Approaching a Year

It seems like so many of my thoughts are consumed with Aaron lately, especially as his one year earthly and heavenly birthdays are fast approaching. I find myself longing to remember every detail of those days...every detail of him, and still wanting answers to calm the lingering questions in my heart about his last moments here. 


I sat down this evening and flipped through last years calendar, looking at today...one year ago, wanting to remember the specific details of this time last year.  We started the day with a non-stress test and OB appointment at University Hospital, a regimen that had become the all-too-familiar twice weekly routine. I wasn't admitted to labor and delivery for observation that day, so Aaron must have tumbled around enough to make the nurses happy and allow me to go about my normal day of work. Flipping to the next week, my calendar is filled with typical doctors appointments and work patients, all scheduled along with a NICU tour, Labor and Delivery Tour, and meeting with neonatologists. Each Friday counting down to Aaron's due date is neatly circled and numbered in happy, yet anxious anticipation. 


This time last year, I remember thinking that in just a month or so, our son would make his arrival into this world.  We planned what little we could, but memories of the stillness of that ultrasound room filled with our tears only two months earlier always lingered in the forefront of my mind as a reminder that our best laid plans are often futile...we are not in control.


Those appointments that filled our calendars and days would never actually happen. During the time that we planned to spend anxiously awaiting Aaron's arrival, we would actually welcome him into the world, place him in the arms of surgeons, watch him slip from this life into eternity and plan his memorial service. In a small, private room of the CICU, I held him for the first time after the doctors let him go and in a quiet room of the funeral home, I held him for he last time. My heart knew that it was merely the shell of our sweet little guy, but how do you hand over your child when you know that it is the last time you will see him, most likely, in a very long time?  The next several weeks in the calendar are blank as is my memory of much of that time.  It still feels surreal.


Here I sit, almost a year later and on some days I am still in disbelief that our son was here...that he cried in the OR, that I got to peer into his eyes just once, and that we had him here with us for three whole days. On other days I struggle against the traumatic memories of the night we said goodbye.  Images I can't get rid of...nurses performing chest compressions, Aaron's blood covering the floor around his isolet, 'those words' spoken by our surgeon and the heartbreak and disbelief that this was our reality.  Mostly though, are the days that God lifts the burden of grief from my still broken heart. Over the past year, I have run the spectrum of clinging to Him with every fiber of my being to pushing away in anger, frustration and emotions too confusing for words. Yet He still extends His grace and love, compassion and guidance to me...me...me, who comes before Him with a heart that is understanding yet questioning, loving yet angry, soft yet calloused and bruised, healing but still broken. 


He reminds me that through suffering grows an enduring hope, a steadfast heart and a reliance on Him that I had never before known. I revel in the moments when His love and presence wash over me and quiet my aching heart, and once again, for awhile anyway, I am comforted that Aaron is healed and Aaron is home. 

Three Little Words.

I can't tell you the number of times I've sat down over the past couple months to write a post, just to end up sitting and staring at the screen, or typing and deleting...typing and deleting. No words seem right.  It's not that I don't have anything to say; truly, in this journey of grief there is no lack of thoughts, emotions or experiences to share. Honestly, I miss coming to this space for Aaron and pouring out my heart... I try to write, but only three words seem to make it onto the screen...I miss him. That's it. That's my heart. Those three simple words. They are just that, simple, yet it is so difficult to put into words the depth of hurt and sadness that those three words still encompass. I miss him.


Since my last post, Aaron's eight and nine month earthly and heavenly birthdays and the one year anniversary of his diagnosis have all come and gone. On these days, we have celebrated and remembered quietly, in our own way. It seems that this solitude in my grief is what my heart has needed lately. This privacy and quiet time, mixed with happiness, laughter, prayers and still some tears continue to restore my broken heart.


I received the link below from a wonderful friend today (thanks Jess!) and it inspired me to get back on here and to share it. I never knew that this incredible testimony accompanied this worship song that I love...her words speak so much truth into continuing to worship in the midst of tragedy and on this journey through grief...

 We miss you, sweet boy. 

Love you, always...

Possibility of Happiness

Last week, a friend sent along an email with the message down below. It was one of those "perfect words...perfect timing...that is exactly what I need to hear... right now" moments. It was someone else articulating the words that I have been grasping for; emotions and feelings that I have not been able to formulate into words lately. 


I have constantly been trying to keep my focus on where who my happiness and hope comes from, all the while still having too many moments of feeling defeated, heavyhearted and frustrated. I bask in the moments of clarity when I feel God taking the weight of worry, anxiety and sadness from my arms. He alone carries my burdens for me and I finally feel like I can breathe...deeply. It is freeing. It is healing. I wish I could figure out how to remain in this state- all the time- because the alternative isn't always pretty. There are many other moments when I want to scream out in anger, put my fist through a wall and have a tantrum about how unfair it is that our son is gone. 


I do know that life is not about fair. I also know that when I take my eyes off of the One who is my hope, it is during these times that frustration, envy, bitterness, anger and constant sorrow have a chance to sneak in and take over. I am okay with the tears and longing for Aaron...they are normal and healing, but the bitterness and anger only eat away at my already broken heart. Quite frequently lately, God has had to redirect my vision and my heart to find hope again. I don't wake up every morning dreading the day, but I do wake up knowing that every day, for the rest of my life, I will  wake up to the reality that our son is not here. That will never change. As far as this life is concerned, it is permanent and relentless. The words below describe so perfectly this place where I have recently been. It's a place where, at times, hope and happiness are both tangible and very present, while other days are devoid of anything resembling these. I know that somewhere in my future they are there... 

Possibilities of Happiness "I would imagine," a friend of mine said to me, sitting cross-legged on the floor, " that you're looking into the future and it's sort of yawning in front of you like a chasm from which there doesn't seem to be any exit." (If my friend sounds like he's using too many ten-dollar words for him to sound believable, know that he's a British Professor of Education. Armed with that knowledge, let's move on.) "You wake up every morning with the agonizing realization that there's no escaping it- you have to go through the entire day now. And when you lay down at night to cry, it's with the knowledge that you'll be doing all this again tomorrow, and the whole affair seems more than you're capable of dealing with." And I just sat there nodding, because - yes - that was exactly what it was like. I'd had people tell me it would get better, that they understood, and such. But here was someone articulating my experience much better than I'd been able. And, as he spoke, his voice cracked a bit. "Nothing helps right now," he continued, "But as long as you're alive, there is some future in which you could, conceivably, be happy. No matter how unlikely is seems now, the possibility for happiness is there. I've despaired, wanted to just fall asleep and never wake up, thought for certain that I'd never be happy again - but I always have been." I knew what he was talking about. He and his wife just adopted a three-year old boy, and sunshine seemed to follow this kid wherever he went. But I had seen the devastating losses and broken promises they'd endured - things that made my current circumstances look like an afternoon stroll.  "But how can I hope?" I asked. "I feel like I've got nothing left." "You don't have to," he said. "Hope doesn't come from you anyhow." "Let all that I am quietly wait before God, for my hope is in him. He alone is my rock and my salvation, my fortress where I will not be shaken" (Psalm 62:5-6).

Someday

As the days get longer and the warmth of the sunshine is stretched well into the evening hours, I miss our son even more. I miss the evening walks as a family that should have been. I miss our first spring days together in the warm sunshine and cool, crisp Colorado air. I miss watching him sleep soundly in our arms. I could go on forever...all of these "should have been moments" that we never got to experience with Aaron... I miss them as if they were a part of our life for as long as I can remember. 


They say that time heals all wounds; that it makes loss easier. I disagree. It doesn't heal the gaping hole that your child's death leaves behind. It doesn't make it easier, it makes it different. The longing, tears and sadness that used to consume every minute and every thought of every day after Aaron died are replaced by the true realization of what we are missing...of who we are missing. The grins, giggles and busyness of a sweet seven month old boy that should be filling our days never will. For some reason, now more than ever, this reality is setting into my heart... and it hurts.


A promise is all that carries me through this hurt. A promise that someday I will see this sweet face again. Of this, I am sure.

(Aaron at 1 day old...I think he would have enjoyed a pacifier from the looks of it. Thank you for the video Steve and Amy!)

Dreaming...

"Imagine a love so strong that saying hello and goodbye at the same time was worth the sorrow"

-Author Unknown

My heart is aching lately. I feel so broken. I miss Aaron. Everywhere I turn, I am reminded of him and of what we are missing. This sorrow isn't always evoked by something in particular, but this time it has been and I know the trigger all too well. I drifted into a dream. A dream of a future family and a healthy baby. I wondered what it is like to have a twenty week ultrasound with the words "four chamber heart" and "completely healthy". Of holding our child for the first time, alive; a child that we would actually get to bring home, love and experience.


...and then reality crept in... waking me up with a slap in the face... breaking my heart.... reminding me...


Just because we've been through what has felt like walking through hell and back over the past several months, we are not promised a perfect road ahead of us. At times it is easy to slip into the mindset that just because we have been through something that feels almost impossible at times, that the rest will be easy. Not true. God is faithful, but He doesn't always promise easy. Certainly, we look to the future with great hope and pray for these things...healthy future children, a family... but we are not naive. Nothing is guaranteed; we are not exempt. I see pregnant women in their often naive bliss (where I once was for a short time, as well) and to be honest, I'm slightly envious. I want that. I don't want to know what the other side looks like, but I do...all too well. I know that on the other side, babies die. Parents have to say goodbye to the tiny life that they have anticipated for months and have only just met. They experience the greatest joy and deepest sorrow almost simultaneously. It's not fair, but they do. 


I realize that I may come across as quite the pessimist in this post... I am not. These thoughts are simply the result of loss, grief and a step into a world which I was once oblivious to. We truly do look to the future with hope, but through a lens that has been permanently altered. I think about a future child and I am instantly taken back to the overwhelming joy of having Aaron and the sudden heartbreak of losing him. I know that God hears us in our brokenness, but the void that Aaron has left has nearly crushed me in the past several months. Can I handle that again if God calls us to walk through it? Can my heart be open and vulnerable to that depth of love once more, and possibly, that depth of heartbreak again? 


This is the uncertainty with which we face the future.  We drift into these dreams, yet in this grief, we find that even our dreams aren't safe from reality. 

Heart Work

It has been a long while since my last post in this little corner of the world. For those of you who still drop by for a read, thank you.  Intentionally lately, I've been quiet.  Although life has been anything but quiet, I've been trying to consciously give myself something I've desperately needed on so many levels...rest. Rest for my heart, for my mind and my body. Unfortunately, it doesn't mean that I've had an opportunity to take a hiatus from the responsibilities of life, but instead of publicly writing and being constantly surrounded by social media, I've spent more time reflecting, praying, focusing on our marriage, working out, (working), sleeping, reading and just being. Rest. This rest has provided me time to grieve privately....to let my emotions linger for a short while...to figure out where I am. Right here. Right now.

This respite from blogging doesn't mean that I'm moving on from Aaron or his absence in our life; it doesn't mean that I no longer miss him. In fact, those statements couldn't be further from the truth. For us, life looks and feels drastically different than it did even two months ago, but I miss him the same. Deep anguish and mourning now come and go rather than being ever-present on a daily or hourly basis; still, I desperately long to hold him and see the 6 month old boy he would be today. To hear his giggles...or his screaming and crying...would be music to my ears. Days of more sorrow than joy and the accompanying meltdowns still manage to make their appearance here and there, and it is in these times that I so selfishly want him here. But, in this rest, God has been fervently working on my heart.

During the past six months, so many of our prayers consisted not only of pleading for God to take our pain away, but simply to be able to feel His presence in our darkness. At times, it was unquestionable, unmistakable, that He alone was holding us up. During other times, I wondered how many more weeks it would be until I'd see His hand reaching down to pull us up for air from the storm in which we were slowly drowning. I look back and can see that God has been faithful, upholding His promise, and that in this rest He has been working on quite the project. He has been slowly...very, very slowly... healing a very broken heart. My own.

In this healing, I feel that He has melded a tiny part of my broken heart back together. Inscribed in this little piece is acceptance. No, not complete, consistent and pure acceptance that our son died, but a peace about this path that we walk. A peace in knowing that Aaron is not and will not suffer through this life which, no matter how many ways you attempt to look at it, would not have been easy, or fair. Acceptance that we prayed for healing...and that God chose the method. I'm learning what it is to ask for God's guidance, accept His answer and follow the path that He lays before us, regardless of the anger, fear, disagreement or heartbreak that may accompany it.  Even several weeks ago, I thought that achieving this feeling of acceptance...of peace and surrender... would forever be impossible. Yet, if even for only a short while, God has brought us to this place and given us a glimpse. He is faithful. 

As I drove home from work tonight, I thought about that night, six months ago, when we looked sweet Aaron in the eyes for the first time and said hello and, shortly after, held him as we said goodbye. While reminiscing, this song came on the radio and tears ran down my face...because of the words and because of the memory. Almost weekly during youth group worship in the many months that I carried Aaron, he heard me sing this, my hands on my belly, feeling him move and loving every minute of it. This song brings back some of my favorite, intimate moments with him... the closest I ever got to holding him and singing to him while he was on this earth. God gave us our beautiful son, and despite the road that he chose for us to walk... He loves us.

Oh, How He Loves Us...

To listen, first pause the music player on the right-hand side of the screen.

Interwoven

Last weekend we were fortunate to get away for a couples retreat through our church. As church volunteers, we were invited to go as 'test subjects' for this first ever couples retreat. We are blessed to be part of an incredible church, so we knew it would be good, but we still weren't quite certain of what to expect. Prior to going though, I was sure of one thing...we needed this. 


This ended up being good times with wonderful friends, laughter until we cried, quiet time with God and quality time with each other. It was gentle conversations as we walked through the woods, nestled in snow. It was reminiscing about where life has taken us in our ten years together and in four short years of marriage. It was tears for our family that "should be" and hope for the family that we pray "will be". It was food for our souls. This was our hearts feeling modestly full for the first time since we said goodbye.This was a little glimpse of healing. 


Last weekend made me stop and think about marriage and grief, and what life looks like when these two are intertwined. Grief marrying marriage. What does a marriage look like not with one spouse grieving and the other holding them up, but under the weight of two deeply grieving individuals? It looks like two people struggling to wade through their own emotions while trying to interpret the others, all the while attempting to keep each other and life afloat.  Widespread belief is that this leads to divorce...that it looks like anger, frustration, resentment, exhaustion... a divided couple. And yes, it is some of these things. It may be resentment that your spouse does not "seem" to be grieving. It may be frustration that they are able to laugh when you can't seem to find a reason to smile that day. It may be counseling sessions and tears over more than just the loss of your child. But, grief interwoven with marriage also looks like love, compassion, devotion, encouragement, unspoken understanding, and the profound bond of sharing one of life's most intimate, yet devastating and desolate moments...together. 


 "Welcoming" grief into our marriage over the past six months hasn't been easy. There have certainly been days when we would not want to have a light shined into our life and marriage for all to see. But, we are making it through and are stronger and closer that ever before because of it all. I know when we look back upon this journey some day, one thing, over all the others, will have carried us through. It is grace. God's grace for us and our grace for each other. Grace for the bad days and downright awful days, for the meltdowns from the tiniest of triggers, and for what seems like grieving too much or grieving too little. Grace for the times of unkind words, lack of compassion and emotional roller coasters.  Grace for being unorganized, exhausted and unlike our normal selves. Grace for this journey...for better or for worse, in good times and bad. Grace. 

Source

Grace...so undeserved, yet so needed. What a beautiful gift.