I feel like every April, I am caught between two days. The 17th when our son died, and the 19th when our son was born silent. Sometimes, I don't know which day I should devote my grief into. Both dates hold significant meaning to me, but no one understands this, at least not quite like my heart.
Seven years ago today, April 17th, our precious little boy passed away. At the time, I straddled the fence of reality. I knew I had not felt my little boy kick me as much, but reasoned that perhaps it was just a sleepy day for him. My heart knew differently. In my spirit, I knew something was not right. I had an overwhelming sense of grief, but also rationalized that it was the result of that day's news ~ the college shooting.
Trying to sleep that night was miserable for me. I poked, I prodded, I did everything I could to arouse some kind of reaction from our son still within my womb. I ate a candy bar and drank some orange juice only to feel...stillness.
I was scheduled for a check up appointment with my obstetrician the next morning. I felt a fleeting moment of relief when I thought I had felt our son move when I was dropping our children off at school. I was wrong. The appointment that morning changed my life.
The Doppler on my stomach produced no sound. The ultrasound showed no beating heart like it had just four days earlier. I was crushed. Although my doctor wanted to admit me immediately to deliver our deceased son, I knew I could not do this until I sat down and told our son and daughter. I knew this was a task that only I could do. I wanted to be there and in some small way take their fear and grief away from them. They were hearing the news that their brother had passed away and now, their mother would be hospitalized. Not easy news for a seven and five year old to comprehend. It wasn't easy for me to comprehend!
The next morning, April 18th, I entered the hospital and the labor process was started. I didn't know what to expect. At almost nineteen weeks gestation, would my labor be as hard? would I need pain relief? How would I handle this emotionally when I finally held the limp body of my dead son? I was emotionally distraught and felt so inadequate when faced with the difficulties of that day.
Our son was silently and peacefully born in the early hours of April 19th. I can still see his tiny hand wrapped around my finger. I still remember my husband holding him and gazing back at me with tears in his eyes. I was mistaken when I thought, "maybe we can begin our healing now". I have never been so mistaken!
Instead of holding my son and giving him a wonderful birthday party, his life is reduced to a box that I brought home from the hospital. The hat he should have worn, a blanket, the bracelets that were worn and the measuring tape that was used to measure his tiny, yet fully developed body.
Each year, I think it should be easier and in some ways, it does become easier in respects that I know what to expect. I know not to plan things for those three days. I made the tragic mistake of coloring my hair one year and was reduced to tears sitting in the salon chair. What I thought would be a welcomed diversion, was actually too much for me to emotionally handle.
I think every parent that has lost a child carries guilt that their grief has not resolved because society makes us feel we should have moved on ~ sometimes as soon as weeks after the death. Society just doesn't understand. One of my favorite bible scriptures is Psalms 34:18. "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and he saves those whose spirits have been crushed." This gives me the comfort in knowing that God places no expectations on my grief. He simply is close to me when I do feel it. Might sound strange, but I find great peace and joy in knowing this.
I may not know which day to grieve, but I do know that God is near me when I do. I know that when I need to cry, to throw a pillow, to be quiet, or to laugh during these three days...God understands! When everyone else may not want to be around me, God draws near me. I find no greater joy in knowing that my heavenly father knows me, understands me, and even in my ugliest of cries...wants to be near me!
Seven years ago today, April 17th, our precious little boy passed away. At the time, I straddled the fence of reality. I knew I had not felt my little boy kick me as much, but reasoned that perhaps it was just a sleepy day for him. My heart knew differently. In my spirit, I knew something was not right. I had an overwhelming sense of grief, but also rationalized that it was the result of that day's news ~ the college shooting.
Trying to sleep that night was miserable for me. I poked, I prodded, I did everything I could to arouse some kind of reaction from our son still within my womb. I ate a candy bar and drank some orange juice only to feel...stillness.
I was scheduled for a check up appointment with my obstetrician the next morning. I felt a fleeting moment of relief when I thought I had felt our son move when I was dropping our children off at school. I was wrong. The appointment that morning changed my life.
The Doppler on my stomach produced no sound. The ultrasound showed no beating heart like it had just four days earlier. I was crushed. Although my doctor wanted to admit me immediately to deliver our deceased son, I knew I could not do this until I sat down and told our son and daughter. I knew this was a task that only I could do. I wanted to be there and in some small way take their fear and grief away from them. They were hearing the news that their brother had passed away and now, their mother would be hospitalized. Not easy news for a seven and five year old to comprehend. It wasn't easy for me to comprehend!
The next morning, April 18th, I entered the hospital and the labor process was started. I didn't know what to expect. At almost nineteen weeks gestation, would my labor be as hard? would I need pain relief? How would I handle this emotionally when I finally held the limp body of my dead son? I was emotionally distraught and felt so inadequate when faced with the difficulties of that day.
Our son was silently and peacefully born in the early hours of April 19th. I can still see his tiny hand wrapped around my finger. I still remember my husband holding him and gazing back at me with tears in his eyes. I was mistaken when I thought, "maybe we can begin our healing now". I have never been so mistaken!
Instead of holding my son and giving him a wonderful birthday party, his life is reduced to a box that I brought home from the hospital. The hat he should have worn, a blanket, the bracelets that were worn and the measuring tape that was used to measure his tiny, yet fully developed body.
Each year, I think it should be easier and in some ways, it does become easier in respects that I know what to expect. I know not to plan things for those three days. I made the tragic mistake of coloring my hair one year and was reduced to tears sitting in the salon chair. What I thought would be a welcomed diversion, was actually too much for me to emotionally handle.
I think every parent that has lost a child carries guilt that their grief has not resolved because society makes us feel we should have moved on ~ sometimes as soon as weeks after the death. Society just doesn't understand. One of my favorite bible scriptures is Psalms 34:18. "The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and he saves those whose spirits have been crushed." This gives me the comfort in knowing that God places no expectations on my grief. He simply is close to me when I do feel it. Might sound strange, but I find great peace and joy in knowing this.
I may not know which day to grieve, but I do know that God is near me when I do. I know that when I need to cry, to throw a pillow, to be quiet, or to laugh during these three days...God understands! When everyone else may not want to be around me, God draws near me. I find no greater joy in knowing that my heavenly father knows me, understands me, and even in my ugliest of cries...wants to be near me!