Dreams

Dear Luke,
I am well-aquainted with the stages of grief - denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. I've been through them all, at times getting stuck in the anger phase, but I feel I've landed solidly onto the grounds of acceptance.

But what no one tells you is what to expect after acceptance. Where does a person go from here?

I love the movie Tangled. There is the line where Rapunzel is telling Eugene that she is scared to see her life-long dream turn into reality, because she doesn't know what she'll do next. He tells her that's the best part - she can make new dreams.

I suppose that's a little how I feel. I've had the same dream all my life - to be a mom. I've now fulfilled that dream, just shy of one baby that I thought I'd be raising, and I'm not quite sure what my next dream should be. The dream I want most of all - my dream of holding you - can't be mine right now. So now what?

I fill my days up with countless activities. I love our new house and conjure up thousands of projects I'd like to do to make it our own. I love to listen to Halle's kindergarten antics and watch her learn to read. I focus a lot of my energy on fun activities Sam and I can do to not only keep us entertained without Halle around, but also to help him learn all the things a kid his age should know. (Sometimes I think he might still be behind developmentally. After he "graduated" from early intervention they suggested I might still want to have him tested for an early intervention preschool, but the thought of having him gone several times a week and leaving me home alone frightens me. After all, I'm a professional teacher, I should be able to help him myself, so I'm trying to spend more time helping Sam catch up to others his age.)

My life is good and I am happy. But sometimes the memories of past dreams will come back and haunt me.

Thanksgiving was one of those times. We spent it with Dad's side of the family this year. We spent all afternoon out at Aunt Carolyn's house and had a fabulous traditional Thanksgiving dinner, but after a while the warm house and the conversation of pregnancy began to suffocate me and I needed to get out in the fresh air. So I went for a little walk.

Dad and I would clock that "little" walk later on and discovered I walked over two miles. I love the scenery out there - all the farm land. I walked passed a few new houses - gorgeous ones with wrap around porches. I always dreamed of having a house with wrap around porches on the outside and a stunning staircase and catwalk on the inside. I got my dream staircase and catwalk, but our front porch is non-existant. And I felt a small pang of sorrow over my lost dream house.

I thought of other dreams too as I walked along. I thought of how there was a day when I thought my dream of being loved by some amazing man was never going to be fulfilled. I was almost 25, and in the culture in which I live, that is considered an old maid. All of my friends were married and had at least 2 kids by this point. And I was still looking for Mr. Right, and failing miserably. And then I met your dad...

I remember sitting in a tractor with him one day over seven years ago. We were ripping one of Uncle Dennis's fields and listening to Kenny Chesney on the radio. I was madly in love with your dad. And it was clear the feeling was mutual. We nonchalantly talked about the future, trying to act like we weren't as thrilled and terrified about the topic of conversation as we really were. Somehow we began to talk about how many kids we wanted. Our hopes were the same - no less then three but no more than five.

It all seemed so easy then. We thought all you had to do was proclaim how many kids you wanted and they were suddenly yours. We stare at pictures of us back then, particularly our engagement and wedding pictures, and marvel at how innocent (and naive) we were. Little did we know that there would be times when our dreams would become nightmares.

I would be lying if I said that I didn't sometimes feel guilty that Dad got "stuck" with me. Our pregnancy problems and sick babies are wholly my fault. He could have married someone else and fulfilled his dream of 3 to 5 kids. Living kids, that is - for he does have three. But the thought of not being with him is the worst thing I can possibly imagine. And the best part is that I don't think your dad has ever even let this thought enter his mind. He lets me know in countless ways that he would rather be with me and only get to raise two kids in this life, then be married to someone else and have half a dozen big, strong, healthy boys. Our family, no matter how undesirable it may seem to others, is his greatest joy and he wouldn't trade it for anything.

Dreams are funny things. Some never become reality, but we don't mind, for we look back and see how childish they were in the first place. Others are fulfilled and replaced by new ones. And others still are compromised. And then there are those that will remain forever in our hearts though we know they are not reachable in this life.

God has granted me some of my most precious dreams - my Mr. Right and two children to raise here. But you, Luke, are the one dream that I will never stop yearning for, or striving for. I miss you tonight. My arms feel empty without you. But I cling to that hope, that dream, that I will someday be holding you again and smelling your sweet little head and kissing your adorable button nose.

Perhaps that's the step after acceptance - hope. Hope in our dreams. I sincerely believe that there will come a day when, if we live the life God intended for us - if we reach our potential - that every dream we've ever dreamed will come true.

Sweet dreams my little one,
Mom

Another Christmas Season

Dear Luke,

When we first heard that you were due at Christmastime, I knew this holiday would forever be different because of you. When I'd tell people our due date, they would rave about how amazing it would be to have a brand new baby in the house for Christmas day - particularly a brand new baby boy. We knew you wouldn't really be born then. My history of preterm labor had us convinced you'd arrive by Thanksgiving, but, again, if history repeated itself like our two previous babies, you'd be home with us before your due date, and we would indeed have you in our home for Christmas morning.

It never occurred to me that you'd arrive much too soon, nor did I ever think that you wouldn't make it home for Christmas.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

We decided to put up our Christmas tree today since we will be out of town for Thanksgiving. I've heard so many other grieving mothers say they are dreading another Christmas without their little ones, but I hadn't felt that same grief. Not yet anyway. And then we got out the tree...

Actually, it wasn't the tree that reminded me that you won't be here for yet another Christmas. No, it was the Christmas music. A friend had given me the CD of "The Christmas Box" by Paul Cardall last Christmas. I listened to it constantly back then. It made you feel close, so very close.

It's been months since I've heard those songs. And as I heard the first few notes played today I felt that overwhelming desire to curl up in a little ball and cry until no tears were left. It hit me like a ton of bricks. You are gone and this isn't just a dream. And I miss you desperately.

But as I continued to listen to this beautiful piano music, my sorrow quickly passed and I was overcome by that same strong feeling I had last Christmas season - that feeling that you are so very near. I sat down and closed my eyes while listening to the music. And then, with the rest of the world shut out, I could feel you. It felt as though I could literally reach out and touch you. The rest of the evening as I dressed the kids for bed, read them stories, and sang them lullabies, I felt as though you were right there with us. It was such a tangible feeling - one of those tender mercies from God that I have come to cherish more than anything.

I was right, Christmas will never be the same because of you. Never. I once thought it would be different because it would be a time for us to celebrate your birth. But now I see it as a time that we celebrate your life and the light that you have brought to us. We are better people because of you. Our love for eachother is stronger. Our determination to return to God is unwavering. Christ's life is not something we celebrate merely on Sundays and Christmas morning only, but rather every single day.

I thank God for you every day, too, Luke. I miss you, but I know that you are here with us tonight. And that fills me with a joy that words cannot express.

Love,
Mom

Thoughts on Miracles

Dear Reader,
I know I haven't posted in a while. Don't perceive that to mean that I've forgotten about Luke or that I don't like to talk about him anymore. It's quite the contrary actually. I still love to talk about Luke, to think of him, to feel him close. But I find myself becoming more and more protective of him and his story.

I've found that this blog is getting hit by inappropriate websites. That makes me SO angry. I'm considering going private with my blog. I'm not sure that it does anyone any good besides myself anyway.

I think I started this blog as a way of letting people know Luke existed. It was so important to me that people know about him, that he mattered, that he was loved. I felt that if his story changed just one person's life that his life was now somehow validated. If not, then what good came from this painful trial?

It has taken me awhile, but I now see that he has changed lives. Ours. Boyd and I, our children, we are much better people now. We live with greater purpose. We love deeper. We have a greater desire to follow Christ. What a miracle, that one little tiny baby could completely change the lives of his family!

I volunteer at the NICU and have just started going back regularly. I still struggle with going around to the babies' bedsides, but that is another story for another day. So I merely go to get presents ready for each baby and to chat with the other volunteers. Just last week a topic of conversation came up that didn't settle well with me. It was the topic of miracles.

One mother talked about her son and his struggle at birth. He had a very risky surgery performed during his first few months in order to save his life. The doctor, finding that things were much worse than anticipated, developed a new method for performing this surgery right there on the spot. He told the mother that the idea just came to him in the middle of the surgery. She told him she felt it was given to him through divine means. He now performs this surgery successfully on dozens of preemies a year now. This mother got all teary-eyed as she proclaimed her son a miracle and that she feels he has some great purpose in this life.

Another mother related a similar experience - how her daughter's NICU stay taught doctors new ways to deal with certain health issues. She too feels her daughter's life is a miracle and that she has important things to do in this life.

Then both looked over at me and quickly apologized. They said they didn't understand why some children made it and some did not. Why some babies were allowed to miraculously live and others to die. And, like always, everyone ended up sitting in awkward silence. If I was a more eloquent person I would have explained to them that their stories of their miraculous babies did not upset me. What upset me was that they would seem to think that because my son died there was no obvious way that he could be a miracle or that he could have some great purpose in this life.

Over the past few months I have come to accept that others' probably don't love my son like I do, nor are they as affected by him as I am. At first that really bothered me. But now I'm okay with the idea that Luke and his life belong solely to our family. What I'm not okay with is people thinking that we don't see him as important as they see their children. I do not need my NICU friends to be affected by Luke's life, but I don't want them to think that he doesn't affect my life positively. A person doesn't have to live to be a miracle - for which I have found the definition that a miracle is NOT something that goes against the natural order of things, but rather something that shows the divinity of God. Keeping that definition in mind, Luke therefore is indeed a miracle. In fact, all of my children are. Their very existence has brought me closer to our Heavenly Father. They teach me that He loves me and is aware of me. Perhaps their births did not teach doctors new ways to save babies. Perhaps no one but me and their dad will ever be affected by their lives, but to me that is enough.

A person does not have to change the lives of thousands to be important. All that matters is that one solitary person is affected for the better. Perhaps that doesn't seem like such a big thing, but to the one person whose life has been changed, it is a very big thing.

I echo the words of Albert Einstein "There are two ways to live life - as though everything is a miracle or nothing is." And like Albert Einstein I have come to believe that everything is. Even the death of a child can be a miracle - for that child has taught his parents and brother and sister that God truly lives. That He is aware of us and wants nothing but our happiness. And that He is always close by to comfort us, to cry with us, and to carry our burdens when they are too heavy for us to bare.

Believe in miracles, dear reader, for they do exist. Don't let other's stories of miracles discourage you and make you wonder why miralces like that don't exist for you. Remember, a miracle is anything that brings you to our loving Heavenly Father. Today it may be something as simple as the fast beating of a tiny bird's wings or that delicious smell of the earth after a rainstorm that reminds you that God does exist. And for me, it just may be the fact that I have three living children. One may be somewhere just beyond my sight, but I know that he lives all the same. And I will cling to my miralce with all my might until the day I am reunited with my Lukie.

All my love,
Ann

Even Now

Dear Luke,

Everyone told me this would happen - life would move forward. It was impossible to imagine at the time after your birth/death. In fact, the very thought of life continuing on without you was offensive to me. But here I am , nearly 9 months later and for the most part I feel that I have been able to press forward without you. That's not to say that we don't think of you each and everyday. In fact, there is not one prayer uttered by Dad, me, or Halle and Sam that does not include you in it. We are constantly thanking God for you and asking Him to send our love to you. You are all around us, we feel it, and so we are able to wake up and continue on each day.

But even now there are days that I am overcome by loneliness and heartache. I miss you.

Memorial Day was a very surreal time for us. This holiday for me used to hold memories of visiting the graves of grandparents and great-grandparents - people who had lived long fulfilling lives. And then it was topped off by a BBQ and a celebration of the end of the school year and the official start of summer. This year I spent each and every day of our weekend and holiday sitting on your grave. Who knew that this holiday would turn into a time that I would dedicate to my baby boy, gone before his life ever began?

One day I went over without the kids in tow. I sat on your grave, thinking of you and feeling the cool breeze blow all around me. Other mothers were visiting the graves of their little ones. One mother and I began sharing our experiences. Isn't it funny how connected and close I feel to complete strangers like this. After this mother left, another approached me. Her little one had passed away 21 years before. I was touched by her words of encouragement and even more by her willingness to just let the pain and sorrow be present. Before she left she gave me an enormous hug and we cried together. I left shortly after that. I sat in my car and cried. Not for sorrow, but for the blessing of these sweet women. I know God knew what my heart needed at that moment - another mother to share my joy and grief - someone to fully empathize.

It turned out to be a lovely weekend. One where our little family took a break from "normal life" and choose to dedicate our time and thoughts to your memory. A few of our extended family members and friends came to visit your grave. It means the world to mean when others beside Dad and the kids and me come to see you. It's very validating to know that others acknowledge you as a true member of our family and feel a small sense of loss over your death (though I have come to accept that no one mourns your loss like Dad and I do and that is okay).

But now today my heart is aching for you. It all began Tuesday night when I did a very dumb thing...

I have started volunteering at the NICU again after many, many months away. I wanted to be around the other NICU volunteers who have become such dear friends. I wanted to ease myself back into volunteering because I loved doing it before I got pregnant with you. So I started going to simply get presents ready for the babies and then I would leave while everyone else delivered them to the bedsides of those little miracles. This was the part I knew I couldn't do. So I skipped out on this for a few weeks. But this Tuesday I decided to give it a try. As Dad always says "the first time doing anything without Luke will be hard, but if you take one little step at a time it will eventually get easier." So I took a small step forward and into the actually NICU to hand out gifts. (Turns out it was a huge step backward in my healing process.)

I was okay at first. I simply kept my mind busy by talking to the other volunteers as I passed them the presents to place by the babies' beds. I used to love to "oo and ah" over the babies, but that was long ago. Now I stayed away from actually looking at them. But then we stopped to talk to a mother and one of the nurses and my mind began to wonder. There was the bed that Halle slept in during her stay. Right next to it was Sammy's. I started feeling sentimental and missing those times when Halle and Sam were tiny and wondering how on earth they grew up so quickly. And then I decided to take a gift to the bedside of one of the "micro-preemies" (that is a baby born under 2 pounds like you). I made the mistake of looking at the baby. Oh, his toes where so tiny. He looked so peaceful snuggled in his incubator with the sound of the ventilator rhythmically pulsing. And that's when I lost it. I left the NICU, presents still waiting to be delivered, and drove home crying so hard I couldn't see the road and unable to catch my breath between my sobs.

I miss you!!

When I look at my friends' babies, all around the age you should be, I don't miss you. They are big and fat and they bare no resemblance to you. But that baby at the NICU, so tiny and sweet and miraculous, made my heart yearn for you. After first seeing that baby I felt a tiny bit of jealousy and longing to have you be that sick little one in the hospital. My next reaction was to yell at God and utter how unfair it was that these 24-weekers were still alive and were going to go on to live relatively normal lives. Angry because He took my 24-weeker. But in the end I knew that my real heartache was stemming from the fact that I miss you. I miss you more than words could ever express!

I don't think I'm baby hungry. It isn't any ol' baby that I want. It's you. I've finally been able to hold other babies without falling apart. In fact, at times I even feel a sense of comfort with them where at one point I felt absolutely disconnected when holding another baby as if I was holding nothing more than I sack of flour. But the truth is, they aren't you! I can't believe it has been nearly 9 months since I lost held you. My arms literally ache to hold you, snuggle you, sing to you, smell you. No amount of baby holding will quench that thirst for there is a piece of me that can never be whole again until I hold you in my arms again.

I feel I cannot say it enough; I miss you my Lukie. And while I know that this aching depression I am feeling this week will give way to peace and happiness when I think of you, like it always does, I know that this desire to be with you will never ever leave me. It is a constant part of me. There is a piece of my heart that belongs to you and no amount of time will erase my longing for you. Oh, how I miss you!!

Love,
Mom

My Story

When Sam was a year old, I started volunteering at the NICU where he lived for the first 2 months of his life. I wanted to "make peace" with all the feelings I was experiencing over all that we had gone through during his pregnancy, birth, and first few months of life. I didn't think that it had been so traumatizing, but as he neared his birthday I found that I was really struggling with some issues and felt that giving back to the NICU was just the way for me to heal.

Through my volunteering, I have found that my purpose there has evolved. It started off as a place to heal, then a place to help others, a place that I was anticipating seeing my son Luke at, and finally to a place where I can find comfort, understanding, and empathy.

I have made some amazing friends while volunteering. One of my greatest strengths is a mother who is a volunteer herself and started volunteering just a few months before I had Luke. She has quite the story, which I won't share too much of since it is hers and she is the one who should share it (and likes to). But the gist of her story is that she was pregnant with identical twins. Identical, except that one of her babies had a heart and the other didn't. The one brother was keeping the other alive. She had to be monitored closely to make sure that the first baby didn't go into cardiac arrest since his heart was working overtime. When things became too difficult for him they would deliver him early. In which case, her other little boy would die.

My friend has the most amazing attitude. Her strength has helped lift me. She refers to this experience in her life as her "life story."

I often wonder what I would consider my "life story." It seems like all the volunteers up there have these HUGE defining moments. A baby that lived inutero for 11 weeks with no amniotic fluid and had to endure many dangerous surgeries to become the healthy little boy he is today. Another who was born at 23 weeks and deals with severe CP. Then there is the mother who had quadruplets (and is still sane).

I guess sometimes I hate the thought that my whole life can be packaged up into one moment - one moment that makes up my "life story". Maybe that's because I don't feel like I have that one miraculous moment that truly defines me, and therefore my life story seems like pretty weak cheese. Or maybe it's because I don't want to be known for my trials. In fact, I don't think anyone wants to be remembered for their trials. I think everyone wants to be remembered for the way they were victorious in times of trial - just like my NICU friends.

It is not the size of the story that is important. It is the simple fact that it did happen. Our stories are formed, not by what happens to us in life, but by our willingness to let what happens mold and shape and refine us. Our stories are all about letting ourselves become the person we were always meant to be.

And that is what I feel I am doing - working to become that person that God sees inside. I am truly a work in progress and so is my story.

"In this life we will encounter hurts and trials we will not be able to change; we are just going to have to allow them to change us."
-R.L. Davis

An Angel in My Pocket

I love my children. All three of them. They are my world.

Last week I enrolled my oldest, Halle, into kindergarten for this upcoming year. I am not exaggerating when I say I had a slight nervous breakdown as I was filling out paperwork. My hands were shaky, I felt sweat emerge on my forehead, and I felt I was suffocating. After all the necessary paperwork was done I literally ran to my car and sobbed. This can't possibly be happening! I can't send my baby to kindergarten!!

But she isn't a baby anymore. And she is, in fact, going to start kindergarten soon whether I like it or not.

I just can't seem to wrap my brain around the fact that my children are growing up, and WAY too quickly. Soon I'll be left with no one at home. I always dreamed that my house would be filled with the voices of little kids, but in two years my children will all be at school. My house will be very quiet. And very lonely.

I wish I had some way of shrinking my children, stopping their age progression, and carrying them around in my pocket wherever I go. If only...

Last week I got a package in the mail. It was from my sister's co-worker who lost a baby quite tragically (although can any loss be considered anything less than tragic?) In the package was a very sweet note and a tiny little angel pin. She had been given one like it after her son passed away and had received great comfort from it. So she passed one along to me in hopes that I too would draw comfort from it.

Although I'm not much of a pin wearer, this one is beautiful and, well, it reminds me of Luke so I naturally love it. One day as I was running out the door to do whatever was on me and Halle and Sam's agenda for the day, I decided to shove the pin in my pocket so that I could put it on my shirt when I found a spare moment. I never found that moment. In fact, I totally forgot that angel was even there and so it stayed most of the day in my pocket.

When I remembered the precious little pin I felt rather guilty that it had spent all this time in my dark, tiny pocket. And then the thought made me smile. Almost laugh. Maybe I can't literally carry Halle and Sam and Luke around in my pocket, but I think I found the next best thing.

Now each day I pin my little angel to the outside of my pocket to remind me that the things that are most precious to me, whether seen or not, go everywhere with me. Boyd, Halle, Sam, Luke, and my faith are ALWAYS with me. They go everywhere I go. They are a piece of me and make me who I am. They fill up my heart and that is where I always intend to keep them. They are the angels in my pocket.

The Loss of a Friend

Dear Luke,

The family went out to the cemetery today to sit by your grave. I know that you are not really there - not your true essence anyway. But there is such a special feeling at your grave site. We like to go there as often as we can.

After you first passed away, I went to "see you" everyday. I couldn't imagine that there would ever come a time when I wouldn't make my daily trips to sit by your headstone. But I have to admit, I usually only make it to the cemetery once or twice a week now. I feel you are with us in our home more than you are at the cemetery. But there's still just something about sitting by your grave. Even the kids seem to notice the special sacred feeling that we get there.

I've even made friends at the cemetery. I once wrote a post about an elderly man that I got to know while visiting you. I viewed him as a true friend. I took note of his birthday (which was written on the headstone of his wife's grave) and, knowing that he would be at her grave on that day, left him a little gift on her headstone for him. I felt a special bond with this man. We'd only talked the once and on all other occasions we merely nodded acknowledgement to each other. But he had become a part of my life, in a sense. I knew when I went to visit your grave that I would see him there, and if not, I would always expect to see fresh flowers and love notes on his wife's grave.

Today while at the cemetery, we walked over to my friend's wife's grave. I was admiring the beautiful new flowers and colorful pinwheels when I suddenly noticed that the ground had recently been cut away and the sod replaced. I stared in utter shock when I saw not only a birth date for my friend, but a death date. My friend is gone. Gone home to his wife. I am happy for him. He missed his wife deeply. But I feel a strange sense of loss and sadness at his death.

Tears welled up in my eyes and I could feel myself on the verge of crying as I stared at the headstone. Dad lovingly put his arms around me. "At least now he's happy," he reassured me.

I suppose he is. So why am I so sad? Sad about a man I hardly knew.

If you see him, Lukie, tell him hello from me. And know that, even when a person no longer lives on this earth, they are still loved. They are still thought of. They still matter.

I love you tons,

Mom