Isaac's scrapbook

I've never done any scrapbooking, which is probably good for my rage (Don't ever ask about the time I learned to crochet. Can you say homicidal?). I just get...so...irritated when everything isn't perfect the first time. I do better with something more physical like sports. Fortunately, my sister-in-law loves scrapbooking and, to my knowledge, hasn't turned homicidal in the process.

Julie offered to take our photos and numerous ultrasound pictures of Isaac and make us a scrapbook. At first, I wasn't sure I would like a scrapbook. They seem like such happy things. It's not that we weren't happy about Isaac, but there was so much stress involved in the pregnancy. When I look at those ultrasound images, I can remember each appointment and the bad news that followed. I didn't know if putting those memories in a scrapbook would really be what I wanted. But what do I know? The scrapbook is amazing! Julie did a great job! I'm glad she could see the potential when I couldn't.

These pictures just don't do the book justice, but I wanted to share some of the pages anyway.

Blogging

I really don't enjoy blogging. At first it was difficult for me to write anything at all. I didn't want to expose the struggles of the pregnancy or give minute details about how we were coping. The truth is I don't really want to share all my feelings with everyone. That's why there are long gaps between posts sometimes. I just don't have anything positive to say. I refrain from these posts: "Here are 100 reasons why life sucks now." Or maybe: "I almost pushed someone in front of a car today." Or how about: "I can't stop crying this week and my face will probably always be this puffy."

The truth is that grief has its way with you. I'm up and down and angry and sad. I'm talking zero to 60 in milliseconds. I've had many sleepless nights, and I was having a hard time believing it had anything to do with my grieving. But who am I kidding? Grief leaves its residue on everything. I look in the mirror and see someone different, but people don't treat me that way. It's not like I want them to. Or maybe I do. I don't make decisions as well as I used to. I don't care as much about other people's problems. I don't want to ask about your day. I don't want to hear happy stories.

It's not like that every day. I never see it coming. Some days, the mornings are great and the afternoons are miserable. Some days I want to scream and some days seem completely normal. And I can't find any rhythm to it. Most of the time, I just want to be alone with my agony.

It hasn't helped that I fractured my foot only 2 weeks after I was cleared to begin exercising. I spent 6 weeks in a boot and I'm still restricted (at least for another 2 weeks). I haven't been able to exercise as much as I wanted or lose as much baby weight as I'd hoped. I had planned to be in a 4 miler at the first of September, and I was so excited to begin the training program. Six weeks before the race, I'm still not able to do any jogging - doctor's orders. All of that has heaped frustration upon grief, and there's just no getting around it. I have to live through it. What choice do I have?

I know everyone deals differently with their grief, and here I am. Four and a half months have passed since we lost Isaac, but the stress started last September when we heard "cystic hygroma". I've been trying to cope since then. It just seems like it's been a long road already and I see no signs of relief ahead.

July 4th

We went to DC this year for the Fourth of July. My brother and sister-in-law live in Leesburg, just west of DC. My little brother and his girlfriend drove up from Tennessee, and we all decided to brave the crowds in downtown DC to see the annual fireworks. It was hectic and extremely crowded, but it was so much fun. Watching the fireworks explode over the Washington Monument was breathtaking!

My older brother, Seth, is in the Air Force, and my mom served in the Army. Though neither one of them has fought in a war, they still sacrificed for our country. Our American lives are lavish: grocery stores on every corner, shopping malls, restaurants, clean water, and air conditioning. So many people all over the world don't know where their next meal will come from. Many live in fear. Americans are quick to forget. Men have died. Sons have died. Fathers and mothers have died. Why do we wait until July 4th to remember these sacrifices?

I'd been to the Vietnam Memorial before. I was in 8th grade. I stood at the Wall and watched as one of my teachers located her brother's name. She ran her fingers across his name as she lifted a white piece of paper to the Wall. With some effort she took a pencil and slowly colored back and forth. In just seconds she began crying. She sobbed and could barely breath. Another teacher helped her move away from the wall so that yet another teacher could finish the pencil rubbing. I was only 13 at the time, but I remember wondering why she was crying so hard. It didn't make sense to me that she could be so sad after so many years. I had never experienced that kind of pain and loss. When I was standing at the Wall this July 4th running my fingers across the names, I kept thinking, "whose son are you?" It was all too clear at that moment: my son's name is etched into a memorial too. People will come across his name on the Trisomy 18 foundation site or see his headstone at the cemetery, and they'll ask, "whose son are you?" Now I understand why my teacher sobbed for her brother. It's no way to keep your loved one - only etched in stone, only a memory.

Every American should spend time remembering these sacrifices. Every mother wants their son remembered, whether he died in a battle or in a hospital.


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I actually wasn't trying to be profound. I was going to say we had fun and post pics and leave it at that. Oh well. We did have fun! And here are some pics of the trip.

His name in writing

We were at home over the weekend for CJay's 10-year high school reunion. It was fun, but in the midst of the festivities, we had to stop by the funeral home to pick out a marker for Isaac's grave. We haven't been home since the graveside service, so this was our first opportunity to meet with someone from the funeral home. Picking out the marker wasn't hard. It was strange but not difficult. I kept thinking about how we picked Isaac's name, and like so many other parents, we had practiced saying it and wondered how he might grow into it. And yet there we were, staring at his name on paper, confirming the spelling, explaining the meaning of Liam, and picking out fonts for his grave's marker. I'm sure this falls high on the list of things a person should never have to do.

On the way home, we stopped by the cemetery. It's a small family cemetery high above Watauga Lake. It's beautiful there. The oak trees are old, the grass a little too long. The breeze from the lake carries the voices of the people down below sitting in the sand. For some reason, the sounds of the children playing were musical. I loved looking down at them knowing they were living when my child couldn't. I felt vindicated, not envious. Children do live. They laugh and smile and enjoy life. I look forward to the day when l hear my children doing the same.

Moving along, thanks to my fathers

I've been back at work for 6 weeks now, and with each week I've found it easier to be back to "normal." At first I was tormented at work because I had to put on a face and move forward. There was no time to cry or be angry. While I was at home, I had the luxury of feeling whatever emotions came at me. I really didn't know if I would be able to continue pretending to be fine, but the truth is that I have been able to. The truth is I'm fine. I know it sounds impossible: "I'm fine?! My baby died 12 weeks ago. It's not possible to be fine!"

Don't get me wrong, I miss Isaac. I look at his pictures and study his face. I wonder why we couldn't keep him. I allow myself to be sad when necessary, but I'm fine. I may be an atypical type of woman. I'm driven by rationale, logic, thought. I don't want my feelings to guide my decisions or my actions. It does happen, because well, I'm a woman, but when it comes to dealing with these heavy issues, I seek reason and truth. I have my father to thank for that.

My dad is an amazing teacher. He was a teacher by trade for a short time, but he was one of those rare teachers: he was a natural; he was good. He doesn't teach professionally anymore, but that doesn't mean he isn't teaching us at all times. It was actually irritating as a child:
"Look at this plant..."
"After the Civil War..."
"Europeans' doors swing in, not out like Americans'..."

During my high school years, Dad taught the high school Sunday school class at church. He continually stressed how important it was, as a Christian, not to rely on your feelings. God doesn't tell us to praise him when we feel like it. He doesn't say we can do the right thing when we feel like it. You must do it; the feelings will follow.

What an important lesson he taught me. Each time the doctor would find another problem with Isaac - his heart had a defect or his feet seemed rounded - I would be hopeful, angry, devastated. I would tell God that I could not handle losing this child. I couldn't. He was wrong. I wouldn't be content. I wouldn't praise him. I wouldn't. I felt no peace. I felt no joy. I felt no happiness. But I am human and feelings are fickle.

Three months later, I have peace about what we went through. I have peace about God's choice, and I can thank God for giving us Isaac and taking him away. Yes, I said it: I can thank God for taking away my son. I don't rely on my feelings because my feelings would have me screaming at God, bitter with his choice, angry at his audacity. My son? My son? You have nothing better to do than take away my son? That would be easier, I think, than telling God that I'm thankful for this agony. But I've done what my teacher said, and he was right. You must do it; the feelings will follow.


"You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in You."
Isaiah 26:3

"How are you doing?"

Honestly, I don't think folks understand the magnitude of what they've been asking for these past two months. Sure, it's an everyday type of question that usually comes with an unconscious response... "I'm fine. How are you?" But this isn't a normal "how are you?" There's nothing normal about this simple question now.

It's so difficult to put into words, but I'll try to paint a basic picture for you. You've just been through the most tragic and painful experience you can imagine. The life you once enjoyed has stopped, and the surreality of the experience is still strong. Your mind struggles to determine where your life is now. None of this feels real.

What is real is you are alive. But you're just going through the motions of living while nothingness (all the feelings you can't describe) weighs down your heart. All you want to do is lie down somewhere alone and die, but you gotta pick up and get back to living, all the while trying desperately to look as if you're holding it together. Then someone asks, "How are you doing?" It hits you like a ton of bricks. You have to make a choice. Do you tell this poor soul how your heart is broken and aching with every beat, that your mind never stops playing this bad dream over and over, and that you wish you were dead because you just can't understand why you're still alive? Or do you say unconvincingly, "I'm doing okay"?

Before Isaac, I never realized how much meaning a "small talk" question could have. This simple phrase invokes the heaviest feelings and emotions when I least expect it. At times it's been a struggle not to pour out the contents of my aching soul. Most of the time folks know about Isaac, but occasionally a person we haven't seen or talked to in a while asks the question we know is inevitable. Lately, I've felt distressed about telling these unsuspecting folks. It's so incredibly hard for them to hear. In a way the story becomes a tragic experience for them too.

So how are we after experiencing Isaac? What is left of us? It's grief. Pure, raw grief. In some attempt to gain an understanding of this new all-consuming state of being, I picked up a book that Whitney had purchased for herself, probably for the same reasons. The first line of C.S. Lewis' A Grief Observed could not be more true. Lewis says, "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear." The feeling of being afraid seems to control every aspect of life. Each decision and action seems to be derived unconsciously when fear is driving the senses. That is grief.

But grief even goes beyond fear. With fear you prefer to have someone to share it with. I've noticed there are times when I want to share my grief with Whitney or a close friend, and there are times when I want to be left alone and keep it all for myself, almost like a child being selfish with his toys. I don't want folks to know or experience my grief. It's mine, not yours, so don't pretend you know. To add to that layer, I want people to acknowledge Isaac, ask me how we are doing, drop a note or just simply say something, while still leaving me alone with my grief. How does that add up?

I also mentioned nothingness - all the feelings you can't describe. I believe this is a direct element of grief. While the grief is consuming you, the nothingness is just something you have to wade through. There are just simply too many emotions I can't express with words that I've felt since we lost Isaac. Whitney and I have had many conversations trying to sort through the nothingness we felt that day. We've gotten pretty good at talking about the nothingness, but there are never any conclusions.

And so tonight, in honor of Isaac, I grieve. My son lives in my dreams.

CJay

Who are we now?

One of the many feelings CJay and I have been struggling with these past 8 weeks is how to know who we are now. It's so obvious that losing a child changes you, and that's what everyone says, but how are we supposed to know exactly who we are now? I know eventually we'll be able to look back and see where we've come from and how we've changed, but who are we now, right now?

We've been so scarred by losing Isaac that, of course, we will never be the same, but we can't seem to wrap our minds around exactly how we're different. We're sadder now. We're more thankful. We're somber at times. We're thoughtful and angry and a million other feelings that have no titles. There are times when I think this Isaac-shaped hole can never be filled. And I don't mean replaced, I mean filled. Filled with other children and happier moments. I believe the bible, so I believe God will do what he promises. But I find myself asking God how he intends to fill this hole in our hearts that's so perfectly shaped for that person? For Isaac.

CJay and I are logical people. We can tear away our at feelings in search of logic (and we do), but at the end of the day, grief defies logic. We're spinning on a merry-go-round and when that logic passes, we grab on tight. Eventually we lose our grip and slouch down while we spin around, only to realize we wanted nothing to do with logic anyway. What do we care about logic? We don't even know who we are now.

I know the logical answer - no one will ever take the place, nothing can ever fill that hole, even when you have other children you'll always remember. Yes, I know. I know. But I don't care. I want my Isaac-shaped hole filled with Isaac. I don't want it filled with any other tidbits of happiness. I don't want to sit like a child and force a triangle-shaped block into a square hole. I want it to fit just right.

I don't think there's really an answer for who we are. We're not who we were. We'll never be the same. I believe CJay and I will continue day by day to gracefully accept this trial and turmoil, and we'll turn around one day and look into our past and say, "That was bad, but at least now we know who were back then."