I'm not okay, I swear it.

 Disclaimer: The title "I'm not okay, I swear it", is to explain that unlike a lot of women that can make the step of returning to work after four to six weeks, I cannot. It does not mean I'm going to harm myself. It does not mean that I'm not going to continue to heal through all of this. Please understand that, sweet readers. I'm "okay" in Christ, but "Ashley" is struggling...and I'm making the steps to continue allowing Him to be my healer. This is a glimpse into the dark side of grieving, but I am not letting it consume me. I am not letting it win. Thank you. - Ash

When I was thirteen, I began cutting myself.

I'd use razors usually, though I'd also scratch until my arms were sore.

My acts were partly peer led, and partly self-soothing. If you aren't a former cutter, you can't understand the euphoric peace that floods across your body the minute you drag the blade against your skin. I would often run my fingers across my scabs and torn skin, loving that my pain could be manifested into a physical representation. Somehow, in a ceremonial way, I felt that I was releasing all of the negativity that weighed me down.

This wasn't true, of course. I was using avoidance through self-harm. Instead of facing the disgustingly ugly truth of my emotional pain, I preferred to distract with physical pain instead. Instead of processing through why I hated myself and dealing with my raging emotions, I stuffed them inside with cuts to my arms.

After I found God, I completely stopped cutting. He took those emotions I'd been feeling, and He channeled them to the foot of the cross. I can safely say that managing my emotions has been a beautiful work in progress since my Jesus accepted me into His family. Until I could experience that dance of healing, the change wouldn't take place. I was simply lost in my own bloodletting.

**

There is a certain culture I've witnessed in the Christian grief community. Noticeably, a Christian mourner is less likely to go off of a deep end than someone who has nothing to hope in. This is understandable. In ways, it's beautiful. Yet in other ways...it puts this insane pressure on the Christian mourner. Also, simply knowing who Our Father is, we are expected to be strong because our strength is in Him. To show any less is a disgrace to His healing power. One can't be a witness to His power if we appear powerless, can we?
For me personally, at times I've questioned the "Christianess" of me. I was watching A Duggar Loss, which showed The Duggar Family discovering their 17 week old baby's heartbeat had stopped. As soon as the ultrasound tech confirmed that she didn't see a heartbeat, Jim Bob and Michele immediately quoted "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord." I was shocked. Honestly, it confused me. Though after this was spoken, significant tears began to fall...it still baffled me; the automatic, almost robotic response. I don't begrudge the Duggars of this. I think they are living, walking examples of unshakeable faith in God. But I could not do that immediately. Ever.

Here is where my problem lies. Though my faith is unshakeable, my flesh isn't. While so many people have responded after grief with joy as an automatic response...that's something I simply struggle to do fifty percent of the time. Though I know my Carlie Wren is in heaven, and had a better Tuesday than I'll ever have this side of heaven...I struggle back and forth between being devastated and joyous about this. I've read perspectives from Christian bloggers who speak of returning to work in four weeks. I so long to be like that. I long to get past all of this, so I can move forward and not feel like the slightest push toward taking a step sends me into an anxiety attack. Does the fact that I'm struggling more than "most" Christian women mean that there is something inherently, spiritually wrong with me? I'm too weak, where other women have been so very strong, right?

Is the picture of me, completely, a picture of God and His strength? Or can I simply not shake these things aside because I'm simply not strong enough in my faith? I don't know the answer, but I can't help but envy these women who move forward quickly; who can compartmentalize grief and daily life and somehow come out more content than they were.

So, this is what I do know. 

The following is my own raw, beautiful wreckage that Carlie Wren left behind.

My name is Ashley Calvert. I have been off of work since July 10th, when I was admitted into the hospital due to incompetent cervix. What I thought was a routine check up turned into one of the scariest moments of my life: knowing I was dilated; knowing it was too soon for her to survive. We prayed til we couldn't form words anymore, and I fought against infection and bleeding.

Fourteen days later, I laid my baby girl to rest. I couldn't leave her graveside, and a huge, bloody hole has been punched in my chest since July 21, 2012 when she was born into heaven. I am a mother, but my arms are empty.

I tried to go back to work on August 6th, but the Wednesday before, I had my first post-partum appoitment with my doctor. She strongly suggested I take more time. When I had three more break downs that day, I realized she was right.

I tried to go back to work a second time on July 27th. I lasted about two and a half hours before my husband had to come get me. Everything in the office was a trigger. From the people I'd previously talked to about my pregnancy, to seeing tiny, pen-scratched numbers on Wednesdays of each week on my desk calendar, marking how many weeks I was along. I angrily whited out the numbers, and when I came to November 28th, with DUE DATE written in huge letters and circled, I lost it.

I've developed anxiety attacks about returning to work. I had my first counseling session today.
I'm taking anti-anxiety medication to help with the bouts of anxiety. I've been on them since I was in the hospital. I've had thoughts on four occasions of overdosing on pills, though I am always able to rationalize my thoughts out of that valley. Before all of this, I was a very care-free individual. Even in my darkest days before I got saved, I'd never had suicidal thoughts.

 I haven't had a normal sleeping schedule since before I entered the hospital. Even now as I type, it's nearly 2:30 a.m. I've been on sleeping pills since the hospital, too. Some nights they work. Some nights they don't.

I worship to my very core these days. This experience has made heaven a tangible place for me, not something merely pushed to the back of my head. During times of worship, I almost feel I can reach out and grasp it with my bare hands. I long for my heavenly home as I long for breathing.Worship has become one of my favorite things to do.
I read my Bible with passionate longing.
I have floating ideas in my head of ways I want to help women who are/were in my shoes. If I don't do some of these soon, I might explode.
I dream a million, trillion times bigger than before. I lack the blind naivety I had at one time that "everything will work out." My eyes are wide open instead. I prefer it this way.
I love my husband harder.
I love my husband for who he is, not for what he does or doesn't do. It's amazing what you learn about a person in the midst of a horrible crisis.
I know the next child we have will be the luckiest child within a 200 mile radius, because we are going to be good parents. We are going to love that child like our lives depend on it. After a day of work when we're too tired, we will still get up and play outside. We will remember absence, and we will remember being full. We will be such a beautifully wonderful family.

Until then, I'm left trying to build a masterpiece out of the wreckage.

 Through my brokeness, might you rise me up again, Lord? Might I achieve the joy that surpasses all understanding once again? Can you make a beautiful story out of the mess that is me? I fear I fail you with my weakness. 

  So for the sake of Christ, I am well pleased and take pleasure in infirmities, insults, hardships, persecutions, perplexities and distresses; for when I am weak [in human strength], then am I [truly] strong (able, powerful in divine strength).

- 2 Corinthians 12:10, Amplified

31 Days - (Day -1 to 5)

{Day -1 (July 20th):
 I had a fitful night. I didn't feel like I was in my right mind, honestly. It had been ten days since I was admitted into the hospital. The emotional toll of everything was beginning to wear on me, and the doctors were concerned I would get an infection. We found out this morning that, where originally Carlie Wren had only her feet in my cervix, she'd moved to a squatting position. The doctor warned this made labor inevitable. He also warned that cord compression was a possibility. As with every day before, I cried until I lost the energy to create tears. Just a day before, it had appeared that Carlie had tucked her feet up higher. With the ultrasound today, it crushed the 7th wind we were riding on from the good news. Still, we remained prayerful, believing that God could create a miracle in Carlie Wren's survival. That night, I was placed on a contraction monitor per my fear that I was going into labor. No contractions were found, and at 4:00 a.m. that morning, I heard my sweet baby girl's heartbeat for the last time. It lingered in the 140's, as it had since I was admitted. I fought my sleeping pill, and for the first time, I was given both my sleeping pill and an anxiety pill so that I could sleep. It was the best sleep I had while in the hospital. Somehow, I feel like my spirit was being quickened, knowing that Carlie wouldn't live another day. Perhaps me fighting sleep was my attempt at grasping the last few moments with my baby girl. The last song Mommy played for her on the IPod, before eventually trying to sleep, was The Pretenders "I'll Stand By You."}

Day 1 (July 21st): 

I slept until 9 that morning, before meeting the doctor that was on call, Dr. Stacy Hunt-Okolo . I had never met her before, but she quickly became the angel I needed for this difficult day. 

I specifically remember that on this day, where I usually would've had Carlie's heartbeat checked on the doppler in the morning, I napped throughout the day and a nurse didn't get to me to check her heart rate until after 2:00 p.m.  At that time, the nurses spent what felt like an eternity, poking around near my pubic bone to try and get Carlie's heart rate. They reassured me that perhaps since she had dropped so low that getting a heart rate via the doppler wasn't possible. They ordered  that an ultrasound be done in my room by Dr. Hunt-Okolo. Wesley and I were anxious, but we didn't lose hope. We reasoned she was just too low to pick up a heart rate. After all, she'd had such a strong, healthy heartbeat earlier that morning. Surely, just as she had so many times before, Carlie was just keeping her Mommy and Daddy on their toes. 

They rolled the ultrasound machine into our room, coating the lower part of my swollen belly with the gel I'd grown accustomed to for the last 11 days. As the doctor began maneuvering the wand, I immediately noticed that our wiggly Wren wasn't moving around as she usually had before. I reasoned that she couldn't move a lot because of the absence of fluid in the sac. But soon, the doctor's sorrow-filled eyes turned to lock on mine. She grasped my hand as she slowly shook her head "No", her lips tightly held together as she communicated an unspoken message. She pointed out the absence of movement inside the four chambers of the heart. She explained it was difficult to see things clearly due to the lack of fluid. She asked if we'd like to have a second ultrasound after I filled my bladder, stating that the fluid might help us see things clearer to double-check. Relieved, I whole-heartedly agreed. As soon as the nurse and doctor left the room, I broke down. Wesley placed his hand on my stomach and we prayed a dozen prayers, much in the same language that Jesus used to will Lazarus to life. We weren't giving up hope. God could still revive her tiny, strong heartbeat. He could, if it was in His will. After the second ultrasound, we learned that nothing had changed. Our daughter was really gone. 

Through the guidance and encouragement of one of my nurses, Whittney, I decided to begin induction of labor that night, and the process began around 11:00 p.m. 


Day 2 - Carlie Wren's Birthday - (July 22):

Actual induction began at 3:30 a.m., and six hours later, my beautiful baby was born. My insides quaked with nervousness, as I wasn't sure what she'd look like. A 21 weeker isn't fully developed, and the longer the baby stays inside the womb, the more their body will change. However, as soon as she was placed in my arms, I fell in love. She was beautiful. She was perfect. She was ours. 

 Throughout my labor, my blood pressure plummeted at least three times. I was left dry heaving on several occasions, one of these being while Carlie was in my arms. It infuriated me that these sweet moments were interrupted by sickness. We were wheeled to post-partum, and I was so very grateful that they placed us in another room, instead of going back to the same room we'd spent the last week in. It had a beautiful view of the bright, cloud-scattered sky. I held Carlie in my arms for hours, taking ten and fifteen minute naps in intervals. I sang You Are My Sunshine to her, and scattered her firm forehead with dozens of kisses. I had my desired skin to skin contact, with her cuddled against the top of my chest. She was cold, but for a moment, it felt like she was cuddling me back. I looked at the sky to the right of me, and I sobbed; my baby was in Heaven. 

I never wanted to let her go, but eventually I had to try and get up to use the restroom. If I wasn't successful by 6 p.m. that night, I would need to have a catheter put in. After a horrible experience with my first catheter, I was scared to death of having a second. However, I wasn't successful. As soon as I sat down in the bathroom, I began to pass out. They used ammonia to bring me back, and it took me several minutes to reach complete consciousness. It was discovered that due to the large amount of blood I lost before and during delivery, I would need a blood transfusion. I eventually did have to have a catheter in, as my uterus began spasming due to the fullness of my bladder. This was by far the most physically painful thing I'd experienced in the hospital, and ever.

I couldn't bear to give Carlie's tiny, 11 ounce body to a nurse until well into the night. It killed me, and my arms ached the moment she was taken from me. 

Day 3 (July 23rd): 

I was given a blood transfusion, and received three bags of blood. After this, my color began returning to normal, and I started feeling better. There were many, many tears shed this day. Things were sinking in, and with each new realization, I was devastated. We battled with decisions no parent should have to make; burial or cremation. I asked for her body again, and a nurse brought her to me. I'm still not sure if this was the best decision, as she had deteriorated significantly. It was heartbreaking to see how fragile she was. Still, I was able to tell her the mommy things I'd wanted to say the day before, but couldn't muster the energy to utter. I sobbed as Wesley called for the nurse to come take her. Though my mind told me it was time, my heart just couldn't let go of her. I begged for more time, but in the end, it was best to let her go. I didn't want to cause her tiny body any more trauma. I went to sleep with a heavy heart, knowing that she would never be coming home with me. 

Day 4 (July 24 - Carlie's Graveside Service & Burial): 

The next morning, I was so ready to leave the hospital. This day marked two weeks since we'd arrived. I was torn, because I couldn't bear the thought of leaving my baby at the hospital without me being there. God mercifully orchestrated an opportunity for Carlie to be buried that evening. I panicked at first, pleading with Wesley, telling him I wasn't ready for any of this yet. However, my desire for her to be at rest overruled my anxiety. I finally got out of the bed, and Wesley and I cuddled on the hard loveseat in the room, positioned by the window. We watched birds fly by, and more tears were shed. I was finally discharged, with a little over three hours to spare before we were to be at the Graveside Service. I sobbed through the whole service, and leaving her side was one of the hardest thing I've ever had to do. If it'd been my choice, I would have camped out with her that night. These thoughts aren't rational. I know that my baby is in Heaven, rejoicing with the angels. But that fact doesn't automatically turn off my motherly instincts and need to protect and nurture Carlie Wren. So, I waited until the dirt tucked her in tight, and then I waited some more. I was so frustrated as I heard people talking around me. Couldn't they understand my world had stopped for a moment, and the last thing I wanted to hear was the outside world carrying on with business as usual?
Eventually, it was time to go. Wesley comforted me by describing her first night in the cemetery:

"She'll be out under the stars, out in the country. And she can listen to the birds." 

At the exact moment he said this, a chorus of birds began chirping cheerfully. I smiled internally, and it was just the strength I needed to rise from the ground, the soil of her grave rubbed into my palms, as we made our way back home. 

 Day 5 (July 25th): 

I received the first few edits of our photos, courtesy of Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep  and Brandy Kemp. They were breathtaking. We cried at how beautiful they were, and we mourned the loss of our daughter. I soon learned that aching sorrow would become a daily occurrence, not easily avoided.

What do you do when you're a modern day Job?

via Facebook

 

Though he slay me, yet will I hope in Him. - Job 13:15

 I was reading this article about a young woman who was caught in the crossfires of the Aurora, Colorado shooting. If you have a chance, I recommend you read it. It's inspiring, and definitely encourages us to not claim the martyr card when "simple" things are going wrong in our lives.

I was particularly fascinated by certain parts of the article:

• Bonnie Kate wasn't from Aurora. She was passing through with a friend from a ten day vacation in Seattle, Washington.They were returning home to Baton Rogue, Louisiana when they decided to stop at a hotel in Aurora.

• Bonnie Kate wasn't a fan of the Batman movies. The only reason they went to the midnight showing was because the lady at the front desk suggested the midnight showing at a nearby theater.

•  Due to the chaos that the shooting created, she waited in the local ER for three hours before pain medication could even be administered. 

•  Bonnie self-described that the various reconstructive surgeries she's received since the shooting have left her in more pain than the initial shooting.

** 

Bonnie Kate describes the pain she experienced. She doesn't ignore that. And yet, with everything, her response is to praise God. She forgives the shooter whose gruesome acts left her confined to a hospital bed until this past week. 

For so long, I viewed God as someone to protect me from all of the really awful things in life. Sure, I'd heard of other Christians going through hell and back, but somehow, I had this naive view that my life would always be, though wrought with problems, liveable.

The thing that hit me so hard from Bonnie Kate's experience is this:

God not only allowed her to go through pain, suffering, and fear...but he orchestrated events so that Bonnie Kate would be in that theater the night of the shooting. So many things could have gone differently. Perhaps if they'd driven just a little bit further, they would've been in a different hotel in different city. If they'd decided to go to bed early in their hotel room instead of listening to the front desk clerk, Bonnie Katie and her friend would be in Baton Rogue by now, planning other adventures.

Bonnie Kate didn't notice any signals to steer away from the theater. She didn't hear that still, small voice, firmly warning her from going. Quite the opposite. She said in the article:

"I’m not a huge Batman fan, but I thought, oh, it will be fun,” she recounted.

This may be my own opinion, but I believe that if God didn't mean for Bonnie Kate to be in that theater the night of the shooting, He would've given her some warning. We've all felt an internal security alarm go off in our spirits, haven't we? I know I have. Steering away from a person that just "doesn't feel right"; avoiding a place that makes your skin crawl. Those are all signs and signals from our heavenly Father, trying to protect us. In saying that, some would ask "Why didn't God protect Bonnie Kate then?" If you were to ask Bonnie Kate this, I'm sure she would shake her head in disagreement. He did. And He continues to, every day.

“When people say to me ‘Oh, Bonnie Kate, you’re so strong and amazing’, I say ‘I am not strong and amazing but I have a strong and amazing God whose grace I rely upon.’”

**

A painful realization I've come to recently is that God not only knew what I would face, but He allowed my cervix to dilate, my emergency cerclage surgery to fail, and my sweet Carlie Wren to die.

  In Angie's Smith's I Will Carry You, she describes a painful struggle during her pregnancy. She discovered through a routine ultrasound her daughter, Audrey Caroline, had a medical condition which would cause her to die shortly after birth. Angie went through a roller-coaster during this time.They hoped and prayed for a miracle, and right before their eyes, problems they'd encountered in a previous ultrasound were disappearing. Where a stomach and bladder weren't, they suddenly appeared.  Where three chambers around her heart had been, four were now formed. Eventually, the doctor took back that diagnosis, though was cautious about everything. Angie and her husband hoped and prayed for a miracle. They had hundreds of people in agreement with them. However, once her daughter was born... the NICU nurses discovered that Audrey wouldn't live past a few hours. After her child passed, she obtained the results from Audrey's genetic testing... and they found nothing wrong with her child.  Shortly thereafter, she had a friend who was due a few weeks after her. The friend had been diagnosed with the same medical condition as Audrey. However, her son was born screaming. Angie recalls thinking "What a beautiful day for a miracle!" No doubt the boy's family felt that everything had been a misdiagnosis, as the infant's lungs weren't even supposed to be developed, according to modern science. 

The boy died an hour after he was born. 

In all three cases, we had faith that everything would be fine. That God would allow our children to live. This didn't happen. We had families believing with us that everything would be fine. I had so many people tell me they "just knew" that Carlie would pull through. In some small way, {though hoping in the Lord renews strength}, we experienced more pain through hoping than we would have through accepting the doom and gloom the doctors were forecasting. The fact that our miracle wasn't granted felt like a cold, callous slap in the face.The world would say we were made to look like fools. "Look at your God now! Where is He? How can you believe in a god that abandons you when you believe He will give you a miracle?" 

**

 People say "God is weeping with you." Yes, He is. Just like Jesus wept over Lazarus, seeing the pain of Mary, Martha, and all of his friends. Jesus knew He was going to heal Lazarus, but He still wept. Why? Because we have a heavenly father that empathizes with our pain. However, this wasn't a surprise to Him.  He saw Carlie running to His arms long before I even knew I was pregnant. That is a difficult, bitter pill to swallow. I have the temptation day after day to ask why me? Some days, I give in. Other days, I remember how God brought me through each and every step in that painful journey, shortly before we found out Carlie died. Do I think this all happened because it's a horrifying result of our fallen world? Yes and no. Of course, if sin hadn't entered the world, I wouldn't know this pain, or any pain. 

However, God is a God of living and breathing miracles. If He'd willed it, Carlie Wren would've been another miracle to glorify God with. We begged Him for it. We wept for His presence, for Him to reverse all that happened. We claimed our Psalm 118:17 life verse over her, believing she'd pull through. We pleaded that my amniotic fluid would be restored, that Carlie's feet would tuck back up into my womb, that somehow, against all odds, we would be spared from the pain that loomed above us. And yet, like Bonnie Kate, we weren't. Carlie died, and it left a gaping, bloody hole in my heart. I had dozens of Facebook messages encouraging us during our hospital stay. Many people explained how they'd heard from another friend that their daughter/son was born at 21 weeks, and lived. We were given hope that never came. We held onto our faith, white-knuckled, and despite all of this... we weren't given our miracle. 

I'm never going to understand this side of heaven the exact reason for why my baby girl never saw the light of day. I also know that I had to come to a personal journey of acceptance to understand what I've written above. I don't think it's ever a wise decision to comfort a person in the midst of grieving that "This is God's will." Though deep down the griever may know it, that statement doesn't comfort in a time of immense, raw pain.

 Scripture promises me that HE works all things together for good. Just as Bonnie Kate has a platform to minister to thousands of people through her testimony, so will we. 

"If you're praying for a miracle, and God doesn't give you the miracle, you WILL be the miracle for someone else." -Nick Vujicic

Carlie Wren's Memorial Video

How you've changed me...so far.

via smallbirdstudios

I've spent a lot of time lately talking about how much I miss you. 
I've told people about the ache in my heart, a space that is painfully absent without you here.
Sometimes I burst into tears, often without warning. I have to cry my hurt out, every last drop, before I can continue living in my day. Otherwise, the agony of grief will clamp down on my chest like an iron vise, not allowing me to move forward.
I sometimes don't feel like my motion is even forward. It feels more like I'm maintaining, or floating.
But not a good, riding-the-Dumbo-ride-at-Disney-World sort of floating.
This is the floating you feel when you have the flu, after you've puked your guts out.
That light-headed, nearly passing out sensation of exerting every last cell of energy.

          (I don't know why I speak about such things.

          It's not as if you have any clue of this type of misery, my sweet Carlie Wren).

***

What I haven't talked about is how much you have changed me. 
Some people might not understand my need to "pay it forward."
After all, wasn't I in misery the majority of the time?
The answer is, yes and no.
In times when nurses were fishing for blood in my veins, leaving harsh bruises on my skin and offering little sympathy, I suffered. I cried. 
Sitting with my head nearly at the ground, my legs sticking straight up in the air for ten days, wasn't the most comfortable position for sleeping.  Many nights I tossed and turned, tormented by my own thoughts and inability to find the comfort I so desperately needed.
Bathing every third day, my hair becoming an angry knot of dreaded tangles.
 Maneuvering a bed pan and avoiding getting up at all, trying to defy the gravity that was working against us.
Being confined to one room, where little sunlight drifted in, knowing that my baby girl had a zero chance of survival...those were some of the darkest moments of my existence.
Each day we clung to hope, only to be told you were further into my cervix, and that it was "just a matter of time" before you passed on to heaven.
I wept with the fury of a mother who felt her baby slipping away, yet was powerless to do anything to prevent it.

 Maternal instincts are so useless in times like these.

I'd never been a patient in a hospital, and with each new revelation of hospital life, I was scared.
Catheters, I.V.s, spinal blocks, epidurals, and blood transfusions were all introduced to me for the first time.
I shook with my fear. I felt like each time I'd finally experienced peace through recovering from one procedure, another wave of terrifying experiences followed.

You want to know the crazy thing about experiencing the worst pain of your life, trudging through the blackest days, and somehow surviving?
It makes you appreciate more.

Showers were heaven on earth.

One night, a sweet, angelic nurse named Kristy, along with my mother and Wesley, helped wash my hair. I hung my head off of the side of the bed, laughing at the absurdity of the moment. It was so full of tangles, Wesley and my mom had to work on my head of hair for a good 45 minutes before a comb could travel through the strands without catching painfully.

After sponge baths, Wesley would put lotion on my legs, perpetually itchy due to the circulation cuffs that were on them nearly 24 hours a day.
I felt like I'd had a day at the spa.

My mouth burned with thirst as I labored. As my mom placed ice chips on my tongue, I'd let out small sighs of contentment as it felt like pure heaven was dissolving inside my mouth.

As I held my blood-tinted baby girl, I marveled at how much she looked like a tiny, carbon copy of her daddy. I flooded her forehead with kisses, feeling like no kisses were ever enough. My lips still long to press against her frail skin, taking in her scent and studying her features. 

Little things became grand, breathing life into my body.

Recently, my heart has been pulled toward those other mothers on bedrest in the hospital, fighting for the lives of their babies. I wonder how many of those beautiful women have someone to pamper them as they lay in bed.
The wheels started turning.
What if I could talk to the hospital and, with their permission of course, set up a volunteer service where I came to the hospital and did something as simple as pedicures?
(I'm horrible at painting toes, but I'm willing to try harder).

Then, I started thinking about how many women lose their sweet babies, just as I have, and don't get pictures.
I can't imagine how my grieving process would've gone (and continues to go) without those pictures to look at several hundred times a day. I am so grateful to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep  and their amazing organization, which allowed me to get professional, beautiful photos of my Carlie Wren for free through Brandy Kemp. Unfortunately, there are a lot of photographers in this area who don't/won't volunteer to do this service.
Then I thought, why don't I take a digital photography class, begin practicing and building a portfolio, so that one day I can give back the same service that I feel has memorialized my baby girl's features in my mind, forever?

You taught me to be brave.
You taught me how to be strong.
You taught me to dream bigger.
You taught me to love people harder.
You taught me to try new things.  
You taught me what it means to have raw faith. 

Most of all, you taught me to be my own kind of free bird. 
And I love you so very much for it.

Quote, Author Unknown.

 

"The amount of time on earth matters very little: a man can live in greed and pride 90 years and never find God, know Him or accomplish His Plan. A stillborn baby on the other hand, teaches people to love, brings people to the Lord, teaches us the tenuous nature of life and teaches us a faith that those who have not suffered loss can never know. A child not even breathing for an hour, can have an impact greater than a famous preacher. The purpose of a life is not ours to decide nor in our hands: it is brought about by God."

The New Normal.

My first painting for Carlie. She's wrapped in her quilt as her spirit soars to Heaven, my little free bird :)

I had my first post partum appointment today.

At the receptionist's desk, the woman said we'd need to speak to the patient representative before I went in to my appointment. I knew that was probably coming, and it wasn't a surprise. We sat down, waiting for my name to be called so we could talk to the lady about how our payment plan would be adjusted due to the recent events.

I tried to keep my eyes to the ground, seeing the swell of several pregnant bellies seated around me.

My name was called, and the patient representative looked right at me and asked...

"Have you already had your baby?"

I froze. I looked over at Wesley for a moment, the question knocking the wind out of me as I stood at a stand-still.

"She...she was stillborn," I whispered with a shaky voice, feeling my face burn with the sudden onset of raw anger and grief.

 I've always hated reducing Carlie Wren to that ugly word. She was very much alive inside of me. She liked Michael Jackson and was a night owl. She had a strong personality, even if we weren't blessed enough to witness the phenomenon outside of my womb.
  I wanted to sink into a hole. I wanted to do anything I could to avoid the awkwardness and fresh wound this woman had reopened. I thought to myself "Couldn't she have checked my file? Why doesn't she know?"

"Oh..." the woman paused, her face voicing the discomfort I felt. "I don't need to see you then."

We walked to the nearest chair, and I sat down, my head in my hands as I tried to force the tears away. I could feel the prying eyes of an extremely pregnant woman, seated in front of me with her hands on her swollen belly. I was mortified at the overwhelming emotion that plagued me, my chest tightening as I struggled to put my mind anywhere but there.

***

 I know I'm not ready to carry the stressful brunt of what my job entails. But, due to financial restraints, I'm not given a choice. My doctor gave me a suggestion (after first telling me that she believed I needed more time emotionally, though it was at my discretion when I wanted to return to work). She said a good idea would be to call my work ahead of time, and tell someone I trust to spread the word around; the word that when I return to work, I'm there to focus on work. I don't want anyone asking me about what's happened. I don't want anyone offering up condolences. I'm coming back to work to offer up the facade of "moving on", not to be reminded of the gaping, bloody hole that still wounds my heart. I thought this was a brilliant idea. The one thing I know I won't be able to escape, however, are the looks.

My husband and I discussed these looks. People know what you've been through, (everyone knows) but they don't verbalize sympathies. It's a double edged sword, because you actually prefer people that don't verbalize sympathies, at least the people who aren't closest to you; but the awkwardness of the looks are searing. They simply stare at you with a face that says it all; how sorry they are for you. Your tragedy is running through their heads, whether you condone this meditation or not. We loathe these looks. They feel manipulative, especially the probing looks that follow the question "Are you okay?" as if the person is expecting to share an emotional breakthrough with you as you cry on their shoulder, with you left wondering how on earth you got through your grief without them. My husband's biggest fear in going back to work is being the recipient of looks. I don't blame him.

Don't get me wrong. I love that we as humans care about other people, and that other people's pain is our pain. I appreciate that people care about us enough to hurt for us. But...when you're living with your own pain, day after day, you don't need anyone encouraging it. To feel that is a threat to the stability you're trying so desperately to create, more for everyone else than for yourself.

I'm reminded of this pain daily.

At night, it's as I cuddle against the tiny quilt made for a preemie baby. It still swallowed Carlie's tiny, 11 ounce frame when they handed her to me. Not a night has gone by that I haven't slept clutching it tightly.

It stares me in the face as I look into the mirror, seeing my belly that still screams "baby inside!" with its swell, but instead is painfully void.

It's in the strokes of my paintbrush as I try desperately to unleash onto a canvas.

It is inescapable. It is normal, my doctor says.
"Most grief takes six months, sometimes longer depending on the person," she explained with kind eyes.

I've felt this pressure to be okay for awhile now. Everyone else seems to be moving on, right? Everyone else seems to be comforted by the fact that Carlie's in heaven. Everyone else is moving on to every day life. What's wrong with me that I can't get through a day without crying?

"It's normal," my doctor said softly, several times during our conversation today as I explained that sometimes I feel such anger that I have to leave a room and regroup; as I described that I'm not sleeping at night, that I exhaust myself completely before I even attempt to crawl into the bed. I do this to avoid the fitful tossing and turning that usually accompanies my nights. With each toss and turn, I'm given another reminder of recent events; from flashbacks of the labor, to the anxious, helpless feeling I experienced each night I felt Carlie was slipping further through my cervix. Some nights I just pray and pray, hoping for the rest God promises to His children. Eventually, it comes, but the next morning I feel exhausted.

"It's normal," I'm reminded once again, my doctor's reassurance replaying in my head.

"Jesus said, 'Now My soul is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save Me from this hour? But for this purpose I came to this hour. Father, glorify Your name.”  

-John 12:27-28

Wesley's painting of our little Wren :)