Blessings in the trial

Thursday night I attended a candle light vigil with a group called MEND- Mommies Enduring Neonatal Death. My mom described how we came to know of this group much better than I can, so here is her account:

Last Saturday, we went to the LDS Temple in Dallas as a family. It's a sacred place where we go to make covenants and promises to God, be married and we can go any time we feel like we want to feel closer to God.

After Kelly lost Brooklyn we felt like going to the temple would help give us peace and comfort and where we could pour out our hearts to God in giving us such a sweet baby, to thank Him for her and to ask for his healing on our hearts.

When we got there Erik and I thought that perhaps it would help Kelly to talk to someone in the temple presidency, typically wise, spiritual men and women who can give council and uplift others.

We looked all over for a person in the temple presidency. All of the workers wear name badges. If they are in the temple presidency or matrons their responsibility is listed under their name.

When Kelly and I were in the dressing room I finally found a woman who had a name badge on and under her name it said, "Assistant Matron". I gently spoke to her telling her that we had come to the temple for the first time after the death of our granddaughter and that my daughter was hoping to speak to someone who could give her some council and that she could share some of her sacred feelings with.

This lovely woman looked at us, comforted us, spoke with us and told us that her daughter was on the board of a group called MEND and that she had experienced 2 infant losses.

Our God is a God of love. He knows every sparrow and He knew our needs that day. He led us to find this woman in a sea of people so that Kelly could find this group.

It will forever be a blessing to us.

I felt prompted to go to this meeting. It was almost an hour drive to get to the church where it was held. When we arrived, there were tables set up in the entry with raffle tickets, a place to purchase memorial bricks, and a tshirt stand. Even though I haven't been to a meeting, I thought I should go buy a tshirt. I spoke with the woman at the stand, asking her about the shirts, our babies. As I paid and turned to leave, I told her, "It was nice meeting you, my name is Kelly." She said, "Oh, my name is Calli." I recognized her name from the paper the assistant matron had given me. I said, "Is your mom Sister O'Brien?!" She ran around the table to give me a hug. I had been lead right to her! If I hadn't been at the tshirt stand, I would never have found her in the crowd of more than 200 people. Our families even ended up sitting right next to each other in the auditorium. As I sat waiting for it to start, listening to the music, looking at the MEND sign, I felt the Spirit telling me I really need to be a part of this group. I've been searching for something meaningful and purposeful to do for Brooklyn. And for myself. I haven't been to a meeting yet, but I just know I have to. I don't know why exactly this group in particular, but I recognize the Lord telling me "Here! Here is where you should be. Go with this group of women." I can't wait to find out what he needs me to know and do with MEND.

The following day, Brooklyn's headstone was placed. I was so glad it turned out so beautifully, but in some ways it made her death so permanent. Like here are her remains. A baby lies under this dirt in a little white box. Sitting there staring at her name etched in stone hurt. I couldn't stop looking at her name- BROOKLYN. My baby. I miss her so fiercely. This grief has been coming in waves. Sometimes I think I am ok, and I feel guilty about that. I cried driving to the mall last week, thinking about how I didn't have to get her any Christmas presents. I felt a hole in my chest when I saw a pink sweater dress at Cracker Barrel. I felt like I was missing someone when I brought Caroline and Jack home today after our long weekend away. Jack keeps telling me, "We need Brooklyn." And we do. I need her. I need to hold her again, I need to see her open her eyes and look at me. When I first held her, I cried and cried, "I just want her to wake up." She looked so perfect, just like she was sleeping, like her spirit was still in there. 

Logan and I went to San Antonio for a weekend getaway. We have never been gone overnight together since Caroline was born. We stayed at the Hyatt, walked the river walk, visited the Alamo, went to the mall, the movies, ate way too much, and got some well needed rest. It felt so good to just be there for each other and focus on us. It was like being newlyweds again, and I realized how badly we've needed to do that. We both have been so caught up in work and kids the last few years. I realized that if it hadn't been for Brooklyn, we would never have made the trip which has strengthened our relationship and brought us closer. I felt her happiness that Logan and I were happy together. I feel her sadness that she is not with us right now. She wants to be with us, but she also knows our separation will be short. And I pray the time goes by quickly.

Caroline turned six yesterday. I can't believe how fast it has gone with her. She is such a precious jewel. She is sensitive and loving, smart and creative. She can be absentminded, but wants so badly to please and avoid mistakes. She is very sad her sister never got to come home. I know they have a special connection, written long before this life. I am so blessed to be their mother. 

Empty arms

Someone gave me a book called "Gone Too Soon." It's a book from an LDS perspective about losing babies. It explains some of the natural grieving process and described the need for a mother to hold something after losing her baby. Some mothers want to adopt a baby, a pet, or hold onto blankets. I've felt all of the above in the last three weeks. Tonight we met at my mom's for dinner. It felt like I should be on the couch with my baby in my arms while we talked and laughed. I could picture us passing her around to hold and feed because there is nothing like holding a new baby. That newborn period goes by so quickly, and soon those babies are getting into drawers or running off to the playroom to play with their cousins. I just terribly miss holding her in my arms, feeling her arms and hands, looking at her yellow hair.

We got photos back from the Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep photographer. I am thankful that he came and took pictures, even though it was the morning after the worst night of my life. The night Brooklyn was born, I hardly slept at all. The nurses gave me an Ambien, but I was sleeping for 20- 30 minutes at a time. I kept waking up and staring at this picture on the wall in the maternity recovery room. It was a large canvas closeup of a baby's hand. I was just so upset that I wasn't waking up to feed or soothe my newborn baby girl. My eyes were so swollen and I hadn't been out of the bed. The photos show how raw and real our loss was to us at the time. It still is. She looks so much like me in all the pictures.

I have felt her presence around me. This summer at BYU Education week, I took a class from Brent Top about the premortal life and one about the spirit world. He explained using teachings from the prophets that we were raised from spirit infancy to maturity in the home of Heavenly Father and Mother. When we are on earth, our spirits look like our bodies, but when we die, our spirits look like our adult form. When I have sensed Brooklyn, it is her adult form. She is beautiful, noble, and regal. But she is still mine. I miss having that experience with her as a baby. I loved watching Caroline and Jack as newborns. They were both so alert and wanted to take in everything around them. They both wanted to lift their heads and look around while we were still in the hospital. I loved watching their eyesight improve as they learned to recognize my face, watching those first smiles emerge, their fingers hold tight to mine. I am desperate for those moments with Brooklyn.

Nearly every day since we had to bury our precious baby I've had someone bring by a card, a meal, a gift. I have seen reminders of her every where. An hour hasn't gone by that I haven't thought of her. Tonight I was sad driving home from my mom's because I felt like a little carseat should be riding behind me in the van through the dark night as we went home. When we pulled up to the house, I could see a package on the front door step. Someone left me a small white statue of a mother holding her baby. It was left anonymously. I appreciate so much that people are still thinking about me and understanding my loss.

When we learned we were having a girl, my grandma wanted me to send her some pictures of quilts that I liked. She has made quilts for all the great-grandchildren. I looked on Pinterest and came across a quilt with strawberries on it. I just fell in love with it and could envision it on the wall in Brooklyn's bedroom while she was in her crib, then later on over her "big girl bed" as she got older. I imagined tucking her in underneath this strawberry quilt made by her Gigi. It isn't a typical baby themed quilt, but I wanted this quilt to last a while for her room. Last night my grandma told me that when I first told her it was the quilt I wanted, she didn't really understand why I wanted something that wasn't really a baby quilt. She started doing some research on strawberry folklore, what strawberries symbolized. She found the old Norweigian belief that when children die, their spirits hide in strawberries so that Frigga, Oden's wife, will gather them up and take them to heaven. In Christianity, strawberries symbolize righteousness and spiritual merit. Looking back, I definitely did not know those things about strawberries, but it is one of the things that foreshadowed Brooklyn's fate for me before she was born. As I think about those things I experienced while I was pregnant with her, I will include them in these journal posts. It seems morbid and sad, but like my grandmother said, perhaps God was preparing us a bit for what would happen to Brooklyn.

It certainly isn't a rare occurrence for families to lose their babies, but there is something about this trial that burns like white hot fire. It is a part of life to lose people to death. It certainly sends people through the refiner's fire. But I have found something sanctifying in my grief. I feel it has brought me closer to God. It has completely shifted my thinking about what is important, where I find my entertainment, how I want to raise my children, how I treat those around me. My spirit feels full, even though I am experiencing such a great loss. I think in the same way that I provided Brooklyn with her body, she is providing me with the experience to become a greater person, a better mother and wife. It is difficult to explain, but I have heard and read how other women have experienced the same thing. This grief brings you to the lowest point, but also some of the greatest blessings. It can be hard to see. I certainly don't feel that way all the time. But I see how good people are and how the Lord is using those people to bless and comfort me. I think and hope I will be able to do that for others in the future.

I feel like I've been doing better. With the help of a Diet Dr Pepper, I got my living room and kitchen clean and laundry just about caught up this morning. I've been spending time at my mom's house while my grandma is here for Thanksgiving. I've been working on my church foyer decor for the Christmas program. So, I am doing normal things, but still not feeling emotionally back to normal, although I am feeling better. I know this is a journey. There will be good days and bad. I'm still not down to having an entirely good day or an entirely bad day. And that's ok.

I was at Target today buying some boots I couldn't stop thinking about for a few days. That's when you know something should be yours. Jack was with me, being mostly good in the cart. I headed to the back of the store, passing by the baby section. The spot I bought those last few things for Brooklyn before she was born. I saw a precious rose print pajama I would have bought for her right away. Then I saw another mom pushing a stroller with twin newborns inside. They were asleep, and seeing them hit my heart like a ton of bricks. I wasn't expecting to feel sad, but their sweet sleeping faces reminded me that I wasn't pushing my baby in the cart. The hot tears started to well up, until Jack threw something out of the back of the cart and snapped me back to reality. I know those moments will come. And I hope Brooklyn is near me when they do.

Doing Hard Things

Rachael invited me to meet her at the park today with the kids after school. I thought that I really should get the kids out of the house and into the sunshine today. The weather has been nice, and my kids need some time outdoors, so I started getting them ready. Rachael let me know that there were some other moms from church there in case I didn't feel like going. I don't want to hide from people. I cannot let myself become a recluse, and without forcing myself too much, I felt this would be a good baby step. As I drove closer to the park, I could feel my anxiety kick in. What would the other moms say to me? Would they say anything at all? I've never really been a part of the group of other moms to young kids around here because I've worked. But all these girls sent me sympathy cards, donated to our headstone fund online, brought meals over, or helped with the funeral luncheon. I know they care about me and know to a degree how I am feeling. I was afraid of being ignored and afraid of being talked to at the same time.

Walking into the park felt a little like my first trip into public after Brooklyn died. We had gone to Target the day before her funeral, and I walked around the store like a zombie. But inside I was screaming. I wanted to yell at perfect strangers for not caring that my baby just died. I wanted to yell at the mom who let her 3 or 4 year old daughter scream through the entire store. I wanted to lay down and cry, but I had things to get to wear to the funeral. But most of all, I felt like everyone in the store was staring at me. Some people looked at me with sympathy, some looked at me like I was crazy or about to fall down. I probably looked like a pathetic mess, just having a c-section 4 days before, in pain, drained of emotion and brimming over with it all at once. I didn't feel as horrible walking into the park today, but I did feel like everyone was looking at me. There were 4 or 5 other moms there with all of their kids. Before all of this happened to me, I would have no clue what to say to a mother in my shoes. I could sense that they weren't sure what to say to me. I talked to Rachael mostly, but eased into regular conversation with a few other moms. One mom got up and gave me a hug and said she was glad to see me. That made me feel acknowledged without making a big scene in public.

I know that I will hear things for the rest of my life that bring the sting of grief close to the surface. I know that no one says things to be purposefully hurtful. I know people will feel they have to be careful about what they say around me about babies, being pregnant, or giving birth or dying. I'm hoping this feeling of being an outsider doesn't last forever. One mom, who just had her 4th baby in 6 years, mentioned having to take her baby to date night with her. She innocently remarked, "He refuses to take a bottle. It's my life's dream to have him take a bottle!" I smiled, but something on my face must have revealed my inner thought: "It's my life's dream to have my baby here with me instead of in the ground." She laughed for a split second and the thought must have crossed her mind that the comment might be hurtful to me because she stopped smiling and changed the subject quickly. I don't blame her at all because I know I've made comments just like that, remarking how I wish my baby did this or that, how sick I felt during a pregnancy, how much I needed a break from being a mom for a few hours. I am only 17 days out from the worst day of my life, so I am hoping doing simple things like taking kids to the park and visiting with other moms becomes easier for me.

One thing I know that will never be easy for me is hearing, as I heard across the park today, another mom calling to her baby, "Brooklyn!Brooklyn!" I had forgotten that one of the moms who I hadn't seen in a while had a baby named Brooklyn. She is a blonde haired, blue eyed little thing, maybe 12 or 18 months old. I was able to keep calm at the park, but my tears did flow while I drove home. I wanted to drive right over to the cemetery, sit on her bench, and cry my eyes out. But I have two other children who wanted dinner, so home I went.

 I know that doing hard things will become easier for me. I hope the pain becomes easier to bear. I hope the emptiness I feel in my arms from time to time goes away. I hope the feeling of having forgotten or lost something important goes away. I can still feel the weight of her tiny body, bundled up in the sweet pink blanket in my arms, but the weight of this grief is so much heavier.

Reminders

Everyone keeps telling me that time will make this better. I know they aren't lying or telling me something that isn't true, but time feels different now. I've never been a person to "waste" a day. I hate letting a day go by without a to-do list. It's probably come from the fact that my schedule has been full for nearly half of my life with working, going to school, and then working at schools. I knew when I quit my job earlier this year that life was going to slow down and I would have more time to spend as a mother. That was my dream. It still is. This is just a much different version than I imagined even just a few weeks ago. The therapist I met with explained that I am having a hard time putting this grief thing into perspective because I am used to having this work ethic that, until now, has been working out really well for me. I've balanced working, mothering, homemaking, building my talents, etc. But there isn't a to-do list for grief. There isn't one way to do it, no manual or YouTube video or Pinterest tutorial on how to make your way through the mountain of feelings after you lose your baby. She encouraged me to go easy on myself, let myself have days where I do nothing if that is what I need. She said I need to "nourish" myself. When she asked me what I did to nourish myself, I cried. I couldn't even remember a hobby or interest I had! Grief has made it hard for me to think as quickly as I am used to, but I slowly remembered things that made me feel good. But as I remembered things, my "projects" as Logan refers to them, I felt sad. I'm still healing physically, so I couldn't see myself refinishing any furniture or painting the bathrooms or rearranging Caroline's bedroom, all things I told myself this summer that I would get to do once Brooklyn was born and we'd made it out of the first months of the newborn stage. I remember having Caroline, just a few months old, in a bouncer seat in the hallway of the Stanley Falls house as I repainted the hall bath six years ago. Giving life to my house and making it my own has been "my thing" since college! When I was on bed rest from October 14 until October 29, I mentally tortured myself with my self-imposed to-do list. I had never gotten around to painting Brooklyn's room or making it a sweet baby friendly room. I had been trying to find a sweet little rocker to put in the corner near the crib, picturing myself rocking this baby, singing to her. I found one that would have been perfect on a yard sale site, but the lady was asking $80 for it, and I just couldn't bring myself to spend that on a used rocker. It was a creamy white with light green toile print. It would have been perfect. The day after Brooklyn died, the lady messaged me saying she would take $50 for it, and I could barely see the screen or make my fingers type out, "We actually found what we needed. Thanks anyway." I guess the point of all this is that nighttime and putting Jack and Caroline to bed has been hard for me. My heart just knows there is one more person who needs putting to bed. One more song to sing, one more cheek to kiss. And then the house is quiet. My mind, usually finally at rest for the day, thinks about the room up there, waiting to be dismantled. Her dresser is full of clothes, mostly hand-me-downs from Caroline, but each precious outfit washed a few weeks ago as I imagined a new girl filling them up. As I folded, I held a few up to my chest to remember what it was like to have such a small baby and remembering Caroline in each precious dress or pajama. I put tiny diapers in her closet, hoping we would be able to afford to put diapers on three little bottoms every night, thankful for the boxes I'd received from my mom and grandma. Two days before she was born, I bought new crib sheets and swaddle bundles at Target. I felt like after two babies, I could finally be confident in those first few days after bringing her home. I pictured her in the swaddle sack, sleeping peacefully in her crib while I played with Jack in the playroom a few feet away. At the hospital, I just dreaded coming home. I dreaded going into her room. I dreaded seeing all the things I had prepared just for her. My sisters and their husbands had come to our house before I came home and put every trace of baby preparations in her closet and room. It wasn't until yesterday that I made myself go in there. It seemed so bare until I opened the closet. It's packed nearly to the ceiling with all the baby gear and things I was going to need for her. I shut the door and walked out. I've been up and down the stairs since, but the closed door reminds me each time I pass of what is behind it. An empty crib. Sweet sleepers she will never wear. A room that never got decorated for her. It feels like this giant hole has been blown into the side of my dream house, the house that I never got to bring her home to, the home Logan and I bought with intentions of filling up all the bedrooms with babies we would love forever. We will love Brooklyn forever, but her absence has created an incredible void. I'm trying to go easy on myself and not put any limits on what my grief will or won't do. We visited her grave yesterday, and I felt peace. And then I felt it was so wrong that my baby is in the ground. And then I couldn't believe I was sitting there in a cemetery instead of in my baby's room on a white toile rocker. I shed a few tears for her and for myself. During the day today, I was ok. Jack was insistent on being no less than five feet away from me since 5:30 this morning, so I was focused on keeping him entertained and slowly tackling my to-do list. I did a few loads of laundry, made an appointment with the cardiologist, cleaned the playroom. The old me wouldn't really call that totally productive, but it's more than I've done in weeks. It felt good to get a few things done and feel like I was doing my part while Logan was at work. When Logan got home, he brought the mail in. There were five cards from people who are thinking of us, including two from students I taught last year. One of my favorite students I've ever had, Natalie Knight, sent me a card, along with a letter from her mom. They lost a baby two years ago, and when I was thinking about letting everyone know about Brooklyn, I thought about Natalie. It isn't easy to teach 4th graders to write, but she has this natural gift. Last year she wrote an essay about her sister Olivia and how her most precious object was a picture of her. I cried and cried as I read her essay early this year. Her mother, Angie, wrote me a precious letter of encouragement. I felt so thankful to have been Natalie's teacher. And I suddenly really missed teaching. It's been almost six months since school ended, and I haven't missed it at all until tonight. I am realizing this whole grief experience is taking me through an emotional tornado, not to mention postpartum hormones. Some days I think I am ok, but it falls apart at night after I put my first two babies to sleep. But I do see the silver linings through all these clouds. I see the people God has placed along my way who are helping to bear me up. I see the acts of service given to our whole family. I see reminders of Brooklyn and feel that she would not want me to be so grief stricken that I cannot find happiness or see me become a different person entirely. She would want me to be happy, but without her, that is going to be so very hard.

The Before and After

I never thought I would be joining this club. I was already a part of the the infertile mom for a few years, then the 60-hour-a-week-working-mom club for many years, the unemployed mom club for a short time. But here I am. A new member of the mother-to-stillborn-baby club. And I wouldn't wish a membership to this club on any person. Ever. My therapist said beginning a blog would be good for me, and I knew even while still in the hospital that getting back to a little writing might be helpful. But with this story, it's hard to know where to begin. Right now my life feels divided into one great "before" and "after" since losing my Brooklyn. Every problem I felt I had before October 29, 2016 seems so insignificant, so stupid although at the time the ache I felt with each big problem was very real. Every day since then feels like a huge weight and a giant hole in my chest at the same time. 

Everywhere I look are reminders that I am missing my baby, my perfect angel who was born without a single physical flaw. Her little body was so perfect that I couldn't bear to let the doctors perform an autopsy to possibly give us answers as to why her heart stopped working so suddenly, just minutes before they could perform the emergency c-section. I held her body all six days before we buried her. I tried to take in all 7 pounds, 4 ounces of her, every blonde hair, memorize her little button nose, tried to burn every detail of her into my brain so I would never forget the physical sensation of holding her in my arms. I never did see what color her eyes were, but something tells me they would have been blue. In those first hours I felt if I could cry enough, wish hard enough, have enough faith that she would just wake up. 

I dreaded the day we buried her because it would be the last day I had something physical to hold on to. Letting my husband take her from my arms and place her body into her small white casket for the last time was one of the hardest things I've ever done. My life took a jarring turn down a road I was not prepared to take. I believe that our Heavenly Father knows us perfectly. He formed our spirits, raised us in his holy home with our Heavenly Mother until our spirits reached maturity. I keep wondering why, if He knows me and knows how I am emotionally structured, that losing a child was one of my worst fears from before I ever gave birth to my first child, why would he do this to me? Why would He take my baby back home when it would wreck and devastate me? I've always felt that God is in perfect control of who is born, when they are born, the families they are born into, and when and how a person dies. He knows exactly what mortal experience each of us needs. I knew my first two children were meant for me to raise, sent to me when our family was ready. I know I do not have to figure out answers to everything right away, or ever, actually. I've been trying to make sense of why I never got to take Brooklyn home. When I look back at my life so far and try to find a theme of what God may be trying to teach me, the answer comes back to me, "Trust Him." That answer is so easy and so hard at the same time. I believe I will see Brooklyn again, and I will still be her mother and be allowed to raise her in my own home. But the wait until that time seems so long and looms in front of me like my own personal Everest. I've never been good at waiting. At times I don't even know how to get up off the ground and take the first step up that mountain. I am going to need so much heavenly help. 

There is hope in my story. There is praise and thanks for spiritual blessings and the outpouring of love from everyone we know. I can't possibly tell all of that in one blog post. Grief doesn't allow you to feel all of those things when you feel like it, and I've learned I cannot control this grief. I can channel it, I can nourish myself. And all the while I am on this journey through grief, I will carry my Brooklyn with me.