a new baby is. They tell you how joy will fill your heart again. They tell you that there's nothing like God's grace in a newborn life with which you are entrusted.

That's all true.

They just don't tell you how all of that makes you realize, again and even more deeply, if possible, what you lost in that precious child you never get to raise.

And how much that hurts.

Still praising God for my boys...and so grateful for the love and prayers and support of so many. I finally got to look at my email and FB messages today...over 2400!! There's no way I can get to all of them, but here I can at least say how thankful for them we are. There's just something about knowing you are covered in prayers and good wishes and love that really lifts one up in an indescribable way. My cup runneth over.

Now...off to a bath. For Luke, that is. He liked it at the hospital so we'll see how it goes here!

More sweetness....

I'm wearing ANOTHER hat?

Mommy thinks I wear 12 days old pretty well. And look, I found a paci!

It's Not Any Easier....

I was so grateful that last Christmas, we had the blessing of shock, numbness and denial protecting us as we made it through the holiday season.

I have always always loved Christmas and have always loved it because of what it means. I love the purposed and happy hearts that Christmas time seems to bring out, but more, I love that Christmas came to be because of a precious little baby in a manger.

I really did consider the fact that Matthew had just passed a blessing in a way--and by that, I mean that we were already going through one of the 'firsts' (and a TOUGH one at that) that I knew was coming and we were just too overwhelmed with barely breathing to be noticing all the things that I do now.

I should be trying to keep him away from the ornaments on the tree. I should be buying little things for his stocking and presents under the tree for him. I should be bundling him up so that only his rosy cheeks are showing and going to visit Santa. I should be taking pictures with him in a sweet little holiday outfit and putting them on a Christmas card for everyone I know. I should be finishing up left-over birthday cake.

Things should be so, so much more different than they are now.

Which is not to say that I am not grateful for so many things that are the way they are now...just that it should be different, and a year passing doesn't make it any easier. This year, I am more acutely aware of what I don't have, and it's hard to keep that from overwhelming me as I focus on what I do.

I don't have that blanket of numb and dumb-founded to protect me this year.

Yesterday marked 52 weeks...exactly one year...since I had to leave the body of my sweet little boy in the ground at the cemetery. Ironically, the funeral home we used had a beautiful and sweet service for all those lost in the last year that we attended yesterday. They had a slideshow of all the people they arranged services for and I asked John, "What do you notice about this slideshow?"

He answered, "They are all old."

They weren't, of course...there were sadly about 4-5 teenagers/young adults....but of the many, many, MANY people on that slideshow...my Matthew was the youngest. The others had lived longer lives and their mommies had the chance to hold them and kiss their sweet little ears as they told them how special they were and how loved they were.

All my Matthew got from me was a touch on his cheek and his shoulder, and sobbing over his grave.

Today is the actual year date--December 5. Again, ironically, we sat in the same church pews and saw the same decorations that had been at Matthew's funeral...a year later. The church had been decorated for Christmas last year and honestly, it's very classic decoration that we didn't feel needed to be moved or rearranged for his funeral. I remember the fluffy, white netting material that was under Matthew's coffin. It was there again today, with a beautiful Christmas flower arrangement.

I didn't cry. Mostly, I wished that I had asked someone to take more pictures last year. At the time, I wasn't even thinking. I doubt making sure someone took pictures of my son's funeral was one of those must-dos I had on my list. I guess I also felt like it may have been a bit morbid. I mean, really...pictures at a funeral?

Of course. What else do I have?????? I sure as heck can't remember much. I can't remember who was there, but that a ton of people were. I can't remember what I ate, though I couldn't believe how many people were fed and taken care of. I can't remember much of what was said, though I have the audio cd available when I'm brave enough to listen. I can't remember much at all....and now, wish that there were pictures to help me remember. To give me more of him back. To remind me of things I never even knew...

Which is why I was so, so, so grateful when my sweet friend Terri showed me this picture she had on her computer. She thought it must have come from me, because from where else would it come?

But it didn't. I'd never seen it. A few weeks ago was the very first time I saw it and it makes me wonder what other pictures or things that happened are out there that I still don't know about...they are like little gifts every time something comes up. And that picture...taken a year ago today...is a little gift. A bittersweet gift, but gift nonetheless. It's the last memory I have of his little body, and though I know his body is just earthly and void of his spirit now--I have said it before and I'll never stop saying it.

I loved, loved, loved that little body. I prayed for that little body. I dreamed of every little inch of that precious body and couldn't miss that sweet skin more if it was my own. That body was priceless.

I thought I sort of dodged a bullet last year with the first month or so being just so overwhelmingly numb and that I could check "Hard 1st Christmas" off the box.

Who knew that "2nd Christmas" was going to be even more difficult?

Missing my sweet boy....and not believing it's been a year since I had to leave him there...

On Birthdays, Expectations, Mirrors and Other Things...

At this time a year ago, I think Dr. Shonekan and I were talking over Matthew's survivability. We both agreed that there would probably be some issues due to his blood loss and associated loss of oxygen. Probably not too much later, the amazing pediatrician on-call, Dr. Hickey, and I were also discussing his survivability...what had happened, how he was such a fighter...how he'd rallied.

No one...

No one...

NO ONE expected he'd die.

And if they did, they were gracious enough and sweet enough and compassionate enough to keep that from me.

Because I had NO DOUBT that baby boy was going to live. He was going to prove to be even more of a miracle than I already knew he was. He was going to be the reason I had been a teacher...and one with a special affinity for special needs children....because it was God preparing me for how life with him might be.

We'd be grateful, grateful, grateful.

And then Dr. Hickey was called away...and she didn't come back. I know now she was called away because she was receiving information from Georgetown.

Information she didn't want to have to give. Information no one wanted to believe.

He was not going to live.

I don't remember much, admittedly. What I remember is random and based on what medicine I'd been given for the emergency surgery, iffy perhaps for accuracy.

What I remember the most is that God let me down. He betrayed me. He betrayed my trust. He betrayed my faith. He did not intervene and He broke His promise of a little boy with spaghetti all over his face for me to love and raise.

I was numb and I was shocked and I was in denial. And while even then I didn't believe that God had broken my heart, I sure as heck didn't care...because at that time, whether he allowed my heart to be broken or broke it didn't really matter. The bottom line was that it was broken. And has remained so for 365 days.

Will remain so for the rest of my life.

Today John and I marveled at how fast a year has gone. We talked about how much faster it would have gone if he was here, because I think we all know that children grow at astronomical speeds.

Well, the living ones do.

I did pretty well in church, all things considered. I prayed last night and before church to just make it through without crying. I was almost successful...right as I was leaving the dam broke, and thankfully, for just a bit in the car. We took flowers to his grave and shivered as we realized how it seemed like it was yesterday and a million years ago at the same time...how our life doesn't seem so different than it did a year ago and how it has been changed in the most dramatic way forever. Someone had left a sweet ornament at his marker and I was immediately touched by the remembrance that had been shown.

We got home and I crashed. I was tired and just tried to nap. I was somewhat successful.

We did not do anything big for his birthday. In fact, we didn't do anything.

I planned to make cupcakes for the hospital. I planned to bring them and some hats I've made today after church. I planned to send out blankets and hats and stuffed animals to Georgetown's NICU. John says that it was so clinical and could use some warmth. I planned to have already bought the rocker for our local hospital nursery. We've been planning to get the granite bench for his marker for months and months, but never have the right car when we go by the statuary. I planned to have some tradition set so that Luke will know that even before he was born, Matthew's place in our family was worthy and meritorious of tradition, whether he was here or not. I planned to have his remembrance cards out in the mail already. I planned to eat chocolate cake.

So when thinking about what I've 'learned' this year, I realize that plans are worthless.

They don't always happen the way you want them to and that's just the way it is. Whether it's because of something you did or didn't do...some basic things still remain.

Matthew is dead. He's not coming back. Nothing I do or don't do changes that and anything I do or don't do is really and truly for me and for John.

And we are ok with getting the things I'd planned to do done as we feel we can. (Which, the over-anxious Lori inside of me is screaming, better be SOON!)

I've also learned a lot about expectations...and how they really just have too much power in our lives. We've been sorely disappointed in our expectations of some and unbelievably and overwhelmingly surprised and grateful for things said and done by those that if we are honest, really did not expect much of. We've learned that we are happiest when we expect nothing and are just blessed beyond belief with whatever people are capable of being and doing.

I really and truly believe that people do the best they can, just as we have, and though it's easy for us to say what we'd do in certain situations, we often don't know until push comes to shove.

Push certainly came to shove this year...and we are ok with the roles that the people in our lives play...while sometimes we may wish it different, we also understand that just as we don't have any rule book for how to grieve a child, there's not really a rule book for how to deal with people who are grieving a child. So we try to be graceful and understanding and share our hurts with only one another so that we can behave the way we hope God wants us to behave.

I looked in the mirror today. I saw a face I haven't seen in long time. I'm grateful that it has been a long time since I've seen it, but I admit, seeing it again just sort of instantly transported me to every hellish moment I've had this year.

It was my eyes. They were tired and sad and just defeated. I was sort of surprised that I saw that look...I really did and still sort of feel like Matthew's birthday was going to be a hard day more because people are so thoughtful and caring and recognized and remembered it...and in doing so, sort of forced me to have to think about it with every hug and kind word or email. Of course, that's necessary, but hard nonetheless....and I guess I was just surprised when I looked in the mirror and realized the toll that had been taken.

The mirror doesn't lie, does it? It's been a hard year and my face shows it.

The thing I remember most from the day Matthew was born and died was how I felt about God...and how I felt God felt about me. And John.

And now, a year later, I can say that I don't feel betrayed anymore. I don't feel like my faith was shattered. Mostly, I don't feel that He broke His promise to me.

I feel like I'm able to more understand what His promises are. He gave me a beautiful, beautiful baby boy. He made me a mother. He surrounded and still surrounds me with people who comfort me and care for me and support me in a way that I often can hardly believe. He promised He'd never leave me or forsake me...and the fact that I continue to breathe is proof that He does. He promised He'd supply me with all my needs. I've not even known what they were...and yet they've been so abundantly met this year. He promised victory over death, and though I have to say that Matthew's death most certainly stings still...it stings because I ache for him...not because I don't believe that it's been conquered. I sometimes feel like taking a big victorious breath when I think about how amazing that is.

He promised His grace would be sufficient. It absolutely has been.

He promised eternal life...far longer than the life on this earth...and through sacrifice none of us can imagine.

He is faithful and His promises can be believed and trusted.

So, of all things planned and wanted, one thing we've decided to do is put our Christmas tree up on Matthew's birthday.

I was not keen on Matthew's birthday being lumped together with Thanksgiving or any other holiday/day for that matter. Again, the best laid plans...

In any event, we will put up the Christmas tree every year on Matthew's birthday. I want Luke to know that it is because of the miracle sent to us in a tiny baby boy we will one day see our precious boy again. When he thinks of putting up the Christmas tree, I want him to always remember we did it on Matthew's birthday...and we did so because we remember, celebrate and honor the sacrifice God made to ensure we will one day be reunited.

And we'll eat chocolate cake.

Missing my sweet boy....grateful for his birth and his life.

That time...

I told my sweet friend Nanci that this time of the month comes whether I want it to or not.

The time when another marker for Matthew is here.

I'd have an 11-month old. If he was like his mommy, he might even be walking. I walked at 9 months. Places to go, you know.

I bet his hair would be long enough to see little curls at the bottom. He might have some teeth. I bet I'd melt when he cried because that little dimpled chin would probably quiver like crazy when he did...mine does and he had my chin. I have no doubt that he'd giggle all the time at his silly puppies. Well, Sammy. He might not giggle so much if Dixie snarked at him.

My back would probably hurt like it does now, but only because I doubt I'd be able to put him down--I'd want to snuggle him all the time. We'd have had pictures in the pumpkin patch and in the fall leaves and we'd munch on the baby apple fritters I'd make him. Rather, he'd munch on them.

We'd be getting him ready for his first fall festival and costume. We ALMOST bought it last year when John saw it in Babies 'R Us after Halloween--it was a sweet lobster outfit and I just loved it. I loved that John loved it even more. I told him that we should hold off because buying stuff like that almost a year out was a bit risky since we didn't know sizing. (Writes the woman with two huge tubs of baby boy clothing sized 2T in the basement.)

We didn't buy it because I didn't know how big (or little) he'd be.

Not because I thought he'd be dead.

I went to the cemetery after Bible Study yesterday, something I pretty much do anytime I have a doctor's appointment or study. I wanted to bring some fall flowers. I finally broke down and got a silk flower arrangement so I don't have to worry about the fresh flowers we bring dying and just looking pitiful. When I got there, the pansies I planted not too long ago were blooming nicely, and they were red and gold--beautiful for fall. I was so glad to see them.

As I stood there, I prayed. I prayed for God to keep reminding me He exists and holds my heart. I gave thanks for my sweet, sweet little one whose precious body lay right there under my feet. I thanked God for the amazing miracle of the wiggly little brother who was squirming around telling me it was time for lunch.

I stared at his marker. Gift of God. So, so, so, so true.

I thought about how children truly ARE gifts from God. Miracles. Blessings. Amazing displays of God's grace and mercy and love.

And then I got bitter for a second. You shouldn't have to give a gift back.

I think this time is just harder now because it's so close to his birthday. I've had John go on enough deployments and trips to know that the anticipation/lead-up to him leaving is WAY worse than him being gone sometimes. I think that's what's happening now...I imagine the lead-up is going to be more difficult for me than the actual day.

Regardless...it's that time. It hurts every day, but some days more than others.

Missing my sweet little lobster....

This was the costume....baby was not included, of course.

No Reason and Every Reason....

Sometimes, it may *seem* like there really is no reason for the tears you *cannot* stop to be pouring out of you.

Then you realize that you visited your baby's grave after church like it was a normal part of life and remember that most days, you have EVERY reason for the tears to pour...you just do a good job of holding them in and trying not to let them control you.

A year ago this day, we celebrated the impending arrival of my sweet boy. It was a wonderful, wonderful day and though I originally protested the idea of a shower at all, I'm so thankful that my martyrdom was not paid one bit of attention and a beautiful day for me, John and Matthew was forever imprinted as priceless in our hearts and minds.

One year ago today.

I still just do not understand how that is possible.

When looking back for the post about the shower, I came across THIS post...and cried and cried and cried and cried.

And am still crying. Because even now, knowing how it all has turned out...my love and appreciation for that precious, precious baby boy has not waned one bit and though I am hurt and sad and angry and confused and so many other emotions I can't even name....one sticks out and rises above them all.

Grateful. I am so, so, so grateful for every second I was given to carry my son. I am grateful for every intimate and sacred moment only I got to share with him. I am grateful for his life and the lives he has touched in only the few hours he was born. I am grateful for his very existence and I am grateful for every gift and blessing I've known because of him.

No matter what, I cannot help but be on-my-knees grateful to God for giving me the miracle of motherhood to a most precious, precious boy.

Make that two precious boys.

SO...today, I admit is hard. Well, every day is hard, but some are harder for me to contain the emotions than others. This is one of those.

I may be backward in my feelings because I know for a lot of people, getting to 24 weeks or beyond is a really, really comforting place in a pregnancy. It's 'technically' the point where a baby could live; where there's theoretically something that could be done and the baby could live despite issues.

For me...I have to say that I somehow had more peace and assurance before we hit 24 weeks--when it was really out of anyone's control, and if truth be told, if something was to happen to the baby, there's nothing that could be done--there was NO denying that my or any caregiver's actions would be able to give a different outcome.

Because the bottom line is that we made it WAY past 24 weeks. We made it past delivery. We had a 'fighter', as his nurses called him.

And he still died. It seems to me that there's more scariness in theoretically being able to save a baby than there is in knowing that it's truly out of your hands before a certain time.

I just don't know how my heart could bear losing another precious boy. It can barely beat with the one we've already lost.

It's hard.

I don't even know what to say but that it's hard.

It's hard to be hopeful and realistic at the same time.

It's hard to expect the best, but know that the worst happens.

It's hard to plant flowers at your son's grave on your way to the OB appointment for his brother.

It's hard to think about whether you should plan a birthday party or a baby shower in the same month.

It's hard to want both and neither at the same time.

It's hard to take pictures of one son's nursery as you know you are about to dismantle it for another son.

It's hard to extend grace to those you love when you feel so justified in your anger with them--and the hormones DO NOT HELP.

It's hard to balance the desire to do everything and nothing at the same time.

It's hard to justify doing a ton of stuff because it's been neglected and not doing anything because your most important job is taking care of you and the baby.

It's hard to sweep the pieces of your broken heart up every morning as you simultaneously feel them just burst with love over every sweet little wake-up kick and jab.

It's hard for things to be so normal and so surreal.

It's hard. I saw Dr. Shonekan yesterday and just about cried the whole visit. She said she thought of me the other day as she knew we were getting closer to Matthew's birthday and imagined it must be hard. It is. And she was the one who reminded me that as if we don't have enough to deal with, hormones only make it worse.

These days are hard. Conflicting, guilt-ridden, exhausting (because as much as I really am filled with such joy over Luke, every day is a purposeful determination to ACCEPT that joy I am given. Make no doubt that it is God-given, but we have to ACCEPT it and that takes purpose and determination and choice) and hard.

Just hard.

Nine Months Isn't Just For Pregnancy...

It also can denote how much time has passed since your pregnancy ended, you gave birth to your son and he died.

At least for me, today, it does. Nine months ago...on a different Sunday, my precious boy left this earth.

How is it that he's been gone almost as long as he was with me? How is it that so much time has passed and I'm still breathing?

I went to Women of Faith this weekend with Nanci (will write more on that at another time...need some time to decompress, process, assess and reflect) and though I don't remember the context of this conversation, we were talking about how people say things like, "I don't know how you are doing it...if it happened to me, I'd ________________."

And the fact is that no one can really say how they'd react to something if it happened to them because honestly, one just does not know.

I'll tell you how I know this.

Before Matthew died, if I had contemplated what happened to us actually happening to us, I can guarantee that I would have said, "I would kill myself."

I've never been suicidal, never felt the need even in my darkest, darkest days to hurt myself and don't feel it is any answer.

But before Matthew died, I loved him so much that the thought of something happening to him truly would have made me consider it. I would have told you that I wouldn't want to live. And I would have meant and believed every word.

Some days, if I am really honest, I still feel that way...that without him, I just don't have that will to press on. Still don't have the desire to hurt myself, just don't have the will to press on.

Which is where the supernatural grace and mercy of God come in to play.

Because though I thought I would have wanted to die without him, I don't.

For nine excruciating months, I've pressed on. I've been given strength and ability that just defies logic and understanding. I've been given joy and hope and feel firmly planted on a path of restoration.

So when you look at me and see strength or bravery or courage or just about whatever it is that you see, please know it is not me.

It is solely the grace of God. Left to my own will and ability, I'd be nothing, have nothing and show nothing.

My heart aches at how quickly nine months have passed and yet how long the rest of my life without Matthew seems. While our time on this earth may be just a blink of an eye, when viewing it in light of not having your child with you for the rest of it, it seems like eternity.

Nine months.

Nine months of a new life I never wanted.

Nine months of learning how to navigate that life.

How so ironically it juxtaposes the 'nine months' of pregnancy.

Missing my sweet boy...

Sigh...

I love the Willow Tree figurines.

The very first one I got was from a sweet student years and years ago (sweet little Kellie Beth!) and I'd not really seen them before. I was so honored to get it--The Angel of Learning--For those who delight in the joy of learning--because as a teacher, it really touches your heart to know you've touched someone else's.



When we moved from North Carolina to Maryland, I left such a wonderful and dear group of 'teacher' friends who were really family. They gave me my next one, Courage--Bringing a triumphant spirit, inspiration and courage--and I ADORED it. They said it screamed me--fighting for the underdog and telling the world, "You're not the boss of me!" (Yes, I am a little like that!) What I love the most is that my friends thought of me as courageous...but in honesty, it's not courage that drove me to fight the fights but my pure and simple love of the causes for which I fight. I loved that my friends got that about me.



The next one I received was just recently--my birthday last year. It was from a sweet, sweet friend who was really instrumental in making all my IVF treatments easier on the work schedule. My birthday is March 7, and Matthew was transferred March 6. The angel I got was the Angel of Hope--Sharing the light of hope and courage. It couldn't have been MORE PERFECT.


Very shortly after Matthew died, another sweet, sweet friend sent me the Angel's Embrace ornament. She wanted to be sure that at Christmas and always, we'd have the remembrance of our sweet boy. The wording is, "Hold close that which we hold dear."



I also got the Loving Angel--Love, pure and simple--from a group of people with whom John works. In truth, people I've never met and yet, I was so touched by the generosity and compassion they shared with us. One simple rose in remembrance of the pure and simple love for my baby boy.



I never buy these for myself but I just love the sentiment and perfect thought that goes into someone giving them to me. I feel very loved.

Every now and then, I stop by the shelf they are displayed on in different stores because I like to buy them for others when I find them to be significant and appropriate, so I look to see what's out there.

I had one of those "Must get out of this store or I'll lose it" moments today when I saw this one, simply named Quietly--Quietly encircled by love.



I thought about how this is one I'd never receive.

But this was one I'd desperately love to have.

I should have. Two sweet boys, loving on their mama.

Sigh.

Speaking of these sweet figurines, if you check out A Baby Named Nathan, you can win one of the sweetest ones I've seen--Angel of Mine...So loved, so very, very loved.



Again, sigh.

Eight Months since I touched his skin...

I'm having a rough day.

Still don't feel well and I'm conflicted. I still am not 100% sure I have an infection, and though I don't feel TONS better, I feel a hair better than yesterday and still wonder if I really need the antibiotic. So, I haven't taken it and I hate not being sure. Most days, "Better safe than sorry," is my mantra, but I don't necessarily know which is the 'safe' and which is the 'sorry'. Medicine we don't need vs. not taking medicine that we *may* need.

I'm not sleeping. That's not unusual, but at least when John is home, I sort of get forced to try. I didn't go to bed until close to 4 am and was back up at 9 for the cable guy.

Which brings me to the next frustration. He came, he did stuff, he said he needed to send someone else out tomorrow (but I don't need to be here), he left, cable is still all jacked up (with the possibility of the internet being lost looming). I talked to the cable company for an hour (and ran back and forth between THREE different tvs on THREE different levels of my house) and was given the resolution of: They'll squeeze me in tomorrow, but I'll have to be here after all and because they are squeezing me in, they can't give me a time frame. Not 9-1, not 1-5....ALL FLIPPING DAY. Good grief.


Mostly, though, my heart aches.

Eight months ago, my perfect and precious little boy was born. As time goes on, I have so many regrets. I regret that I had some of the medicine I did when I was in labor because I think that is sort of what made the time after Matthew was born a bit fuzzy and hours seem like minutes. I wish I had made better use of the time that I could have had with him before he was taken to Georgetown. I only got to touch a sweet little cheek and shoulder...never even got to see his face full-on.

I could not STAND the mess my office has become so, to combat insomnia, I tore it apart and cleaned it up in a major way. I came across the fetal heartrate strips of Matthew's when I was in labor. They broke my heart as I got closer to the end and saw how erratic they were....I'm not and never have been one to put a lot of 'feeling' on a newborn. That's just me, but I really feel like at those stages, it's all instinct and God sort of just leading the way for them...I don't believe there's much cognizance of what is happening in their world, but more reacting.

I deviated from that, though, when I saw those strips for a minute. I just cried and cried thinking about what must have been going through his head those last few minutes...when his heartrate was crazy...then nothing...then back, but so weak...I saw those heartate variations and for just a minute, wondered if he was scared or suffering.

I can't get that out of my head.


Eight months. Time has just gone by in a way I cannot even fathom, yet it still seems so frozen. Flashbacks are still so vivid, and come without any warning or trigger.

I should be taking a picture of him with a sweet little 8 months sign. I should be posting about how he's pulling himself up in the crib and doesn't like rice but loves bananas. I should be taking him to the beach and cleaning sand out of poopy diapers.

Like I said, mostly, my heart just aches.

We wrapped up our Anchored By Hope Bible Study on Sunday and shared our memorials. It was hard to do one for you...so soon after you've left us, but even still, so soon after I did the last one. This time, I just wrote a letter to Matthew with some pictures and Katy did a lovely job putting it in video.

I think it says a lot about where I've been and to where I've come...but leaves me longing still for where he is.

Of course, it also leaves me longing more for where He is, so I continue to cling.

Make photo slide shows at www.OneTrueMedia.com

If....

IF Matthew had lived, giving hand-me-downs to his baby brother would be a no-brainer.

IF Matthew had lived, moving him into a big-boy room and redoing his room to be a nursery for his baby brother would be exciting and fully joyful.

IF Matthew had lived, comparing his activity level in utero to his brother's activity level would be humorous and fun to compare the similarities.

IF Matthew had lived, thinking about what to do for his first birthday would be full of searching for ideas and dreaming of amazing memories of him eating his first birthday cake.

IF Matthew had lived, a 'shower' for Luke would be a given--not because he really 'needs' anything but to celebrate HIS life and give him his OWN things...just like his big brother had!

IF Matthew had lived, there would be so many different things and feelings....

But he didn't...and so while well-meaning, rational and practical statements like, "Well, you'd pass his hand-me downs on anyway," or "Another boy--now that's easy because you're all set!" make sense...trust me, things are far from easy.

Matthew's clothes are not outgrown and lovingly passed...they were never worn because he died. There was no growth. There were no sweet memories of stained spaghetti shirts that his brother will get to play in. There are tubs and tubs of clothes bought for Matthew...and passing hand-me downs on is not the same when the elder sibling never even lived long enough to need clothes.

If Matthew had lived, we'd be telling him that his baby brother is a big wiggle-worm just like he was when he was in mommy's tummy! Now when we make note of what a wiggler Luke is, it's bittersweet...not that Matthew maintains the monopoly on the term 'wiggle-worm' by any means...but when one's child dies, one tries to keep as many things unique to that child as one can. There are so few as it is...

If Matthew had lived, the issue of what to do with the nursery would be non-existent. Matthew would help us pick out all the things for his 'big boy' room and even help us pick out things for baby brother. The room would not always and forever be twinged with what it could have been...what it should have been....Instead of sitting in the rocker with Luke remembering the sweet memories of rocking his brother in the very same chair, no doubt there will be days that I will sit in that chair and wonder how it would have been to rock with Matthew...if Matthew would have felt like Luke did.

While it is true that the nursery is still in brand new condition and eagerly awaiting a baby boy...that baby boy it eagerly awaits is Matthew. Every thing in that room was lovingly and purposefully bought for Matthew. Children are not interchangeable. I cannot just delete Matthew and insert Luke.

Moreover, Luke deserves every bit of excitement and purposeful and loving planning that Matthew had. And he will get it. It's just not as easy.

One of the happiest days of my life was Matthew's shower. We were just abundantly blessed and it was one of those days that was just perfect. It was a day I couldn't wait to tell him about--to share with him how loved he was and how very, very excited so many were to be celebrating his life. Luke deserves a day like that too. He deserves a day that he is celebrated and receives things that were meant just for him. (John actually used the word 'monogrammed'--as in, "Luke needs his own things monogrammed with his name.") He deserves the memories in his baby book that show him his impending arrival brought so much joy to so many people.

But he doesn't 'need' anything. We don't 'need' anything. I thought about having a shower for our local pregnancy center in Luke's honor...and then even felt bad about that--Luke doesn't really 'need' anything because his brother died before he ever used any of his stuff and amazingly the seasons mostly match up--it would seem more like doing something in Matthew's memory than in Luke's honor.

It's all so messy and it gets even messier thinking about how Matthew's birthday is not too far away...and right around the time we'd have a shower for Luke. I know there are still four months, but they haunt me...what do I do for my dead son's first birthday while I am basically a month or so, give or take, away from my second son's LITERAL birthday?

At the beginning of this pregnancy, I felt like I was a ball of multi-colored yarn--all rolled up and messy and just a big tangle of emotions. Honestly, how could I not? In the course of the last 8 months, I have given birth to and buried a baby, and am 4 months pregnant with another. Lots of emotions and things I needed to go through with and for Matthew just had to be shelved because I had a mission--another pregnancy and doing all I could to ensure that his brother or sister would be healthy and happily received and grown.

Lately, I'd been feeling things seemed to be settling down in my life...no IVF protocol, good appointments that each day brought their own little reassurances, focusing on just enjoying every second with Luke....I felt like the ball of yarn was untangling. Less and less did it seem like there were a ton of colors, and all wound up, but more like two colors...and separating into their own individual balls. Matthew and Luke. Mourning Matthew and celebrating Luke. As they've unraveled, I have to admit their intensities have gotten stronger--I've been aching in such a strong way over Matthew, but have been truly falling more and more in love with Luke.

Now I'm starting to feel the yarns tangle again...as hurdles pop up and how to do justice to two the lives of my two little boys is always at the forefront of my mind.

I try not to live in the world of 'If' because I know it's not productive and doesn't change anything.

The truth is though that things that may 'look' easy and sound rational just aren't sometimes...and might have been....

If....

Rimble-Ramble...

That's preeetttty much what I feel like is going on in my head (and my heart)....rimble-ramble.

To the (obvious) point that words that aren't really words keep popping to the surface of my mind or my tongue and that's just how I'm rolling these days.

Really, I guess...I'm angry.

Any time people ask me about anger or studies talk about anger or counselors discuss effective ways to deal with anger, I sort of think in my head (and sometimes say out loud), "I'm not really that angry."

And honestly, I haven't been.

Heartsick, devastated, broken, crushed, disappointed, betrayed, confused, aimless...the list goes on and on...

But angry hasn't really been on it.

Why? With or at whom would I be angry? God? I know people are and absolutely I understand why--and I believe without a doubt that He understands this anger as well.

It just never seemed productive to ME--anger in general doesn't really seem productive for me. It makes me more miserable than the person or circumstance with which I am angry, and I know myself (and my genes) well enough to know that I am a grudge-holder of epic proportions. Knowing this, and knowing that I am also driven by guilt (my own and that of others' given to me in the form of never-ending trips)...I just really tried from the start of my life without Matthew to not allow myself to be angry.

In my Bible study, I even said I WISHED I could get angry because I was just too heartbroken to be much of anything but that...heartbroken. At least with anger, I am more motivated to do something--to right the wrong; fight the fight...funnel emotion into finding the justice.

There are some situations in life, though, where that's just not possible.

That's what the last few days have been like--situation after situation after situation where I just can't get over the INJUSTICE. The lack of equity. The sheer UNFAIR factor in life.

Anyone who knows me in real life knows that I can NOT stand injustice. I am the perpetual fighter of the underdog and John and I often even bicker sometimes because I feel compelled to fight the fights that need fighting--whether they are mine to fight or not.

The funny thing about this intense drive is that I am also the first person to say, "Life is not fair...never has been." I have a career's worth of children who will tell you, "Life's not fair...if it was, Mrs. Ennis would be tall, rich and blond," or "We all have our crosses to bear...Mrs. Ennis is short and she deals with it, so you can deal with _________."

Yes, children pay attention to EVERYTHING you say.

My point is that I think I hate the fact that life is not fair because I so strongly know that LIFE IS NOT FAIR and there's nothing that can be done about it.

In the last week, three women I have come to know and love and been honored to follow their story have lost their babies. THREE. All three have suffered so much in loss before...all three have been SO hopeful for their new, restored joy and the reminder of what a bit of happiness and hope feel like.

And all three have been crushed. Again. And are so honorable and valiant in their attitude about it all right now.

But I'm angry. Very, very angry. This morning, as I read the precious words of one, I was just SO reminded of the hours in the hospital with Matthew...telling everyone it was going to be ok...feeling a little ashamed of myself for the melodrama of it all because I KNEW he was going to be ok...I had more faith than I've ever had in my entire life about anything and I KNEW that faith would be rewarded....we were surrounded in prayer by so many people all over the world...and I felt SO betrayed in my faith when John told me he was dying.

Those feelings are really rearing their head again in these last few days.

We had a wonderful long holiday weekend. My niece and nephews and family came out and we had several glorious days on the boat in lovely weather. We played games and had great food (more chicken than I care to remember) and there was chaos in the dogs and the kids and I loved EVERY . SINGLE . SECOND of it.

My sweet little niece at one point even said with pure glee, "Could this day get any better?"

And it was all I could do not to cry...because it just reminded me that as wonderful and glorious and fun those days with family were...someone was missing. A sweet little boy who had an adorable little 4th of July outfit in a tub in the basement--never to be worn. It was a little white overall outfit with light blue pinstripes and a sweet little appliqued red crab waving a flag and firecrackers. I remembered being on that very same boat in the very same water last year and taking pictures and videos so Matthew would always remember his very 1st 4th of July...and as I sat there this year, I desperately prayed that his little brother or sister would not only have one 4th of July....

I got home on the 4th in the evening and checked the computer because I'd not been on it much with the family in town...and I just couldn't believe what was going on...

Everyone went to bed and before I did, I went in Matthew's room and sat in his chair with his little monkey and just cried. Cried for me, cried for those women...cried for all of us who are hurting and won't ever have any more days that couldn't get any better...

And I'm angry. It's not fair and I hate it. I hate that we weren't promised fair. I hate that we weren't promised our earnest faith would yield the results for which we pray. I hate that this life is hard. I hate that it's full of trials. I hate that it doesn't make sense and I hate that hearts can hurt as much as they do.

So I just remember and replay in my head the Natalie Grant song, "Held"...

Two months is too little
They let him go
They had no sudden healing
To think that providence
Would take a child from his mother
While she prays, is appalling
Who told us we'd be rescued
What has changed and
Why should we be saved from nightmares
We're asking why this happens to us
Who have died to live, it's unfair

[Chorus]
This is what it means to be held
How it feels, when the sacred is torn from your life
And you survive
This is what it is to be loved and to know
That the promise was when everything fell
We'd be held

The promise was that when everything fell, we'd be held.

Perspective...

...so, we had a secret in our family. Well, lots of them, I guess, but one that I knew was touchy--iffy to talk about and really one of those events that happens in a family that once swept under the carpet, is not really talked about much.

My mother had four children. Only three are alive today.
Only three were ever really acknowledged; only three are thought of as her descendants. Even in a genealogy book my mother wrote, only three children are listed.

Before Matthew died, in honesty, that seemed pretty appropriate. I mean, she had three live births. She raised three of us as we lived and breathed. She took pictures of three of us. She reveled in the accomplishments of three of us. The three of us attended her funeral.

But there was a fourth. I am the oldest child and my sister is three years younger than I. When I was five, my mother went into labor at 39 and a half weeks. The baby she carried to full term died during delivery and my mother never got to see her or hold her. I don't really know the details of what happened, and as my mother is dead, I doubt I ever will. In asking my father, it's obvious that he's put on some kind of blinders to that whole time period--probably his way of dealing with his grief. My sister has told me that she had talked about what happened with my mom but it so greatly differs from what my dad 'remembers' that I'm just resigned to the fact that I'll never really know. I just know that my mom was devastated...HATED her doctor and often said her doctor killed her baby, and that it was some sort of cord incident (which is yet another reason I was always terrified about cord issues with Matthew) and she was never the same.

A lot of that, I believe, was because she was not allowed to grieve. At all. Angel was born still, and the doctor whisked her away from my mom and under direction from my dad and grandma (who felt it best my mother not see the baby), did not allow her to see or hold her daughter. Nor did my father or grandmother think it was in my mother's best interest to go to the funeral. I can recall one picture--with my dad looking anguished and aggravated by the camera in front of a casket.

In our family, Angel was more often known as 'that baby mom had who died.' Never talked about or acknowledged, and if so, always as 'that baby mom had who died.'

Yes, this obviously breaks my heart as I now realize what an unbelievably difficult situation my mother was in and with no help or support...and two little girls left living that needed to be raised.

Growing up, it was just accepted that we really didn't talk about her. Out of sight, out of mind. For my sister and me, and certainly for my brother, Angel wasn't even really real.

So, so, so not what my mother needed. I remember my mom taking my sister and me to the cemetery and taking pictures of us there in Babyland. I don't remember this happening more than once.

One of the very few conversations I remember having with my mom that involved Angel was so contentious and makes my heart just weep thinking about it right now.

As my mom was aware of the fact that she was dying, we one day were talking about her 'final wishes' and she told me that she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes spread over Angel's grave. This made me SO mad and I told her so...how could she DREAM of having her ashes spread over the grave of a dead baby when she had THREE living children...one of whom moved Heaven and Earth to try and please her and make her happy. How could she be SO disrespectful of us? Of me?

I'd give anything in the entire world to take those words back. I had no way of knowing how I was crushing her soul. She wanted that because her heart, still, 28 years later, grieved the loss of that precious baby--HER precious daughter and not *a* dead baby--and she FINALLY wanted to be able to be with her. It didn't mean she loved us any less...just showed how much she still loved her baby daughter.

I don't think my mother ever had any problems getting pregnant. Heck, NO one in my family ever had problems getting pregnant but me, and then in typical 'me' fashion, I have problems AND good. Two years after Angel was born still, my brother was born and I remember some of the mother I used to know coming back. She smiled more and laughed more and my mom and dad didn't argue as much.

Growing up, my brother was SPOILED ROTTEN. I'm talking REALLY spoiled...and it always drove me nuts. Not materialistically--but in treatment. He could do no wrong. Nothing was ever his fault. He was never, EVER made to take responsibility for anything and my mother hovered over him like nothing I've ever seen.

This childhood did not serve him well as an adult. Unfortunately, my brother has issues and demons that stem from not knowing what real consequences mean. To this day, he will still say stuff like, "It's not my fault my parents didn't raise me right." Many, many, MANY times did my sister and I have conversations with my mother about the need to show him 'tough love.'
She just couldn't do it.

The last words I had with my mother were angry. She had called me to ask me to borrow money. She said it was for her medicine (she was on a new type of chemo) but I knew the sound in her voice. It was yet.another.thing for my brother. After rifling through the details, the bottom line was that my brother's girlfriend had done something to land herself in jail and my mother needed to borrow the money to bail his girlfriend out because she was afraid HE'D do something crazy if his girlfriend had to stay in jail.

I had some hateful words. I've worked hard my entire life and could not believe that I was being asked to bail my punk brother's girlfriend out of jail. That she would try to use my love and concern for her to get money for HIM. WHEN WAS MY MOM GOING TO MAKE HIM TAKE RESPONSIBILITY AND LET THE REAL WORLD HAPPEN?

The conversation was heated, she started to slur her words and I told her I'd call her later when her medicine wasn't making it so hard to understand her.

She died that night.

My point in this story is that I never, ever could understand what drove her to let him get away with any and everything EVER, while I'd always had such stringent rules and responsibilities.

When Matthew died, I finally could.

My brother was her hope restored. Her miracle who lived. She could not FATHOM anything happening to him in any way, shape or fashion. She fought his battles like a mama bear and hovered over all of us in a way that the term 'helicopter parent' can't even come close to matching.

And while I still believe that my brother would have been far better off in his adult life if he'd ever had to have any real consequences growing up, I can completely and totally understand why my mother was like she was. Why she was "THAT" mom--the crazy one who would tear anyone apart if they threatened her children and fought every thing from the school system to various church groups to her own family members--including my dad.

Their relationship was never, ever the same after Angel died. I don't think her relationship with anyone was ever the same.

I understand so, so much more about my mother now. I am heartbroken that our family was not one where that sweet little baby sister was remembered and honored and counted as a 'true' family member. I feel like memories and stories I SHOULD have were stolen in the name of 'moving on' and 'not dwelling'.

My baby sister was a week and a half younger than her nephew was. Those lives MATTER. They count. And they are part of our family's story.

I of course am just devastated that it took something like what is my life right now for me to gain this perspective. I wish I had more compassion and understanding for my mother when she was alive--it was just not the way in our family. I can't tell you how often I long to have a conversation with her now...knowing she knows what my heart feels like and that we could grieve together.

And through this perspective, I have insight into what I do and don't want MY family story to be...Matthew will NEVER be 'that baby mom had who died' nor will his brother or sister be so smothered with my fear of danger or responsibility for him or her that he or she is not able to have failures in life and learn from them. I know myself well enough to know that I have the tendency to hover anyway, and those feelings are SO innate and strong right now with my sweet little one.

We learn so much from our parents. While I am just brokenhearted that my mother's suffering is so rich in lessons, I am grateful for the perspective.

Ouch....

Well, as said yesterday, this is my life. Every day. In all things.

Even the grocery store.

And no, being pregnant again does not make it easier. Children are not replaceable. Being pregnant again makes me hopeful.

It's nowhere near easier.

So, even in this horrendous heat, I decided I needed to venture out to the commissary. I'm quite surprised by this, but I have had the insane desire to cook meals.

Not eat them, mind you, and GOD FORBID smell them....but to make them for John.

He's been working very, very hard.

So, I gathered my coupon book, printed out all my coupons, printed my menus and shopping list (Nanci, Maria--aren't you proud of me?), put on a breezy sundress and some strappy sandals and set out.

Still not feeling great, but sitting around doesn't help much either.

Today was a GREAT day to go shopping--commissary was dead and John wasn't with me, so I could take all the time I wanted--comparing prices, deciding what meal I will make, rifling through coupons, etc...

I was standing in front of the soups with my binder open and my menu/list out and I was about to decide what soups I was going to buy. (Campbell's Chunky, take $1 off two, you know.)

Throughout the aisles, I had seen a nicely dressed woman with a cute little girl roaming and had assumed that it was either her granddaughter (and she was a VERY young grandma) or her little girl but through an international adoption. Yes, I realize that's an assumption based on looks, but one I've lived with and also pondered while we were trying to adopt from Kyrgyzstan...and I always smile at the hope that they are a forever family somehow.

Anyway, as I was about to pick out soups, this lady stopped by my cart and saw my whole set up (in the front seat, of course, because I had no baby sitting there) and smiled at me.

"WOW!" she said. "I'm impressed! Do you have any children?"

(Now, I realize she's asking me this because truthfully, there's no way that if I had a child with me I could POSSIBLY have had that whole set up going and been taking all that time.)

YES!!! I'm expecting!!! Praise God!!

YES!!! Praise God!!! I had a miracle in November, but he's dead.

While both are true...what in the world was I supposed to say?

So, I said, "I'm expecting."

She then went on and said, "Oh...how wonderful for you...I'm just so impressed with all of this (my coupons/menus/lists) and just imagining a family you are doing this for. I have a 17-year old and my little 4-year old here and would love to do this." (I'm pretty sure I was right that her little one was adopted and so flipping adorable!_

I smiled (crying inside thinking that I shouldn't have that time...shouldn't have that ability....SHOULD have a nearly 7 month-old babbling at me and her) and said, "Thank you...I'm trying to get it all together."

She asked how far along I was.

I told her, "Ten weeks."

She then sweetly and sincerely said, "Well, congratulations!! You are just beautiful! You glow! You just radiate happiness."

I radiate happiness?????

She was so, so kind...and so sweet...and heck, what pregnant woman doesn't want to hear that they are beautiful and radiate happiness (even if they aren't!)????

This one.

Because it cut my heart in two.

How can I be radiating happiness when my son died not even seven months ago? I'm happy about many things...this baby, my husband, my family and friends and amazing support and that God sees me through each day.

But to hear her speak of me (which again, was so kind), you'd think I didn't have a care in the world and that I was the me I was a year ago---excited about being a mommy, loving the domesticity I FINALLY got to rightfully own, blissfully ignorant....

I'm not that me.

And it hurts me to think that others see me that way.

I know that's crazy--who wants to be seen as a mourning, depressing, grief-stricken mother of a dead baby????

That's not the identity I want and several months ago, that's the identity I said I didn't want to define me.

So why does it hurt so much to know that that's not how a complete stranger saw me? That she saw me as happy and joyful and hopeful.

How FAIR is it that that HURTS me and makes me feel so far from Matthew?

I know, I know...life's not fair.

Ouch. All I can say about today is OUCH. One living...promising. One dead...unspoken.

OUCH! OUCH! OUCH!

Miney's Photo Shoot...

Well...suffice it to say that I didn't sleep very well last night. At all. In fact, wide awake most of the night.

I've had a lot on my heart and I've been so, so anxious.

I just knew that we'd get to Dr.K and they'd do the ultrasound and look at each other, then me, and say, "Lori, we're so sorry."

Because it seems that would just be par for the course.

Joy stolen. I admit it. Worry is not something you can just turn on or off and no matter what you do, you can't control (without medicine and I can't do that) the wiring you've got going on in your brain.

So...I just kept praying, "Please just let us get to Dr. Sweeney. Please just let us get to Dr. Sweeney. If we can get there, we'll be in such better shape." Poor Dr. Sweeney. No pressure for him at all.

I was literally sick to my stomach...seems like every time I go into Shady Grove's office, I am on pins and needles!

So...the tears ran when I saw that sweet, familiar little flicker on the screen. I saw little arms and teeny tiny legs (so different than my diamond ring!)....in this picture, Miney looked a lot like his/her brother and reminded me of my sweet little Gummi Bear.

Dr. K said the heartbeat looked good and I said, "Yeah, well, I'll feel better when you tell me what the heartbeat is...."

169!!!!

Hooray and praise God! Wait...praise God and HOORAY!

All looked great...measuring right on target for a January 17 due date and fabulous heartbeat. Matthew's on this appointment was 162.

Of course, I cheated a bit and had about 10 sips of coffee this morning, so after my initial bliss, I immediately thought, "Wait--maybe the coffee elevated that heartbeat!!!"

That doctor and those nurses think I am a nut. Certifiable.

The proverbial basket case.

They're not too far off base. Dr. K said, "You need to be strong and healthy...you have to RELAX!"

(Again, add grow in there, because if I could bottle the ability to do either of those, I'd be RICH!!!!)

He suggested counseling.

Check times a few.

He suggested yoga.

Umm, abs aren't going to facilitate that and my mind races too much anyway.

He suggested writing.

Check. Times a lot.

Then he said--"For every bad thought, I want you to write two good ones."

This could take a while.

He then got right to where he knew I felt secure. "When do you see Sweeney?"

"About 40 minutes!"

Yep, they looked at me as if I was already wearing the straight jacket.

And they totally understand.

We got lovely pictures of our sweetheart and were then off to one of our heroes, Dr. Sweeney!!!!

It was hard to sit in that office, if I'm truthful. That's one of my real last memories of Matthew...November 23 (the day before his due date) and seeing him wriggle all over the screen...or try to! He was so, so scrunched. So scrunched, in fact that I think the only picture we really got that day was of his foot...fitting...I remember Dr. Sweeney telling me he looked like a million bucks (my favorite thing to hear)...scheduling for the following Monday but joking about hoping we wouldn't need it!

We didn't.

Matthew was dead before the following Monday.

I didn't think we'd do a scan since I'd just come from Shady Grove, but we did--abdominally Miney looked very blob-like but Dr. Sweeney said the baby looked great. He discussed some proportional ratios between the baby and yolk sac and said that my miscarriage rates just went down looking at those ratios.

Things looked great!

A special treat was hearing the heartbeat! We saw it at Shady Grove, but HEARD it with Dr. Sweeney and it was precious. Music to our ears!! Heartrate of 170 (he said that was the baby's heartrate and the caffeine from earlier in the day didn't make a difference!) and just beautiful. I can't wait until my doppler works.

We planned to come in for observation and checks every other week (unless my sanity breaks and we need to check for viability more often) and he agreed that delivering up in Annapolis was a smart decision, even though it breaks my heart to not be able to be with my sweet L & D angels at our local hospital.

We just can't take any chances.

John said if we ever won the lottery, the first thing we would do is build a NICU at St. Mary's.

I'm trying to figure out how to do that WITHOUT winning the lottery, since we don't play.

We won't go past 38 weeks (less than 30 to go!), and he's got a plan for who will deliver.

Have we mentioned how much we love the people who take care of us?

So today...as we are so joyful and grateful to God for this little miracle...

We are also very keenly aware of how much the holes in our hearts hurt....how we ache for our boy and wish more than anything in the world we could be sharing the joy of a brother or sister with him.

I know a lot of people believe that those in Heaven can see us, and are aware of what's going on in our lives. To be truthful, I don't know that that's not true.

Personally, I don't see how it could be...if there are no tears in Heaven, I don't know how anyone there could look at this broken and suffering world and not cry at the state of affairs. I guess I may be in the minority, but I would rather think of Matthew as perfectly whole and happy...which means that he doesn't miss me or see me and my sorrow at all. He, like all my loved ones in Heaven, is blissfully unaware.

And I am ok with that...

One day, all things will be made right.

In the meantime, I am grateful for the joy that I am able to share in the privilege of this new, sweet little life. For Miney's "Trip to Annapolis" item, Daddy decided on a cute sleeper that could go both ways. If she's a girl, we'll give her a green bow or band in her hair (?) and if he's a boy, he'll just be getting ready for the frogs to come! We've always loved frogs here....




Here's the still of Miney. Cute, huh? I know it's impossible to tell (for y'all) but honestly, the baby already looks a lot like me. Really.



There's video--which isn't all that great, and honestly, in listening to it, I cringe. I'll be more quiet at future ultrasounds, especially if John continues to make me out to be the grinch that he does! FOR THE RECORD...there's not a doctor or nurse that has been a part of all of this who doesn't know how stressful this is and how worried I am. Dr. K said I'd worry every second of the pregnancy (and I didn't even take offense to him suggesting counseling!) and Dr. Sweeney said we'd do whatever we needed to do to maintain my sanity. (Again, poor man...no pressure).

This is nerve-wracking...but I'm so grateful. I just keep telling myself, "This one, she will keep."


Thank you so much for the prayers...they are so coveted and so precious to us!

Hard Day

Today was a hard day. I am so glad that it has been raining all day because we really needed it, and it totally matched my mood.

I am still unable to sleep. Just find myself tired, but can't sleep. Wide awake, actually. I am ravenous but can't stomach the thought of bringing any food to my mouth. I somehow get the gumption to eat and about a minute later, can't tolerate it. I have all the classic signs of morning sickness (though it is NOT restricted to the morning!!!!)--nausea, headache, metallic taste in my mouth, dry heave every time I brush my teeth, HOT then COLD, always feeling like I just need to ... spit. (So lady-like, huh?) Achy and lethargic but a burning desire to organize my silverware drawers.

I know everyone is thinking, "This is good!! Good sign! High HCG levels make that happen and are GOOD."

That's not necessarily true. My numbers with Matthew were higher than the numbers with M&M. And I was great! I bounced all over the place, had some food aversion, but really only to cheese and sugary stuff (my FAVORITE THINGS, that silly baby boy!!!). I did need to have most anything I drank be carbonated, but really---even with higher HCG levels, I was nothing like this! I was actually pretty worried for a bit with Matthew because I'd always read and heard that the higher HCG levels would make you sicker and that wasn't bad because higher levels are good. Of course I asked my RE about it and he said that was the case sometimes and sometimes it wasn't. It was obvious that with my numbers as high as they were, me not feeling sick was just the way I was. People with low levels of HCG can and do suffer 'morning' sickness.

And just goes to show that yes, EVERY pregnancy is different!

Which makes me happy. The things that are unique to Matthew are so limited...and as time moves forward, seem to become even more and more numbered. Miney &/or Moe will, God willing, have a lifetime to have things that are unique and theirs.

My Matthew only has what has already been his.

So I am glad that so far, this pregnancy is COMPLETELY different than Matthew's.

His can stay all his own.

He was such a good baby! He slept at night, and was up kicking me and wiggling around ALL day. He didn't make me sick, I had energy (mostly), I walked around feeling on top of the world (even when my back was killing me or my body was so swollen I had to LAY around feeling on top of the world!). His skin was perfect and soft...his cheeks were so full, especially for a little one who had lost so much blood. I dreamed and dreamed of kissing that foot that kicked me constantly...imagined changing his sweet little diaper in the middle of the night--me being tired, but heart melting when he looked up at me with a sweet little smile that only he would have.

He was such a good baby.

Today was just the first day of what I imagine will be many more days where I just completely and totally feel like I am betraying my son with this pregnancy.

I spent over 10 years wondering what it would be like to have a child, what it would feel like when I had another precious little life living inside of me. And then came Matthew! It was sort of weird, admittedly, to think that my body was the home of another living human being, but it was AMAZING!

And today, as I happily thought about the little life or lives living inside of me, I just burst into tears...and not happy ones.

It's Matthew's.

My body was for Matthew. It was his home. It was Matthew's.

I doubt that had Matthew lived, and we'd had more children, I wouldn't necessarily feel like allowing my body to be home for his brothers or sisters would be betraying him.

But because he's gone...and my body, for 99.9% of his sweet little life, was his...I just feel like such a traitor.

I am crying my eyes out as I type this. I've been crying for much of the afternoon.

Like I said, there's just so little that is his and ONLY his...and I feel like I'm just taking something that was special to just us and giving it away.

I knew this was going to be hard. I just didn't know how hard. And it's only started...

I miss my boy.