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 :)

"Find Your Happy Place."

I opened up one of my Dove chocolates today.

Daddy and I bought them because it used to be Mommy's favorite candy; until you came along.

-smile-

You never did like me to eat chocolate. Or drink orange juice. I miss the way you'd burn my stomach in protest.

I miss everything.

On the wrapper, it told me to "Find your happy place."

I thought about that for a second. Where is my happy place?
I can tell you where my happy place isn't.

My happy place isn't a place that sells caskets.
My happy place isn't picking out your grave stone and trying to smile about how nice it will look.
My happy place isn't in the middle of a crowd, seeing so many brown-eyed, dark-haired girls that remind me of what you might've looked like.
 My happy place isn't the aching waste of produced colostrum, taunting me...
and my happy place most certainly isn't nighttime, when I can't feel your kicks jarring my bladder.

I think of you most at night. Sleep isn't possible in quiet, dark moments, because then it reminds me that you aren't here. Our mommy-Carlie time was at night, when Daddy would play you songs on the Ipod and I'd rub my belly, hoping you could somehow feel the touch of my palm on your delicate frame.

I'm not sure I can find my happy place yet. I'm still restless in the in-between, before happiness is found. 

If my happy place were any place, and dreams weren't out of reach....

my happy place would be a lifetime with you.

Braiding your dark, curly hair. Listening to your musical laughter. Memorizing the dimples in your cheeks. Attacking you with kisses, until your tummy wiggled with beautiful giggles. Reading you stories for hours on end. Kissing each of your adorable, stubby toes. Telling you over and over again how much I LOVE you, until you roll your dark eyes and give me a gentle smirk.

One thing I have to remember is all of the mommy perfection I could give you is nothing compared to where you are now. You're in the place dreams are made of. The place that's a million trillion times better than Disney World. You are so blessed. And if I can stop my heart from aching for more than a moment, I know that. 

"When it's time to rest, Angels tuck us in.

I never get scared, Mommy.

There is no darkness here!

Jesus is the light of heaven."

- Mommy, Please Don't Cry..., Linda DeyMaz

Small Bump - Ed Sheeran

Carlie Wren, born 7.22.12

My head is still reeling from everything.

 My heart is in agony over everything that's happened. In time, I will tell precious Carlie's story. Please see the link to the right of the blog if you would like to donate toward her Memorial Fund. I wasn't sure how to just do an "add your own" amount, but I think you can change the amount of your donation once you get to the PayPal website. Select "personal" as your donation so PayPal doesn't tax a big amount. Please don't feel obligated to give the specific amount in the drop down menu; anything will help. The proceeds will go toward our memorial for her as well as her grave stone. We are planning to have a memorial gathering for her, much like a birthday party. Since this is the only event we'll get to plan for our baby girl, we want it to be as special as possible.

Be at peace, baby girl. You are such a fighter, and momma is so proud of you.