Ouch

Sometimes, it just hurts.

Have you ever put a puzzle together, only to discover that a piece was missing?  Sometimes, it's in a very inconspicuous place, and it's not really a huge deal if a piece is missing.  Sometimes, though, that missing piece just makes the puzzle obviously incomplete.  Today is one of the "obviously incomplete" type days.

So...I've mentioned before that at least one person has said something to the effect of "well, you had it easy because you hardly knew Gideon".  That is a load of crap, nobody should ever belittle anyone else's grief.  Despite the irritation I feel that someone actually said that: I can see some logic in that thought, and even through my own experience, I have noticed that because Gideon died so young, it is sometimes easy to carry on as if he were never there.  In fact, he never was at our house.  He never actually was here, his entire week was spent in hospitals.  So sometimes it's easy to carry on and keep going as if my 5th baby was all a dream.

In both of these family pictures, if you took Gideon out like a puzzle piece, you'd take away mine or Scott's chest/stomach as well.  Sometimes, that's about what it feels like.

Sometimes, though, the reality of missing him is very painful, and so present I feel like I could bite down on it. Today, I just miss him.  And it's horrible because I don't even know what I'm missing.  I have no idea if he would have been cuddly or busy, if he'd have had brown eyes or green eyes, or blue, if he would have been left handed or right handed.  He was born almost 6 months ago, though he was only due 3 months ago, he would have been changing and growing, we would be interacting.  It hurts to know that I don't get to have this with him for a very, very long time.

I am truly grateful for a testimony that I will see him again, that makes it all much more bearable, but it's still hard when it feels like forever away.

Yesterday, I was reading and listening to one of the apostles talk about when the Savior prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane.  He was quoting Mark 14, "Father, all things are possible unto thee. take away this cup from me: nevertheless not what I will, but what thou wilt."

Hearing this triggered a memory of the prayer I uttered when I first learned that they were having difficulty getting Gideon breathing and getting his heart going.

A little history: we went to the U of U hospital for an ultrasound.  I had no idea they'd be keeping me to deliver my baby, or I'd have had my house cleaned and a bag packed, and babysitters lined up.  I just thought we were going to meet with specialists and see the baby on their ultrasound equipment.  After the ultrasound, they had us meet with some genetic counselors (if you are ever told you are meeting with them, beware--they are like the gloom and doom bearers of the "having a baby" world) and they told us that Gideon's condition might be lethal.  WHAT?!  That was the first time anyone had ever let us know it could be that bad. My doctor (who I had just met) recommended that we get ready to deliver him in a few days, after I had the steroid shots to give his lungs a developmental burst, and that they would try to do what they could to drain his kidneys and save him if he had any kidney function left.

So I stayed, they checked me in, did blood work, monitored Gideon, we had to meet with people from the NICU and learn about all the possible things they would be doing to help him, sign waivers, get shots, etc.  Fast forward a few days, to after the shots were in my system and Gideon was being delivered.  They put us in a delivery room that connected directly with the NICU through a window, so I could pop him out and they could hand him off to their NICU docs.  I saw him for about 1.5 seconds (literally, they held him up and whisked him away) before they handed him through that window.  20 minutes later and a doctor comes in wringing his hands.  (NOT a good thing...we knew it was bad before he said anything.)  Scott and I nicknamed this doctor Dr. Doom, because he wasn't very positive in the way he told us that they were having a hard time getting Gideon's heart started and getting him breathing.  Thus far, they'd been doing compressions and he wasn't responding.  The doctor told us that we should prepare to say goodbye.

After Dr Doom left our room, and I stopped bleeding so much, everyone gave us a few minutes to be alone, except my nurse was there.  I'd just hemorrhaged, so she was keeping an eye on my stats.  Scott and I prayed, and my prayer sounded a little bit like Jesus' did.  I am NOT even trying to pretend that my experience is close to the agony he went through, but I feel like I can relate a little bit more with: "I REALLY don't want to go through this, is there any way that I can avoid it?  Please, please, pretty please?  But if that's what's required of me, then I will do my best."  My prayer was pretty simple, I begged for a miracle.  I know God could have healed him miraculously--"All things are possible unto thee", and I asked that we wouldn't have to suffer losing this child, but I also turned it over to the Lord and asked him for strength to deal with whatever we were called to endure.  I also plead that if he couldn't live, if he couldn't stay, could we at least have a little time with him, for his brothers and sister to get to see him.  I wanted them to have ANY memory with him.

It took a LONG time for the next update to come, and we waited quietly, and cried.  I was shaking and couldn't get warm.  (Pretty sure I had gone into shock.)  When they told us they had him stabilized enough for us to go see him, I couldn't sit up enough to be taken in a wheelchair, so they wheeled my entire hospital bed into the NICU so that I could see him.  A little embarrassing, but I was so glad to have that moment, where I could see my little guy.

And we were blessed to have that week, the kids were able to come to the NICU and see him and hold him, and give him kisses, and we got to have our picture taken, our WHOLE family, even though our hearts were broken, we smiled because we got that week.  We smiled because we were all together for that picture, which was a miracle in and of itself.  I'd have loved to have held him up more, but he had monitors and tubes connected to him, and we were trying not to tip him or jostle him much, in case it disturbed any of those tubes/wires, or his fragile state.

Family pictures won't be the same, he won't be there from here on out.

And today, I just miss him.  I miss all the things I want to know about him, when will he crawl?  When will he walk?  What will his first word be?  What will make him smile?  I miss that I don't know those things.  And sometimes, its easy to carry on like he was never here, because we have so few memories with him and he was almost a stranger to us, but sometimes it's harder because I never got the chance to get to know him, and I wanted to so badly.

I've tried to quantify this, especially if people say "Well, it's not as bad as if I lost my son, because you hardly knew him."  (DON'T ever say that to me, by the way.  All respect will be lost, we will not be such good friends any more.)  So what?  That generalizes that it's easier to lose a child the younger they are.  It's easier to lose a 2 year old than a 7 year old, because you didn't know them as well?  It's easier to lose a 17 year old than if they'd been 38?  That's ridiculous.  Part of what is so sad is the things we want to do with them, the hugs we miss, the things they'd say, the learning and growth that we wish we could share with them.  And while I agree that the memories and imprint someone makes in our lives are able to be missed once they have truly become an integrated part of our lives, there is no "it's easy" age to lose a child.  No amount of time is enough.  We want to be with the people we love, we don't want to say goodbye, whether they're 2 or 92.

The "no amount of time is enough" realization has resonated in my soul, and rung a chord with the doctrine of "families are forever."  God loves us, he knows we want to have forever with our loved ones, and that's why families have an eternal nature.  God is great!  Yep, I still think he's great, even with the loss of my baby.  I do feel strongly that the loss is only temporary, and that because of God's plan of happiness for us, which includes forever families, and a Savior who makes it possible for us to get back to Heaven.

Also...a common mistake is that people ask or wonder if we're "over it".  So...if you lost an arm would you ever get over it?  All of a sudden, one day, you are over it, and don't wish you had your arm back?  A common misconception we all make about grieving is that there ever is a "get over it" time/place.  You don't get over it.  We get on with it.  We keep going, just like people who lose limbs keep going.  They learn how to open a jar of peanut butter a different way, they probably even get good at it, and are able to compensate for that loss, but they probably don't ever think to themselves, "Whew, glad I got over it."  I don't know this from my own personal experience, and I am grateful to have not lost a limb.  I have known people though who have, and they usually continue to enjoy things they used to in life, and they learn to do things differently and they make life work, and they still find joy.  They are OK with their new normal, they have learned and grown from the experience, and they may even be grateful for the loss of their limb because of what they learned and how they grew, for the push it gave them and the progress they made.  Sometimes, though, it hurts, and it is still harder for people to do what needs to be done, even with their compensations.  Many people would probably take the limb back if they could, as long as they didn't have to abandon the learning and growth they made without it.  However, if the choice meant forgetting all you had learned/experienced because of the loss when you got the limb back, most people would choose to deal with their loss.  That is how I feel.  I have grown and learned from this loss.  I can sympathize on a whole new level, my perspective has deepened and broadened, and I will take the learning with the loss, and continue to compensate for the pain.  I am not "over it", though.

I miss my Gideon.  It hurts, today is one of those "hard to breathe" days, because it feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest.  I want to hold him and read to him and sing to him and see what makes him smile and what foods he likes and watch him explore and discover who he is.  I want all 5 of my kids to be with me, and one is missing, and it's very obvious in my heart today.

Thoughts on prayer and doors and paths less traveled

For the last few days, I have been preparing to teach a lesson about prayer to the women in my local congregation.  I don't normally teach the women in my church, I actually offered to substitute because one of our regular teachers was asked to go help with the youth, and the leaders were scrambling to find a different teacher.  

If I had looked at the lesson before I said I'd teach it, I may have been a little less willing.  Don't get me wrong, I have a strong testimony of prayer, but that testimony is driven by some very strong memories and emotions, and I am unsure of how well I will be able to teach through those emotions.  As I have read through the scriptures and quotes for the lesson, one of my favorite things is a poem, which I plan to share with the class.  I will have to have someone else read it, because I can't even read it on paper without crying. I love words, I love poetry, and this captures my testimony of prayer in fewer words than I could have done on my own.  (Clearly, I am not a person of few words...)

I know not by what methods rare,

But this I know, God answers prayer.

I know that He has given His word,

Which tells me prayer is always heard,

And will be answered, soon or late.

And so I pray and calmly wait.

I know not if the blessing sought

Will come in just the way I thought;

But leave my prayers with Him alone,

Whose will is wiser than my own,

Assured that He will grant my quest,

Or send some answer far more blest.

As I have thought about the last stanza, I have mentally placed it alongside the lovely saying from The Sound of Music: "When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a window."  I remember that when I first heard the saying "somewhere he opens a window" I thought a window didn't seem like a good alternative to a door.  Windows mostly aren't intended as an entrance, just an emergency exit.  Windows are smaller, more awkward, not as good an option as a door for going in and out.  I have begun to think to myself that when he closes a door, somewhere he opens another one, a better one, an option we ordinarily would not have taken.  I have even said out loud "When the Lord closes a door, somewhere he opens a bigger one."  However, sometimes the door isn't bigger, and it isn't obvious, and it sometimes takes a while for us to find it.  Perhaps that's why the author of the saying chose a window...it's an option we don't normally consider, an option that really only became an option once the door closed and we had to find something else.  I think, though, that the Lord presents us with paths, with rooms, with journeys that we would not choose for ourselves, with new doorways and new opportunities that are better for us than what we would have chosen for ourselves, and sometimes it might be a window, but sometimes it might be another better door that we just don't want to see because we are too focused on the one that closed to see that another door is available to us.

I have also thought about the Robert Frost poem "The Road Not Taken."  

Robert Frost (1874–1963)

1. The Road Not Taken

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;         5   Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,         10   And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back.         15   I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.         20

I know that Gideon's passing was a door closed.  I prayed for him to live, and I prayed for him to have a miracle, and hundreds of people prayed with me.  How can I still have a testimony of prayer?  I have a huge amount of trust in God, and when I look for His hand, I can see it.  I still believe that Gideon's life was a miracle.  All life is, really, and I have four beautiful healthy miracle children with me.  Gideon's body was so messed up, so young to be born, it was a miracle that he lived for a week, and I truly believe that the week we had was an answer to the prayers of those hundreds of people.  I prayed that my children would be able to see their baby brother, so they'd have some memory of him, and that prayer was answered.  He won't answer every prayer in the way we expect Him to,  but he will answer them.  I have had to take a path less traveled over these last few months, most people have not had to experience the loss of a child. And I can look back and sigh and see how much of a difference it has made in my life.  I can see the depth of love I have for my children and husband has increased, I can see my children praying to be good people every day, so they can be in Heaven with Gideon one day, I have had a new perspective on things in life, and am able to see "the small stuff" for what it is...and not sweat it.  My life has been harder since this path less traveled, but it has made all the difference.  I am a better person for it.  I traveled it not because I chose to travel it, but because the other path just wasn't available at the time.  I am so glad that I have kept travelling though, because the things I am seeing along this journey are amazing and beautiful, and are helping me to live my life and love more fully.  Referencing the first poem, it doesn't always feel like it's the "answer far more blest" that Gideon passed instead of lived, but I can see the blessings it has opened up in my life, and I am very grateful for those.

Prayer works, just not always in the way we think it will, sometimes it sends us through other doors and down other paths, and it makes all the difference.

 

A literary masterpiece

Over the course of the last 5 months, I have often pondered a lot about why bad things have to happen.  This may seem like a silly answer, but I love books, and that love got dragged through my thought process yesterday, as I tried to think of what I wanted to do and change this year.   As I thought about it last night, I concluded that stories would be boring if nothing bad happened.  Good literature is full of characters who learn from the experiences they have.  They make mistakes, the people around them make mistakes, bad things happen.  There is exploration of love and hate, good and evil, there are questions that go unanswered except in our own hearts and minds as the reader.  Depth and emotion are found in stories when characters are real and bad things happen.



Let me give you an example of a very boring story.  Destined to NEVER become a classic, it's called "It's All Good." 

Once upon a time there was a loving family.  They were perfect.  Nothing bad ever happened to them.  Their family grew.  Everyone loved them, and they loved everyone.  They went places together, they learned together, they loved each other.  The end.

Not very gripping, huh?  The bad things that happen make our stories much more interesting and exciting.  You can't have a rollercoaster if there are no ups and downs.  Highs and lows are much better than a flat line.  Flat lines mean you are dead.  (Or very dull.)

Plus...if I was reading that very brief and short story, I would raise my eyebrows at the "they learned together" part.  Learning often comes because of bad things or hard things.  Sure, you could learn your alphabet, and learn to count, and learn to read, and learn to cook, but most things that really teach one's character are the result of a mistake.  I learned to be much more careful peeling potatoes when I peeled my finger at age 7.  A life lesson happened when I hurt and bled.  I can't tell you how many life lessons I have experienced in the last 5 months.  You have read through some of them here.  It feels like the death of our Gideon has been a defining point in my life, things have changed since then. 

My character has grown, my feelings have broadened and deepened, I find wisdom and knowledge and emotion in places I never used to find it before.  I think I have become a kinder person, and have sought more opportunities to give and help others since he passed away.  It is awesome and awful at the same time, I feel like sometimes now I take life too seriously.  And when I let go and be silly and laugh and celebrate, I also find myself feeling open to sadness more.  Feeling moments of tender and infinite happiness, like when my kids curl up on the couch with me as we read Harry Potter, or as we dance and belt out "Let it Go" are a blessing and also a trial.  Those happy moments are so fun for me, yet they serve as a reminder of what I have to wait for to have with my Gideon. 

I love J.K. Rowling, her Harry Potter books are wonderful and fun, and they have helped my children to become better readers.  They pull our family together sometimes.  Bad things, very bad things happen in her stories.  And they are hard to experience (yep, I cried when I read the 6th book).  They make you wonder why, what good can come of this?  As we see and experience more of the story, explanations are found, happy moments and times of relief are present even with and after the tender and sad moments.  And I catch myself expecting a "really good part" after something bad or hard.

As a New Year's decision (not resolution--nobody ever keeps those anyway), I am trying to view life as "a good story" now.  I want to take the bad and the good as a part of the whole.  I read books and wonder why an author chose certain words, why he or she chose to have a certain character die or undergo a very difficult challenge.  When bad things happen, I know that there will be a "good part" coming later.  I am trying to view my life that same way.  The bad parts help develop character, keep things interesting, help to make the good and fun parts that much better.

I have become more trusting of my Heavenly Father now than I was before, partly out of necessity.  I have needed the comfort from knowing that there is a why behind Gideon dying.  I have needed to know that his stories have happy endings.  I am trying to let him be the author of my story, of my family's story. I am excited that there are many more good parts left in my story.  I am nervous about the sad moments, the conflicts that are yet to be faced.  I don't even think I can explain how much this scripture has become my friend over the last 5 months.  "Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not to thine own understanding.  In all thy ways, acknowledge Him and He shall direct all thy paths."  Proverbs 3:5&6

Anyone who wants to join me in my process of viewing the bigger picture, taking the pieces of my story in stride knowing that there is more to come, please do so.  I am hoping to blog later in the year about this shift in perspective, and I'd love to hear your comments and experiences too.  I know that many good things are coming, and many questions yet to be answered as a part of my story, and yours.