beauty for ashes
Shortly after Steve and I arrived at the maternity ward in Brandon Regional Hospital, Steve came to my bedside and told me that the nurses had put a small sign up on our door. "It's a picture of a leaf with a drop of rain sitting on it," he told me. Now I am a visual person. I understand and love to play with words, too, but more often than not, a simple image can convey more than a multitude of words to me. This sign, akin to a stamp bearing the inked words FRAGILE! HANDLE WITH CARE! gave me indication to the way the hospital staff would enter into our room from that time on.
Our precious baby is gone. Gone from my womb and from this broken world. Gone from her broken body, wrecked by so many different defects. It's amazing that the lack of a single chromosome can cause such divergence from the ways that we were intended to be. When I had the chance to look at her, I realized two things: that she indeed was a perfect human being, with the tiniest of hands and toes, a perfectly formed nose, eyes and ears. Yet at the same time, with the cystic hygroma, swelling and other unseen ailments, I understood that she was not meant to be in this world. I looked on the "shell," of my baby, also knowing full well that our Evelyn, the one we will one day meet, was no longer there. And this gave me a sad, quiet joy.
I have decided to continue blogging through the next days, months, however long God gives me words to say. I know that this may be too much to ask for any of you to walk this road of grieving with me. I don't oblige you to go any further. It won't be easy, it won't be pretty, but it will be as real as I can make any blog. I feel that I have to do this, so it seems partly selfish, but at the same time, I really feel that through all of this, even through the pain, God has somehow wrested glory for Himself. I am not saying this bitterly AT ALL. In fact, this is my prayer-- solo dei gloria, "Glory to God alone," not because I'm some kind of martyr, but because I've come to understand that when God gets glory, I am living fully how I'm meant to be. And that is joy, is life, is truth and what is REALLY means to be fully alive. So I will continue to blog, at least once a week if I'm up to it, more or less, but once a week, God help me. I won't give you updates to check my blog, but if you commit to walking these steps, I know you'll find a way to bookmark my blog :)
Having said all of this, I want to go back a few steps and briefly fill in where I missed. Steve had been watching the kids for my weekly appointment. It had been the most emotional week of our waiting period. Earlier in the week, I had melted down at least twice with Steve. In some ways, I felt grateful for the emotional outbursts because I had found it hard to feel or to cry earlier on. At the same time, God was bringing up things in me that I think made it more painful-- namely my insecurity in His love-- a friend of mine had spoken to me earlier in the week, saying that she felt that the baby was going to be okay but that it was me that she was praying for. More than one friend has encouraged me in the past week about truly resting in and soaking in God's deep love for me, for my family, in this time (you know who you are, dear friends!). In fact, as I look back on the past two months, I see such evidence of God's love, brought close and real to us through a multitude of banal and extraordinary things. I will go more into this a little later.
Back to the OB visit-- Dr. Granger had spent some time talking with me about how right our decision to keep the pregnancy going was because in whatever happened, I have to live with myself and my own decisions. Doctors and others will come and go, but my conscience and my decisions live with me. I so appreciated his sensitivity and willingness to support our choices.
He took the small machine and began rolling it around my abdomen. No sounds, except for the slow thud of my own heart. Another try and then another. "I'm going to order an ultrasound for you," he said quietly and gave me his hand to help me up. So began another interminable wait in the small patient's room outside. Thankfully, I was the only one there. I opened my book, a biography about George Muller written for older children (yes, this indicates the attention span I have right now!). He was the founder of several large orphanages in Bristol, England at the time when Dickens was writing about the horrors of child labor and squalid living conditions of street urchins during the Industrial Revolution of England. His life and testimony could be summoned up in one word PRAYER. He prayed for every little need and believed. And God provided, whether a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk (or several hundred of each for hungry mouths). I put down my book and prayed again for Evelyn, for her life.
I wrote about the mystery of prayer a few blogs ago. It wasn't that I didn't believe God wasn't listening or acting, but there was a reality that began to grow from that moment. I called Steve and told him that they couldn't find the heartbeat. "I'll call back as soon as I find out anything." Thirty minutes later, I was laying on another patient table, watching the technician as she used her instrument to see our baby. She had the monitor turned from me and as I watched her eyes, I suddenly knew. I called Steve, "You need to come now," I said. "Call someone to pick up the kids. I need you."
Another wait in the patient's room. Our life has been all about waiting. As I sat there, a nurse came to me before I spoke with Dr. Granger. She knelt down. "Are you okay?" I nodded. "You know, this happened for a reason." She had told me what I already knew, but she spoke it into reality. I burst out crying. Minutes later, ushered into a small examination room with a box of tissues, I wept. Steve called again to let me know a friend was coming to pick up the kids. "What did they say?" he asked anxiously. "She's gone, Steve. She didn't make it." A pause, then hiccups of air, my precious husband feeling the first pangs of grief.
Dr. Granger came in moments later and spoke with me. "I am so so sorry," he said. He knew that we were holding on to hope. I told him that even though the baby was gone, my hope, my faith, was still ongoing. I needed to speak that out, for myself, to let him know that as a Christian, this wasn't the end of my faith. We talked, I cried, he cried. Then we had to talk logistics, about the induction. Then Steve arrived. In all of this, he has been the rational, steady man I married. I have seen small moments of sadness, but out of both of us, he was expecting a full recovery of our baby. This wonderful man wept with me and I saw so deeply his love for Evelyn and the suffering he was now experiencing as a father.
We decided on a Saturday morning induction, but when Dr. Granger called the hospital, he had to fight for an appointment earlier than Monday or Tuesday. The hospital was booked up, apparently, with baby deliveries. We left the OB office as they were closing up and walked into a rainstorm (Florida is known for afternoon showers all summer long). We ate quickly together what we could stomach and then ran home to pack. I called my parents and sister on the way home and we cried together.
Our friend brought the kids home to sleep and they rushed in to see us as I began packing. "Mommy, how is the baby?" asked Lydia when she saw me. Dear, dear child. We sat down with the kids and told them that Evelyn had died in my womb and that she was now with Jesus in heaven. "But I wanted a new sister, Mommy...I wanted to hold her." Lydia said. Nathanael was silent and Abigail was examining the insides of the clothing hamper. "I wanted you to have a new sister, too, Lydia. It's okay to be sad, " I said. But then, the kids began a foot fight over what the sex of another new baby might be...boy, girl, boy, girl. Kids are so different than adults when it comes to grieving. This is a good thing!
When we arrived at the hospital, the maternity nurse came down to tell us that they were so packed out that we would have to wait downstairs. "We should be ready in about forty-five minutes." I had feared that they would tell us that we had to go home. So we waited again. An hour later, we were up in the elevator. By ten, they were prepping me. By midnight, they gave me the first dose of pills to start the induction. It was the beginning of a long night. Every four hours they gave me another dose...four in the morning, eight, noon...I felt as if I closed my eyes, open them to look at the time, then opened them to watch the monitor that recorded my contractions. All night long, starting at the green light and hoping to see more elevated peaks. I noticed that when I lay on my back, the contractions seemed to be more regular than on my side.
Evelyn was delivered at three in the afternoon, almost fifteen hours after my first dose. The delivery was easy and by God's grace, I delivered the placenta naturally (I was concerned that I'd have to go into surgery if my body was not ready to give it up naturally). They wrapped Evelyn up and gave her to me. Either from the medicine or my nerves, I was shaking badly, so I held her for a moment then passed her to Steve. Lori then took her and spent about two hours bathing her, and dressing her in a gown and hat. I know that this may seem morbid to many of you because it did to me, but Lori had told us ahead of time what she was going to do and why. Many parents that didn't hold the baby regretted it later. She helped us to see what would be important for us in our grieving process. So she made baby footprints and handprints on paper, o a plaster mold, took pictures of us holding the baby, of her alone. She made us a memory box full of memoribilia: arm bands that were never worn, a knitted cap, a gown, a handmade pink blanket that she wrapped Evelyn in, pictures, a stuffed heart. Watching her do all of this showed us that she was honoring Evelyn as a little human being and treating her with such dignity and compassion. Kathy, the other nurse, was equally sensitive. On the way to the room I would sleep in that night, she let me ring the nursery bell which lets people know that a baby was born. "You have every right to ring this bell, too," she said. I wept again as the song chimed through the halls. Precious, precious baby.
As I said, Evelyn was perfectly whole, yet so broken in her body. I could see that it was God's mercy in allowing her to come out of this world. As I held her, I had a hard time feeling anything because I had so distanced myself from her shell, her body. I could not bond with her, because she could not receive my love, my affection. I had felt more attached to her while she was in the womb, when I saw her kicking up on the ultrasound. She was alive then, and that was her. Yet Steve did not have that experience and for fathers, their first opportunity to attach is when the baby emerges from the womb. It was very emotional for him. I can say that I have even more love and more respect for my precious husband after watching him go through the last few days. He is a wonderful father and husband and I cannot think of anyone else with whom I'd rather go through such a season as this.
We had discussed whether or not to have a funeral for Evelyn and when the nurses mentioned that it was Florida law that babies born over 20 weeks need to have a death certificate and be buried, the decision was made for us. I am very thankful that we made it past twenty weeks because I cannot think of any other way that I would feel comfortable saying goodbye to Evelyn. We will have a service and burial for her sometime this weekend. Steve's mom happens to be in Nashville visiting one of Steve's sisters, so she will definitely be there.
It seems a strange time to begin a running list of things that I am thankful for, but I have felt lately that I need to take the time to remember what is good and the good things God has brought into our lives. In some way, this is part of being truthful, for the whole reality of this painful experience is that it has been deeply and completely surrounded by, shored up by and soaked in God love and grace. I would not be telling the whole truth if I do not give thanks. So spurred on by a fellow blogger, I want to start Multitude Monday, a special time to add into the ever growing chorus of those who remember and give praise to the One who is the giver of all good things...
for resounding voices of love, endless prayers and compassion from family and friends during the last few months...
for the friend who stepped up to love on our kids when we were at the hospital so that we didn't have to worry about their well being...
a doctor that cried with me...
the nurse who put socks on me because my feet were cold...a true servant's heart...
Lori's careful care of our daughter, for dressing her through love and lovingly made clothing, so that we could hold our beautiful, tiny baby...
a box of keepsakes and pictures to remember Evelyn...
the chance to hold Evelyn, tell her how much we loved her and to say goodbye...
Abigail's little head resting on my shoulder after I came home...
Nathanael snuggling with me on the couch while watching Planet Earth...
Lydia telling me how much she missed me and wanting to see pictures of the baby...
Sharing the keepsake box with the kids...
flowers on our kitchen table that remind us God makes beauty from ashes...
that God is holding Evelyn right now and that one day, we will see her again, whole and complete, when we see our Maker...
the continous stream of love, letters and hugs from parents, family, friends...
Our precious baby is gone. Gone from my womb and from this broken world. Gone from her broken body, wrecked by so many different defects. It's amazing that the lack of a single chromosome can cause such divergence from the ways that we were intended to be. When I had the chance to look at her, I realized two things: that she indeed was a perfect human being, with the tiniest of hands and toes, a perfectly formed nose, eyes and ears. Yet at the same time, with the cystic hygroma, swelling and other unseen ailments, I understood that she was not meant to be in this world. I looked on the "shell," of my baby, also knowing full well that our Evelyn, the one we will one day meet, was no longer there. And this gave me a sad, quiet joy.
I have decided to continue blogging through the next days, months, however long God gives me words to say. I know that this may be too much to ask for any of you to walk this road of grieving with me. I don't oblige you to go any further. It won't be easy, it won't be pretty, but it will be as real as I can make any blog. I feel that I have to do this, so it seems partly selfish, but at the same time, I really feel that through all of this, even through the pain, God has somehow wrested glory for Himself. I am not saying this bitterly AT ALL. In fact, this is my prayer-- solo dei gloria, "Glory to God alone," not because I'm some kind of martyr, but because I've come to understand that when God gets glory, I am living fully how I'm meant to be. And that is joy, is life, is truth and what is REALLY means to be fully alive. So I will continue to blog, at least once a week if I'm up to it, more or less, but once a week, God help me. I won't give you updates to check my blog, but if you commit to walking these steps, I know you'll find a way to bookmark my blog :)
Having said all of this, I want to go back a few steps and briefly fill in where I missed. Steve had been watching the kids for my weekly appointment. It had been the most emotional week of our waiting period. Earlier in the week, I had melted down at least twice with Steve. In some ways, I felt grateful for the emotional outbursts because I had found it hard to feel or to cry earlier on. At the same time, God was bringing up things in me that I think made it more painful-- namely my insecurity in His love-- a friend of mine had spoken to me earlier in the week, saying that she felt that the baby was going to be okay but that it was me that she was praying for. More than one friend has encouraged me in the past week about truly resting in and soaking in God's deep love for me, for my family, in this time (you know who you are, dear friends!). In fact, as I look back on the past two months, I see such evidence of God's love, brought close and real to us through a multitude of banal and extraordinary things. I will go more into this a little later.
Back to the OB visit-- Dr. Granger had spent some time talking with me about how right our decision to keep the pregnancy going was because in whatever happened, I have to live with myself and my own decisions. Doctors and others will come and go, but my conscience and my decisions live with me. I so appreciated his sensitivity and willingness to support our choices.
He took the small machine and began rolling it around my abdomen. No sounds, except for the slow thud of my own heart. Another try and then another. "I'm going to order an ultrasound for you," he said quietly and gave me his hand to help me up. So began another interminable wait in the small patient's room outside. Thankfully, I was the only one there. I opened my book, a biography about George Muller written for older children (yes, this indicates the attention span I have right now!). He was the founder of several large orphanages in Bristol, England at the time when Dickens was writing about the horrors of child labor and squalid living conditions of street urchins during the Industrial Revolution of England. His life and testimony could be summoned up in one word PRAYER. He prayed for every little need and believed. And God provided, whether a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk (or several hundred of each for hungry mouths). I put down my book and prayed again for Evelyn, for her life.
I wrote about the mystery of prayer a few blogs ago. It wasn't that I didn't believe God wasn't listening or acting, but there was a reality that began to grow from that moment. I called Steve and told him that they couldn't find the heartbeat. "I'll call back as soon as I find out anything." Thirty minutes later, I was laying on another patient table, watching the technician as she used her instrument to see our baby. She had the monitor turned from me and as I watched her eyes, I suddenly knew. I called Steve, "You need to come now," I said. "Call someone to pick up the kids. I need you."
Another wait in the patient's room. Our life has been all about waiting. As I sat there, a nurse came to me before I spoke with Dr. Granger. She knelt down. "Are you okay?" I nodded. "You know, this happened for a reason." She had told me what I already knew, but she spoke it into reality. I burst out crying. Minutes later, ushered into a small examination room with a box of tissues, I wept. Steve called again to let me know a friend was coming to pick up the kids. "What did they say?" he asked anxiously. "She's gone, Steve. She didn't make it." A pause, then hiccups of air, my precious husband feeling the first pangs of grief.
Dr. Granger came in moments later and spoke with me. "I am so so sorry," he said. He knew that we were holding on to hope. I told him that even though the baby was gone, my hope, my faith, was still ongoing. I needed to speak that out, for myself, to let him know that as a Christian, this wasn't the end of my faith. We talked, I cried, he cried. Then we had to talk logistics, about the induction. Then Steve arrived. In all of this, he has been the rational, steady man I married. I have seen small moments of sadness, but out of both of us, he was expecting a full recovery of our baby. This wonderful man wept with me and I saw so deeply his love for Evelyn and the suffering he was now experiencing as a father.
We decided on a Saturday morning induction, but when Dr. Granger called the hospital, he had to fight for an appointment earlier than Monday or Tuesday. The hospital was booked up, apparently, with baby deliveries. We left the OB office as they were closing up and walked into a rainstorm (Florida is known for afternoon showers all summer long). We ate quickly together what we could stomach and then ran home to pack. I called my parents and sister on the way home and we cried together.
Our friend brought the kids home to sleep and they rushed in to see us as I began packing. "Mommy, how is the baby?" asked Lydia when she saw me. Dear, dear child. We sat down with the kids and told them that Evelyn had died in my womb and that she was now with Jesus in heaven. "But I wanted a new sister, Mommy...I wanted to hold her." Lydia said. Nathanael was silent and Abigail was examining the insides of the clothing hamper. "I wanted you to have a new sister, too, Lydia. It's okay to be sad, " I said. But then, the kids began a foot fight over what the sex of another new baby might be...boy, girl, boy, girl. Kids are so different than adults when it comes to grieving. This is a good thing!
When we arrived at the hospital, the maternity nurse came down to tell us that they were so packed out that we would have to wait downstairs. "We should be ready in about forty-five minutes." I had feared that they would tell us that we had to go home. So we waited again. An hour later, we were up in the elevator. By ten, they were prepping me. By midnight, they gave me the first dose of pills to start the induction. It was the beginning of a long night. Every four hours they gave me another dose...four in the morning, eight, noon...I felt as if I closed my eyes, open them to look at the time, then opened them to watch the monitor that recorded my contractions. All night long, starting at the green light and hoping to see more elevated peaks. I noticed that when I lay on my back, the contractions seemed to be more regular than on my side.
Evelyn was delivered at three in the afternoon, almost fifteen hours after my first dose. The delivery was easy and by God's grace, I delivered the placenta naturally (I was concerned that I'd have to go into surgery if my body was not ready to give it up naturally). They wrapped Evelyn up and gave her to me. Either from the medicine or my nerves, I was shaking badly, so I held her for a moment then passed her to Steve. Lori then took her and spent about two hours bathing her, and dressing her in a gown and hat. I know that this may seem morbid to many of you because it did to me, but Lori had told us ahead of time what she was going to do and why. Many parents that didn't hold the baby regretted it later. She helped us to see what would be important for us in our grieving process. So she made baby footprints and handprints on paper, o a plaster mold, took pictures of us holding the baby, of her alone. She made us a memory box full of memoribilia: arm bands that were never worn, a knitted cap, a gown, a handmade pink blanket that she wrapped Evelyn in, pictures, a stuffed heart. Watching her do all of this showed us that she was honoring Evelyn as a little human being and treating her with such dignity and compassion. Kathy, the other nurse, was equally sensitive. On the way to the room I would sleep in that night, she let me ring the nursery bell which lets people know that a baby was born. "You have every right to ring this bell, too," she said. I wept again as the song chimed through the halls. Precious, precious baby.
As I said, Evelyn was perfectly whole, yet so broken in her body. I could see that it was God's mercy in allowing her to come out of this world. As I held her, I had a hard time feeling anything because I had so distanced myself from her shell, her body. I could not bond with her, because she could not receive my love, my affection. I had felt more attached to her while she was in the womb, when I saw her kicking up on the ultrasound. She was alive then, and that was her. Yet Steve did not have that experience and for fathers, their first opportunity to attach is when the baby emerges from the womb. It was very emotional for him. I can say that I have even more love and more respect for my precious husband after watching him go through the last few days. He is a wonderful father and husband and I cannot think of anyone else with whom I'd rather go through such a season as this.
We had discussed whether or not to have a funeral for Evelyn and when the nurses mentioned that it was Florida law that babies born over 20 weeks need to have a death certificate and be buried, the decision was made for us. I am very thankful that we made it past twenty weeks because I cannot think of any other way that I would feel comfortable saying goodbye to Evelyn. We will have a service and burial for her sometime this weekend. Steve's mom happens to be in Nashville visiting one of Steve's sisters, so she will definitely be there.
It seems a strange time to begin a running list of things that I am thankful for, but I have felt lately that I need to take the time to remember what is good and the good things God has brought into our lives. In some way, this is part of being truthful, for the whole reality of this painful experience is that it has been deeply and completely surrounded by, shored up by and soaked in God love and grace. I would not be telling the whole truth if I do not give thanks. So spurred on by a fellow blogger, I want to start Multitude Monday, a special time to add into the ever growing chorus of those who remember and give praise to the One who is the giver of all good things...
for resounding voices of love, endless prayers and compassion from family and friends during the last few months...
for the friend who stepped up to love on our kids when we were at the hospital so that we didn't have to worry about their well being...
a doctor that cried with me...
the nurse who put socks on me because my feet were cold...a true servant's heart...
Lori's careful care of our daughter, for dressing her through love and lovingly made clothing, so that we could hold our beautiful, tiny baby...
a box of keepsakes and pictures to remember Evelyn...
the chance to hold Evelyn, tell her how much we loved her and to say goodbye...
Abigail's little head resting on my shoulder after I came home...
Nathanael snuggling with me on the couch while watching Planet Earth...
Lydia telling me how much she missed me and wanting to see pictures of the baby...
Sharing the keepsake box with the kids...
flowers on our kitchen table that remind us God makes beauty from ashes...
that God is holding Evelyn right now and that one day, we will see her again, whole and complete, when we see our Maker...
the continous stream of love, letters and hugs from parents, family, friends...
In loving memory of Evelyn Grace Shore,
Born September 5, 2009
Our lives are changed forever. One day, the pain will stop but our remembrance of her and her passing will always be there.
My soul, wait only upon God and silently submit to Him,
for my hope and expectation are from Him.
He only is my Rock and my salvation and my glory
He is my Rock of unyielding strength and impenetrable hardness,
and my refuge is in God!
Trust in, lean on, rely on, and have confidence in Him at all times,
you people; pour out your hearts before Him.
God is a refuge for us...Selah
Psalm 62:5-8 AMP
Amen.
Oh Adrienne,
ReplyDeleteI am so sorry. I just don't know what to say except that I/we are standing with you through this time of grief. I admire your courage to share with us and I am thankful that you are allowing us to walk through this time with you. I just wish you were still here.
Sending love and prayers,
Cory
Aching for you throughout every day. Praying for peace and comfort as you grieve the loss of your precious Evelyn. I love you!!
ReplyDeleteDear Adrienne,
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing your heart. It was painful to read details of these last few days, but even in midst of these grief-sodden moments hope and love steal in and takes the day. All our love to you and Steve,
Ben and Sarah