Infant Loss

Christmas Eve

~ lovingbrielle ~ Leave a comment

Christmas Eve marked six weeks since Brielle was born. And for Christmas Eve Mt. Paran hosted a candelight service. Curious about this type of service we decided to attend as a family, and David and I decided there really could be no better way to honor Brielle.

I knew it would be hard. I’ve yet to make it inside the church since Brielle died. Not because I didn’t want to, but because I can’t bare to be there without her. She loved church and it breaks my heart to not feel her happy wiggles. Each week I get closer. Last week I made it to the parking lot and then broke down in tears. We went home.

This week I managed a tight smile to the many attendants, a whispered, “Merry Christmas” and I made it all the way through the first song before I couldn’t bare it anymore.

I didn’t leave. As the choir sang a chilling version of “Mary Did You Know” I dug my nails into my palms and bit my tongue. Anything to keep the tears from coming. They came anyway. I am not weepy, I was not raised to be, and it is contrary to who I am. And yet these tears fell out, no sobbing or sniffling, just tears falling before I could feel them build in my eyes.

I tried not to listen, but song after song was about birth and welcoming a newborn. I turned to David and whispered, “this is torture.” He asked if I wanted to leave, but no. My curiosity had lured me here and I was determined to satisfy it.

I endured. I put on the coldest face I could muster and did my best to turn off every emotion that bubbled to the surface.

And the service was beautiful. The music, the organ, everything. Dr. Cooper spoke about reflecting light, specifically Jesus’s light. And I found myself thinking about Brielle and her life, wondering how I could reflect her light, her beauty, without destroying it with controversy.

As the service began to end, candles began to be lit one by one, neighbor to neighbor. The electrical lights were dimmed and candlelight began to fill the room. At this moment I was grateful we were sitting in the back, visualizing the message through a metaphor was deeply moving.

The service was wonderfully tortuous. Beautiful and happy for everyone else and a reminder of everything I’ve lost. I tell myself I’m fine. I delude myself into thinking the pain isn’t that bad, but Christmas has a special way of displaying grief in a horrifically spectacular way. And I’m not sure which is better, delusional or despondent? Regardless, I will hurt for now, but I hold onto the hope that it will get easier. And that’s okay, I’ll eventually be okay. But for now, I need to be sad. I need to grieve Brielle.

Trusting God Through the Pain

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When I found out I was pregnant, I was beyond excited. Not just for the obvious reasons. Last Thanksgiving we got the call that my Papa’s cancer had moved to his brain and was quickly growing and he would have to be put on hospice. A year ago today, my Dad and I drove to Arkansas to help take care of him. For the next month my family helped take care of him. It was a very difficult December, to say the least, and a couple of days after we had our Christmas with him, he passed away. I wasn’t looking forward to my first Christmas without my Papa, but I was going to have a sweet new baby for Christmas. God had blessed me with a special gift that I’d treasure, that would bring joy to not only me, but my family as well for Christmas.

One of my first thoughts when I found out Brielle had anencephaly was, “What kind of sick joke is this?” To take my Papa and my daughter away from me within a year of each other, on Christmas? What kind of sick God does something like that? I was angry, but mostly deeply, maddeningly hurt. I’m still not sure why God gave us a baby on the first try, that would be born around the holidays, and then die. I hurt, but that anger and hurt aren’t at or from God anymore.

I have a lot of confusion, one day I’ll come to terms with everything. For now, I feel like an open bursting wound. And I hate it. I hate that this is happening now, at Christmas, one of my favorite times of the year. I love Christmas and this is too much.

While I hate all this pain, I’m not going to let it consume me. We get to choose how we handle what the world throws at us. We don’t get to choose what happens in our life, but our attitude we do get to control. David and I won’t be miserable, we’re going to grieve, but we’re not going to live in darkness.

This weekend is David’s birthday. We’re going to see The Nutcracker, take a Christmas historic home tour in Marietta, take the dogs to the farmers market in the square. I’m going to wear myself out and we’ll end up watching a funny movie to distract us from the grief of watching families with young children.

We’ll lean on each other and lift the other up when we’re too deep in grief. We’ll think about how happy Brielle is. We’ll remind each other that we’re not grieving Brielle’s fate, we’re grieving our own. The loss of a perfect baby that was too good for our world. We’ll have a bittersweet weekend.

I’ve said this over and over again, but I cannot stress it enough, the loss of Brielle is horrific, but her life was not. We crammed a lifetime into her ten months here with us. She was the greatest light we ever knew, she brought more joy into this world than we could ever imagine. I’m not going to let that be overshadowed by my pain. I don’t know God’s plan, but I know her story isn’t over. I’m just along for the ride, and I’ll constantly seek out ways to honor Brielle’s legacy. She’s too wonderful not to.

Putting Brielle’s Room Together

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Room inspiration for Brielle’s nursery. Photo credit here.

My parents and I have bought Brielle a few outfits. And I’ve hung them up in her closet. I originally thought this would make me sad. Wouldn’t it be heartbreaking to go into a room that was supposed to be hers and it go unused? Or to look into a closet that was filled with her things and know she’ll never use them? So I didn’t go into her room for weeks. I didn’t put her nursery together and I didn’t hang things in her closet. And then I did.

I’d stand there with a huge smile on my face, looking at her frilly outfits that she probably wont fit into and really not caring if she did or didn’t. David would come in and join me and we’d laugh about how cute she’d look with her beautiful smile and a ruffly dress with a big bow on her small little head. We’d stand there and happily dream about a future with her.

I decided I wasn’t going to let her room sit empty. It’s still her room. We even call it Brielle’s room. So we’re going to hire painters and paint it for her. I’ll leave the guest bed in there, because we’ll need it and I didn’t plan on putting her crib together until she was older anyways. I’ll buy her bookshelves for her books. And keep her special blankets and toys in her room too. It feels wrong not to.

I think about when her younger sibling comes someday and telling them, “This was Brielle’s room, but we didn’t finish it.” And I don’t like that train of thought. I like the idea of saying. This is where we hoped to bring your big sister. Here are her footprints and this blanket was made special just for her. I imagine showing them who she was and what she was like.

I imagine the days after she’s died, sitting in her room and looking at her cute little things and thinking, she lived, she mattered. Maybe not for long, but she was real. I like the idea of having proof that my daughter existed and meant the world to David and I. We’ve let her fill every nook and cranny of our lives. Why would we let an unused room that we pass every single day go untouched by her?

Grief’s Women

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“I have these people in my life, in abundance. You do too, even if you don’t know about it. Women who have had miscarriages, stillbirths, who have lost infants, women who have struggled through infertility, those who still struggle through it and those who have finally given up on the dream of having biological children. Women whose babies have been diagnosed with hard medical things, in the womb or out of it. Women whose grief is not related to their children but who struggle to parent under the weight of something else. The list is even longer than that and includes so many different circumstances and trials and heartaches. Grieving moms and grieving women – they are literally everywhere. We should be better at loving them.

We should talk about grief. We should ask questions and listen to peoples’ answers. We should get better at loving people who are going through hard things. We shouldn’t forget them or be afraid of their sadness or let them feel alone or inconvenient. We should be as good at mourning with our friends as we are at rejoicing with them.

It should be easy because we love them.”

One of the things that has made me proud of Brielle’s life is that so many have felt safe to open up and talk about their grief. I hope that we can be more transparent and open with hardship. I don’t believe we do ourselves any favors by hiding our pain or grief, because more often than not, the person next to you is burdened with similar pain. We shouldn’t go through life alone and we shouldn’t carry our burdens alone.

http://www.coffeeandcrumbs.net/blog/2015/8/19/what-to-say-to-a-grieving-mom

Resources for Friends & Family

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I wanted to share this link with family and friends. It’s a resource for family and friends affected by anencephaly. I know that a lot of times no one knows what to say or do and David and I don’t have the strength to help others while we go through this ourselves. So maybe this will be of some help to our family and friends as we all go through this.

http://www.anencephalie-info.org/e/family.php