911 Days Late

Some people come into your life, just to teach you how to let go.

Holding on to things is an endless struggle in the mind of a grieving parent. You never win, you only try to justify why said object or emotion is worth holding onto. The tangible has become easier to let go of over time, frankly because I don't have the capacity to tote around an entire nursery of "what ifs".   But the emotions...the guilt and regret and anger and sadness and blame, those are very much attached, like extra limbs that I don't necessarily want to part with, for fear of not knowing how to function without them. There's this paralyzing fear that if I have no one else to blame, it falls on me. Babies don't just die. Someone needs to be held accountable.

On the one year "anniversary" of Isaiah's death, I faced two fears; getting a tattoo and reading his autopsy report. (I will have you know that I wasn't afraid of the pain of getting a tattoo, I'm just too indecisive.) The autopsy was sickening. The descriptive narration of exactly how his body was taken apart and looked at, much like a science experiment, made my stomach, the very place he was knit together for 9 months, turn.

But worst of all, the very thing that could have saved him, the epinephrine which was supposed to be administered intravenously was said to have been "laying loosely in his leg". The people I was so thankful for this entire year, the first responders who ran in while my world was collapsing as I quickly came to the realization that my feeble attempts at resuscitation weren't working, they were now to blame. As I huddled over my lifeless boy, my eyes met my daughter's, who despite my pleas and screams to go back to bed, witnessed what complete desperation looks like; yet we shared a hopeful unspoken moment, when they carried Isaiah out of the room. They knew what they were doing, I thought. They could surely save him.

But it was in black and white. The words on that paper didn't lie. The improperly placed IV placed my blame elsewhere.

There have been hundreds of conversations between myself and three little people who question what more could have been done, and I've always reassured them there was nothing, everyone did the best they could...but secretly, I didn't believe that. I don't want them to know a world where they question the expertise of emergency responders who they deem their heroes.

And now, coincedentally, 911 days later, I finally believe those empty words I've been speaking. Sometimes you meet people who inadvertently and unknowingly bring closure to a place you didn't realize was still so wounded. I never thought about the men who were most likely sleeping while I scrambled for my phone at 4:08 in the morning, who jumped up and met me in my darkest hour, and even for the briefest of moments, gave my family hope. Their presence was enough. It's safe to let go.

P.S. I love you Mama's Mans.

Why I Didn't Light A Candle For My Son

I'm no good at facades. I wish were, because grief requires some sort of make believe every so often in the hopes of not appearing psychotic. I'm supposed to be this strong, yet honest figure of what it looks like to continue to live after a part of you dies...or at least that's what I've told myself. I don't have a choice on the part of me dying scenario, that was just handed to me, much like my lifeless baby being not so gracefully placed on my lap at 4 in the morning. 

I didn't light a candle this year. I didn't post anything about my sweet boy. It's not because I've forgotten him, or because I don't hurt. It's not because I don't believe in spreading awareness about infant death. It's because I'm sick of it, at least at this moment in time. The only candle I want to light for my precious, beautiful son is the one that sits on top of a birthday cake. 

Sometimes, actually most times, I can go about my life with as much normalcy as I am capable of. But there are also these grand moments of defiance. It's like being a teenager, without all, ok most, of the acne. You know when you're over that particular sport that you beeegged to sign up for? The one that your parents spent a bazillion dollars on, and now you hate it? You cry and whine and now beg your way out of said sport, but your mom is all like "you are sticking this out. You are not a quitter. I've spent a lot of money on this, and you will go, because I'm your mom and I said so." But you don't want to play badminton anymore, so you purposely start sucking in the hopes that mom will see what a waste this is, and you'll be off the hook. 

Sometimes I just want to suck at being in the dead baby club. Maybe if I'm not good at it, God will be like "hey, you're clearly not cut out for this because you didn't light a candle and post a picture of it on Facebook, so, surrrprise, here's Isaiah, you can have him back. You did good for awhile, but now I see that you're over it." *pats me on the back* 

See what I meant about having to put on a front in order to not appear psychotic? Because this is crazy. But it's the real deal. 

So here's to the moms of gone-too-soon-babies who suck at honoring their babies sometimes. Your lack of public announcements doesn't equal a lack of love. Don't feel obligated to grieve any other way but honestly.

*Disclosure, this may seem insensitive to some, but I assure you, there's nothing more in the world that I'm most sensitive about. There's no way to sugar coat infant death, and even if there were, I'm just not cut out for wrapping ugly things with pretty bows.*

Broken Noses Fix People

Healing through brokenness. It always works that way. Only this time, a broken bone is what led me closer to forgiveness. My Elijah got in the car after baseball and with a very matter of fact tone, said "Mom, I'm pretty sure my nose is broken." Making sure I didn't make the same mom mistake twice, because at one point he may have told me of a broken finger, and I may have told him to suck it up. (In all fairness, he stepped on his own finger. Who BREAKS a bone like that?!) But this time, I knew of a face plant earlier that day on the basketball court at school, and upon further Dr. Mom medical assessment, I determined he was probably right. To the hospital we go.

But it's April. And it's 6 days away from the 29th. And if I even see that man that pronounced Isaiah dead, I might need to be the one hospitalized. I grew to hate that man. The one that took any ounce of hope I had, and crushed it. He didn't even try. No procedure, no further attempt at keeping him here. Just waltzing in the room to look at him and pronounce him dead. How can someone I would give my own life for be just another number to someone else? I went into that hospital 3 times since. He didn't even recognize me. Not my face, not my name. I've thought about his face a thousand times over. Thinking of his name makes me nauseous, remembering the hospital bills we got in the mail with his name stamped on it, like I owed him anything, let alone thousands of dollars, all for him to tell us what everyone already knew. And the way he said it to the nurses. "Yep, he's dead." The sound of his voice has played back in my mind, everytime it wanders to those awful hours of my life, and I wish that the shock would have left my body long enough for me to scream horrible things at him. Maybe then he wouldn't have forgotten my face. 

Two years of holding someone personally accountable for Isaiah's death. Two years of wondering what more they could have done. Two years of wishing I could tell him how much he's hurt my family. Visions of myself storming in there with pictures of three siblings, and the drawings that their hearts have etched on paper, yearning for four. "You didn't just let one life end, a part of all of us died that day!"  He didn't get it because he didn't see it that early morning. Innocent children were still tucked in bed, unaware that they would wake up to friends of family and police officers quietly shuffling around in their home.

The hospital was unusually packed for a Wednesday night. And for some reason, it seemed Elijah had been bumped up on the list, for what was actually something quite minor. We didn't get done with registration before the triage nurse came and got us, all while a packed waiting room glared our way, because I'm sure some of them had been sitting there for hours. A couple of questions later, I look up to see him. "It's your lucky day! I'm gonna expedite this process and save you a few hours." Why was a doctor coming in the triage room? Why was he helping us? He knelt down next to Elijah and joked with him about broken noses, talked basketball, and made an attempt to make him smile.

Don't you talk to him. Get away from my child. You are the reason he doesn't have a brother. This time I would make sure he knew it, too. If he couldn't remember my face, he was going to remember the face of a 7 year old boy who waited 9 long months to play with a brother, only for him to have 25 days of playtime before it was ripped away by his hands.

I directed my sentence to Elijah, all the while, making sure he got the message. "Buddy, this is the doctor that saw Isaiah go to Heaven. He was the one that  gave him a check up when the  ambulance brought him here."

All eyes  turned to me.  And I planned on feeling justice. Finally, I got to make him look into the blue eyes of one of my children, and see the hurt. But instead, his head dropped into his hands and he looked up, dropped back down, and looked up again. He saw the tears that started to escape Elijah's eyes, and he said "I'm sorry. I remember. That was a really hard night for me too."

He remembers? It was hard for him? The vindication that I wanted to feel, that I deserved to feel, it didn't come. I looked around and tears were streaming down the cheeks of all four people in that room. And all of the time I had spent playing judge and jury came down to this one moment. I spent so much time holding that noose of unforgiveness, waiting to kick his feet out from under him, yet instead, I was the one being choked out and left speechless. He hugged Elijah, telling him that it was ok to cry, and looked at me with sincerity, and said "I wish I could have done more. You have a great kid, and I'm sure Isaiah would have been no different." And there I was, hanging in my own guilt and
shame, hoping that my half smile would mask the disappointment I felt. The disappointment in myself.

And so I'm reminded once again of the journey Isaiah's life has taken me on, and how God has used him to continuously humble his Mama. I'm happy a broken nose wasn't all that was fixed, because an unforgiving heart was causing much more pain. And maybe, hopefully, next time I won't wait two years.

Jerks, John Wayne, and Jesus

So here I am going about my day. Pretty much one of the worst days I've had in months, so really, I was dragging myself through the day, but nonetheless still going. And then it hit me. Talking to an acquaintance, casual conversation, she says "I was talking about you to "Jane", and she didn't know who you were, so I was saying 'you know, that chick whose son died', and then she knew."

Come again.

I didn't hear much else because my mind transformed into the Grand Canyon, allowing those words to bounce back time and time again, turning the echo of one statement into a thousand more negative titles I've been given throughout my life. Exhausted from the emotional beat down that the day handed me, I didn't even try to fight back the tears. Just let it go, I said to myself, there's no use fighting it any longer, accept the defeat. And while the years of "you're not good enoughs" and "you're too outspoken" bubbled back to the surface and began to reopen those wounds, I looked down and saw an invitation to an Easter Egg Hunt. (Like a real one that my kids brought home, this isn't a metaphor.)

I smiled, and I crushed thousands of titles with just three words. BUT THE CROSS. 

All of the titles that people try to stamp on my forehead don't even come close to the one that Jesus stamped on me with that selfless, heroic move. Redeemed.

Because of that, I'm called by name. The world can try to categorize you by your actions, or tragedies, or past, but Jesus is all like "Um, excuse me ma'am, but I already bought her name tag." (Jesus sounds like John Wayne in this interpretation because being matter of fact in a southern drawl sounds more polite.)

So to "the chick who has three baby daddies" or "the pastor who had an affair" or "that one guy whose wife died" or "that kid with the speech problem"...the hands that have penciled those reminders of us in our minds are NOTHING compared to the hands that were stretched out and nailed to a cross. It is finished.

Oh, and Happy Easter.

Counting Gifts, Not Babies

Be brave.
I can almost hear you whispering that to me as I open my eyes this morning. Not audibly of course, but in the way that you've spoken to me all along, as every piece of your life has collided with mine to string together a messy, graceful, courageous ballad...and it's up to me to write the lyrics.

I would prefer the role of cheerleader, holding your hand, encouraging you, standing on the sidelines. But cheerleaders never feel the sting of defeat or the exuberance of victory. I didn't ask to be taken off the sidelines and thrown into the game, and most days, I'd give anything for a seat back on the bench. I wouldn't have to feel. Only spectate.

But August 5th, 2011 was a game changer. Two pink lines catapulted me off of my cozy seat and into unknown territory. Defeat seemed inevitable.

Be brave.

August 19, I told Planned Parenthood I chose life, and cancelled my appointment. Victory.

On April 4th, I thought I had won. The healthy screams from the lungs of new life told me I had. Victory, I smiled.

But April 29th was only twenty five short sunrises away, and the absence of breath coming from your tiny body was deafening. Defeat, I screamed.

Be brave, you said.

Looking at the faces of my confused children through swollen eyes, I could barely choke out the words. Defeat, Savannah.

Picking out the outfit that a stranger would dress you in one last time. Defeat.

Walking down the aisle of soft sobs and tear filled stares, to greet a body I didn't recognize. The white casket lid would surely seal my fate along with your body. Defeat, it taunted.

Be brave, Mama.

Pulling my babies closer than I ever had before, recognizing the abundance of what I've been given in the simplicity of scribbled drawings, chests rising and falling while they sleep, and squeaky voices praying for their very wounded Mama. A glimpse of victory, I thought.

Waking up on the living room floor, scrambling to your room, only to find an empty crib surrounded by flowers and cards. Defeat, it laughed.

Keep going. Be brave.

Picking up a paintbrush. Victory. Picking up a pen. Victory. Stepping on a plane bound for the mountains of Guatemala. Victory.

Every visit to the emergency room, when my throat is closing in and my legs are weak, when everything goes black, and the only indication that I'm alive is the pounding of my heart so intense that my own thoughts are being drowned out. Defeat, defeat, defeat.

Be brave, I'm right here.

The 120 days that I've gone without taking a pill to numb the pain or silence the thoughts that have tried to send me over the edge. Victory!

Every time someone asks about you, and I get to share your story. Even if it's only to say your name. Victory, sweet boy.

The isolation that's crept in when the people have stepped out. Defeat, it seemed.

The ones that didn't leave when it wasn't glamorous to be there anymore. Victory.

So much heartache, yet so many moments of joy. I don't think I'll ever be content with the feeling of looking around at the playground and only counting three babies of mine... and that's ok. I don't want to become numb to the pain or ever forget what it's like to feel defeat, because then I'd never understand the victorious feelings that followed when I stop counting children and instead count the other gifts that God has allowed me to see more clearly.

Happiest 2nd Birthday, Isaiah Trent.

Be brave, Mama.

I Run to You

"3We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. 4And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. 5And this hope will not lead to disappointment.." Romans 5:3-5 

Sometimes (and not as often as it should be, per my New Years Resolution that states a minimum of 5 times per week)  when I run, I pretend. I am not yet to the point of enjoying the feeling of someone stabbing me in the side, pulse resounding in my head, trying to breathe normal as people pass by, only to open my mouth and suck every molecule of oxygen from the air as soon as they are behind me, while my legs insist on doing something all their own because I can assure you that my brain is telling them to run gracefully, but I'm almost certain they take on the form of cooked noodles by the end of mile one. I'm holding out hope for the day I enjoy that feeling, solely because I want to do a Color Run, and not look like a peg leg returning from war when I cross the finish line. 

So, I pretend. I tell myself that Isaiah is waiting for me. If I just keep going, I'll get to hold my son. I picture scooping him into my arms and kissing his face. "I'm here Mamas Mans, I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." 

He's never there. I know he won't be. It just keeps me running the race. And then a pang of guilt hit me. 

"What if I treasured Jesus as much as I do the son of mine He bought and paid for? The very person who sarcrificed His life in order for my sweet baby to live eternally is less important to me than Isaiah.  What would my life look like if I ran the race thinking about my Savior waiting for me?"

Visions of reuniting with Isaiah are beautiful, wonderful, joy filled thoughts, but if I take Jesus out of the equation, there's no reunion to be had. I never want Isaiah to replace the very One who entrusted me to be his mother. 

So I'm working on that. And 54 other New Years Resolutions. Luckily the other ones involve things like "taking time for myself", which translates to "taking a nap" in Mama language.  

guatemala, new shoes, & Jesus.

So here it was, the day after I returned from Guatemala. I was eager to go to church, thinking I would be bubbling with excitement & stories from my previous 5 days. I wasn't. In fact, I was mad. I couldn't think of the words to describe my experience, so I replied to the inquiries with a smile and an "it was awesome, it was really good." But in my brain I was running through the crowds of perfectly manicured people in their Sunday best, shaking them and screaming "It's not ok! People are dying! People are hungry! You have to help!" 

Tears streamed down my face as I tried to convince myself that the words I was singing in the worship songs really are true. It didn't feel like it. It didn't feel like God's freedom was here...or at least the people in Guatemala didn't seem to be free. They are completely enslaved to a life of poverty, hunger, sickness, sexual abuse, grief, pain, dehydration. Sure, I can sing about God's unfailing love, never running out or giving up on me, but can those people in Pueblo Modelo or Del Rio? I felt my husband's arm around me as I sobbed, and my mind flashed back to 10 months ago, recalling all of the Sunday mornings I would barely make it through praise and worship, holding onto the chair in front of me & my husband's arm around me just so I could stand, but still forcing myself to sing His praises as both my heart and arms were empty. I thought to myself, "this was a bad idea. I just got to the point where I could stand on my own two feet, and now I'm back to square one, grieving over every single face I laid eyes on." And that's exactly where God wants me. Broken. 

I realized that in the past 10 months of brokenness, I've accomplished more for His Kingdom than I have in my entire life. God doesn't want "whole" Savannah who feels comfortable. He's saving that for eternity. Right now, He wants a brokenhearted child of God who is longing to be a vessel, pouring out His love into the lives of others. So again, I pray a prayer that I never dreamed of uttering. I pray that I'm continuously broken for Him, never content with what the world deems as accomplished, but always searching for what my God wants to accomplish through me. 

So...as hard as it is to grasp, the answer is still yes, He is faithful. It doesn't seem fair that their lives are at the mercy of sponsors and donations, but the reality is that God's love is still unfailing. It doesn't seem fair that hundreds of thousands of people are relying on God to stir up compassion in the heart of His people in order to recieve a meal. But guess what? He does. It's hard to comprehend a world where we can't take our sick babies to the doctor or go to the store for shoes. But I've never seen God's love at the pediatrician, or a servant's heart at Rack Room. So who then, is better off? Because I know those children with dirt covering their battered up feet saw Jesus in the hearts of those girls who washed away the mud, and put new shoes on them. I know the mothers of the sick babies saw Jesus in the faces of the people who held their dying children and carried them to the other side of the river, where there was a Hope of Life! 

So please, be patient with me. If you see me crying at the playground, or quietly trying to hold it together in a restaurant, it's because my heart is in Guatemala. And only my 30 cousins can truly understand. 

If you'd like to find out more, visit: 

http://worldhelp.net/sponsor-a-child/ or, 

http://hopeoflifeintl.org/