Changed Forever

The Eve

2009-10-02T20:06:00.004-04:00

Although I've been silent for most of the summer, you knew I would write again around this time, didn't you? So many things about the turning of the calendar to October draw me back to my thoughts and the act of writing them down. I sit here in my office, windows wide open, the first scented breeze of fall greeting me (I love that smell), Fiona Apple in the background:

"Pale september, I wore the time like a dress that year. The autumn days swung soft around me, like cotton on my skin. But as the embers of the summer lost their breath and disappeared. My heart went cold and only hollow rhythms resounded from within."

Somber, but fitting for my mood. Although out of the context of the song I used them for my purposes for a lot of last fall...the contemplative notes, the descent into sadness and the beginning of winter, the piano so simple.

Here we are again, is all I can think of. Tomorrow was the big day, the most amazing day of our lives, shortly followed by one of the most horrible days of our lives...how often does that happen? I can't help but think of how different our lives would be with her here; she was supposed to be here.

At the awesome news of my sister-in-law's pregnancy a few weeks ago, I realized how much I had not let myself feel for a long time. Yes, I grieve, and I think I do a pretty good job at it and I'm open to talking about it and I think about her a lot. But, not until the reality of Shey's pregnancy was staring me in the face, did I realize how many memories and desires and emotions I had just packed away for another, happier, day. I was waiting to pull them out on my terms, when I had happy news to share, when my good fortune could couch the sadness I knew I would feel from reliving those amazing, hopeful pre-Octboer moments. But, it didn't happen that way. That suitcase got thrown wide open that night and my precious memories, that I had so carefully packaged away, spilled all over the floor...and it was exactly what I needed. It was what I needed to realize the selfishness and envy that had built up in me in a year since losing Elise, trying to find our way, trying to have another baby, trying to answer the unanswerable questions.

I am on more even footing these days...what a process this is...and I've discovered so much about myself in a year. Nothing is more important than family and friends, I love good real food (and canning it!), I love Christian rock (who knew?), I love my gray hair (thanks mom) and I don't need to color it, I do want to be a mom again and we're (hopefully) getting closer to that reality, I miss my daughter and that's not going to go away.

Oh Elise, if only you were here so we could be your parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles and friends. If only you could turn 1 tomorrow with us and a birthday cake and the old polish tradition of choosing between a knife (doctor), rosary (nun), money clip (banker) and shotglass (town drunk)--I'm not kidding--instead of being in an undescribable place and all we have are a few photos and a trip to the cemetary. If only so many things my head hurts. But, it's not what happened and we live with that reality and we learn to love again and to live with you in a different way.

Tomorrow we celebrate your life and the amazing gift you are to us...Happy Birthday, just a few hours early.

2009-07-06T14:01:00.002-04:00

It's amazing to me how our own pain can be put into perspective if we stop thinking about ourselves all the time and look around.
Mom recently has had two friends with tragic news related to their sons. One lost her son, an experienced diver, in a deep sea diving accident after a freak malfunction of his equipment. The other's son was diagnosed with a glioblastoma multiforme, a very serious type of brain tumor which usually carries a poor prognosis, even with the most aggressive treatment.
Finally, I heard a story that has preoccupied me since I learned of it. A story about us, basically, but not exactly. A story so like ours that I know I have a role to play. We learned of a couple in Nashville, friends of a friend, who lost a baby girl after 4 days of life. For 24 hours, she started her life perfectly healthy and then the news came, and 3 days later she was gone.
I relived our 4 days with Elise. I felt it all over again. Of course it hurt...but not as much as it used to...and the more powerful emotion was of the hope that, through my pain, I could maybe help someone else's pain, just a little. That I might just give a little wisdom or a little comfort or something. It's not like taking solace in another's pain but like knowing what the experience might bring. Maybe it's not about me anymore, maybe it's time to wake up to this amazing, ugly, colorful, screw-up, broken world and come at it, not with a hammer, but with ears to listen.

Happy Birthday (?)

2009-06-30T16:52:00.005-04:00

As I finish my 33rd year, I can't help but reflect on the life I've been able to make. It's crazy to think back all those years to all the things you did that you loved and hated and thought would never happen again and thought was the best day of your life...or the worst. I think of all those experiences and it's overwhelming....the first sip of a good glass of wine in Fort Wayne, the first time AJ and I held hands or fell asleep on the couch together, the first time I heard real bluegrass at Jen's wedding, sitting in an ice bath after my first 20 miler, an amazing nap on an anchored boat in Missouri, kissing Natalie's forehead for the 100th time, kissing Natalie's forehead for the last time, Mom knowing exactly what to say, the smell of Dad's cigarettes on my 21st birthday on the boats, feeling Elises's weight on my chest after she was born, reading a book that changed my life, Rocky's rough licks when there's something sticky on my face, Rocky's snores which gave us our first laugh after Elise died, hearing a song that brings you back to someplace and sometime that you thought you could never feel again, the tears that would never end...

And that's where I'm stuck today, the tears. This birthday can't be happy and that's OK. It doesn't stand alone, but in comparison to last year. I was 6 months pregnant with what seemed like only good things ahead of me...new place, new town, new job, new stuff. And now I'm here, not pregnant looking back and not ahead. Nothing is new here, I've been over the same ground many times.

So this is my unhappy birthday and it will be fine when it's over. I know I can't make it go faster or slower, it will just go, and my new year will start tomorrow.

Storms

2009-06-22T14:09:00.002-04:00

I was sure by now
That you would have reached down
And wiped our tears away
Stepped in and saved the day

But once again, I say "Amen"
And it's still raining
But as the thunder rolls
I barely hear you whisper through the rain
"I'm with you"
And as your mercy falls
I raise my hands and praise the God who gives
And takes away

And I praise you in this storm
And I will lift my hands
You are who you are
No matter where I am

And every tear I cry
You hold in your hand
You never left my side
Though my heart is torn
I will praise you in this storm

--Casting Crowns

Saturday was stormy, both literally and figuratively. Joc and I awoke to ominous skies and a radar forcast that predicted inevitable soggy shoes for the Baltimore 10 Miler that morning. As expected, steady rain came down as we toured Baltimore's neighborhoods from the zoo to Lake Montebello and back.

The gospel this Sunday taught us the story of Jesus who calmed the stormy seas while he and his disciples were out fishing. Father continued with the metaphor of the storm and encouraged us to look at storms not as something to be avoided (impossible!) but as an opportunity for growth and character development. God wants us to depend upon him and call on him at those times and use him for strength. That reminded me of both the Casting Crowns song and a plaque I have on our dresser:

"Sometimes the Lord calms the storm. Sometimes, He lets the storm rage and calms his child."

I remember seeing that plaque so many times on my mom's dresser and it always gave me pause, and peace. Recently, she sent it to me and it continues to give me (and AJ) something to think about.

So the storm metaphor was everywhere, is everywhere, and works well for me...I feel so much that I'm still living under a rain cloud. I can't help but look at these last 9 months as rain that won't let up, darkness that won't lift. Of course I have good days, most are good, but the shadow follows. I don't know what will make that go away...I have suspicions, but I also think it's ok if it doesn't go away totally. It's part of me.

I am still learning to live with things I cannot control and that is really frustrating, maddening. Trying to plan what the next few months and years will look like with a ? in the air goes against everything my schedule/calendar believes in! Do we take that trip? Do I start training for a marathon? Do I leave that part of my work schedule open? Do I enjoy that glass of wine? I don't want to do things half-assed or not at all waiting for something that may/may not happen. I will try to keep you updated on my growth...or lack thereof.

Babies

2009-04-30T19:59:00.002-04:00

So many new babies in our lives the past few weeks...so much I feel I should be joyful about. So many people who seem to weather pregnancy and childbirthh (and thereafter) with ease and beauty and confidence and an awesome carelessness. Maybe a little less careless since they know our story, but nonethelss, you never really believe that could happen to you...unless it did.

And here I stand, motionless in a world of activity, life passing on both sides of me. I have the same memories, I look at the same pictures, I cry over the same moments...the same memories. Some days I feel that all I have is memories, a complex web of dimming and graying snapshots, of smells (the lotion I put on my belly every day) and sounds (her first cry!) and sore body parts and prayers and then Elise herself is everywhere my mind goes.

I realize I have thought about these things less and less as time goes by. Of course the reality of all that is happened is there, but I find I don't think about the details much anymore. I'm sure it is a way of protecting myself so that I may actually accomplish other tasks in a day. It is only when I write here that I allow myself to go back there and be that woman again. Be the Stephanie = awesome healthy pregnant one, Stephanie = Mom, Stephanie = grieving mother then Stephanie = trying to redefine herself and rework world view, God view.

Maybe that's why it's been a while...it's hard to go back, but necessary.

The process of 'moving on' has not been as smooth as I had thought. It doesn't necessarily get better with the passing of time. Now, it's spring, and last spring, I was pregnant. Not pregnant enough to buy maternity clothes but enough to tell our family and coworkers, enought to think about it ALL the time, enough to feel a little more confident that the miracle would come to fruition.

Ahh, I feel I am going over the same old ground again even though this is new ground! I know there is light in this darkness, I am light in this darkness, I know God has good things in store for us, there are good things now...learning to trust in the plan is the challenge.

The Cemetary

2009-02-28T20:05:00.003-05:00

Last weekend was a rare opportunity for AJ and I to do whatever we wanted for the whole weekend...no prior commitments, no call, no rounds, no early morning running groups beckoning. We recieved notice from the cemetary that Elise's memorial had been installed and made plans to visit. I hadn't been there in months...probably since soon after she died; AJ had gone once by himself.

It was good. The plaque was perfect and the setting serene...a beautiful winter day, probably nearly 50 degress with sun. We sat on the grass near her grave back to back and cried and chatted and wondered. AJ's thoughts were existential, "Why did this happen to her (us)?" while mine were more mundane, "I wonder what she would be like, cranky, happy, difficult, easy." Neither of us had any answers, but it was good to talk aloud.

And then I watched as AJ cleaned the memorial with a towel and water from the car. He took such care to trace the granite indentations and remove the traces of dirt that had lodged at the edges of the stone. I watched with such sadness as the surgeon's hands, so accustomed to the delciate work of cutting tissue and sewing stitches, expertly, lovingly cleaned our daughter's gravestone.

It was really all we could do for her and, as is so characteristic of my husband, he put his energies into doing it right.

I thought about her earthly body, morbid I know, but I couldn't help it...but I also thought about her heavenly body and kept telling myself that she is the lucky one. She's the one with Jesus in the place where we all want to be. It sounds so simple, doesn't it? Too simple? But it's what I have, what I am trying, so hard, to believe.

All The Prayers Our Mouths Have Made

2009-02-05T11:10:00.003-05:00

Four months ago Elise was alive. Even more than the day she was born and the day she died, this time period each month, between the 3rd and the 7th, has been a time of great reflection for me. It's not disintegrating into tears or not wanting to get out of bed as it was in the beginning, but I look at her pictures a little longer and think about what it would like to be a mom to her on Earth. Our nursery is still as it was before she was born, everything in it's place. It's a wonderful room, a quiet, clean and warm place and I'm trying not to feel like a weirdo for still wanting it all put together. But, it doesn't give me pain to go there. Rocky likes the soft comforter and I like the peace. It's her room and it makes me sad and it makes me happy but overall I think it's a good place for us to see everyday as we walk to our office. To recognize all that we've lost, to remember it IS real, that WAS us and it's gone but that's our life. That's the path we are supposed to walk.

The nursery makes me want to be a mom to another baby on Earth, too. Sure, those desires cause me some guilt since my energies are not on Elise. She is amazing, our daughter, but as important as those 4 days are to us, they don't go very far when I think of all the love we want to give and the experiences we long to have. I think she would be OK with it.

I have been trying to talk more with God and it's amazing how much I have to say. When I started to make these conversations less formal and more of a chit chat, the words just kept coming. There is so much to pray for, so many people and so much pain...and so much hope. I am trying to believe that these conversations with God make a difference in the world, not just a difference in my head. I am trying to believe that, aside from our free will and human-ness, he intervenes for or acts upon us and changes us. I don't like thinking that my words dissapate as they leave my mouth and that is their end...I feel like I'm too smart to believe in something like that. At least, I hope I am.

Envy

2009-01-11T20:23:00.003-05:00

This weekend has been difficult for me. Just when I think I'm doing so well, feeling so strong, I'm brought to tears and once again realize the depths of this pain, of our loss. I learned that my cousin is having a baby girl...that was so difficult for me to hear. Of course I love her and I'm so happy for her, but this knowledge has touched me in a painful place and I'm not sure why. Is it because, so recently, I had a girl who was supposed to be THAT girl, the one our family was so excited about after a string of boys? Is it because I feel that once this new girl comes, Elise is no longer needed, no longer missed? Is it because it is one less reason for others around me to be happy and leave me in my sadness alone?

(I can't believe how selfish that is.

But I will never be the same. It will never be the same. Nothing will ever be the same. The old me is gone. Who was she?)

Everyone talked about how hard the holidays would be. But we were busy and went to parties and traveled and saw our families. Now all that is over and we're still here. The long winter is ahead and my 33rd year and oh I am not getting younger and this thought is with me all the time. Somehow, I will figure out how to be OK with this. Or maybe it will never be OK but it is my life.

Thank you for listening to me, for giving me time and space...and love.

New Year

2009-01-03T11:38:00.003-05:00

A winter sunset over Loch Raven Reservoir was my gift yesterday after a run with Marita and Rocky. Marita is one of my new Baltimore people, truly unlike anyone I know. Endless energy, sarcasm, love, opinion and food comes from her to me (what do I give her in return?). She has adopted me and it is good, for the most part, as friendships are inevitably complicated. And, well, you know who Rocky is. Our chatter in the woods on January 2nd reinforced where I am not this year...with the Great 8, my girls from college with whom I have celebrated every New Year since 1998. I had thought it would be really difficult to be there this year, without the little bundle I had planned to tote along. I would be a downer, surrounded by happy kids and sleepy babies, full of childless desperation and jealous of my dearest friends. No, this year would be had at home. Incidentally, I had the stomach flu on New Year's Eve and spent the evening with ginger ale in bed, so I'm relieved that big plans were not made.

Jocelyn gave me a great book for Christmas, which I read over the last couple days, An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination, by Elizabeth McCracken. Unfortunately, these are not the kind of books you send to friends and recommend to co-workers so I'm left to sing their praises in my little blogworld. The author had a stillborn child (nicknamed Pudding) and talks about how difficult it can be to think back to that time:

"Other memories are more troublesome. Here's a length of time, my brain says, and then it stares, it sees an actual length of time suspended in the air, which then breaks into panels, as in a comic book. Here I am in one panel. I am in the line of danger, but I don't know it, I am living in the past: the past being defined by the fact that Pudding is alive, but not for long. In the next panel, seconds later, something is supposed to intervene. Superman swooping in to -- what? Deliver the baby? ... Superman is supposed to come is all I know, so Pudding will persist.

But Superman never shows. I can see it so clearly. In one panel we are safe and stupid. In the next we're only stupid."

This is how I feel. Three months ago Elise was born. But had something already happened before she was delivered? We now think that's a strong possibility. I hate thinking about that and still, I can't not think about it. It's so hard to think back to the time when we thought all was well, to see how innocent and dumb and blind we were to all that would happen. And then the thoughts creep in, the ones that wonder if we could have changed the outcome. I know they are not healthy or helpful but they come just the same. Don't feel too bad for me, though. I am OK with all of these thoughts and feelings and I know they are part of me and part of working through a great tragedy that may have started right inside me, where she was supposed to be safe. It is impossible not to feel the teensiest bit of blame when I played such a big part in the production.

Anyway, goodbye 2008. It is bittersweet to leave it behind, but mostly sweet. Elise comes with us into the new year along with hope for new life.

Virginia Woolf

2008-12-07T20:25:00.003-05:00

Have you ever listened to a song and felt like it was speaking to you? Like it was written just for the moment you were experiencing? Like it was exactly what you needed to hear?

We had our first snow of the season last night and I bundled up and headed to a nearby park for a few miles by myself. I have been running lately with a couple of close friends and it has really been wonderful to share something I enjoy so much. But last night, I looked forward to going alone. The snow, the dusk, the chance to listen to music and somehow come closer to fact of two months without Elise...all these reasons were so compelling.

It was cold, but awesome. Fat, wet flakes fell from above and accumulated slowly on the grass and on the aluminum stands that flanked the soccer fields. I realized the song list on my Ipod Shuffle was my "Push - Energize" list that I put together before Elise was born and that we played while I was in labor. I had chosen songs with a good tempo, ones that inspired me and ones that I thought were funny for the situtation like Lauryn Hill's "When It Hurts So Bad." But I had forgotten about "Virginia Woolf", an Indigo Girls song that I totally love, especially the chorus. The song was written by Emily (one of the Indigo Girls), inspired by Woolf's memoirs, and (I think) speaks to the connection through time and space that she felt regarding the emotional struggles that Woolf experienced.

Of course, this has nothing to do with what I was feeling and yet, it made sense to me anyway.

So I know I'm all right
Life will come and life will go
Still I feel its all right
Cause I just got a letter to my soul
And when my whole life is on the tip of my tongue
Empty pages for the no longer young
The apathy of time laughs in my face
You say, each life has its place

Each life has its place. I sang out loud and ran as tears streamed down my face. My breath caught in my throat but I didn't stop. Somehow the motion and the snow and the beautiful painful cold that filled me when I was able to take breaths were so right. It is at times like these that I feel close to her. I don't feel like she's right next to me all the time or that I can just ask her what I should make for dinner or what I should wear to work that day. I have read that some feel this way, but I don't. And I don't feel that this is a negative thing, it's just how we are (or, how I am). But, every so often, in the confluence of filtered light and surprising emotion and music and life...I feel she is there.

Again, thank you for your love and prayers and words...and thank you for listening.

The Question

2008-11-20T19:30:00.004-05:00

I've been asked twice in the last week if I had kids. This is a really difficult question...to say 'no' is so easy, almost automatic, reflecting the reality of what I feel every day. But at the same time, 'no' is denying that Elise ever existed, denying that I was her mother...am her mother. Yet saying 'yes' requires so much more emotional work and I feel like I then commit myself to the explanation. I know I don't have to explain but that's what I do. I talk when I don't need to and I don't do very well with silences. So, a 'yes' is telling her story which makes me feel excellent because it needs to be told but is not always convenient, does not fit into a short pretty package, does not have a happy ending.

I've been interviewing candidates for residency these past few weeks and Tuesday the question came. I said 'no' well 'yes' and recieved an interesting look from the applicant. I then gestured to the photo of Elise on the wall in my office and said 'we had a daughter who died of a brain hemorrhage in October.' If I must critique the interaction, it went over quite well (as well as something like this could go) and the candidate said she was sorry and I thanked her it and that was that. Today, one of the other attendings at my hospital was talking about her son's grades and, out of nowhere in the middle of her story, asked if I had children. Without thinking I said 'not yet' and immediately felt horrible. Before I could say anything else, she continued with her story. I totally would not have wanted to talk about Elise in that crowded elevator but at the same time, I just felt so sad that it seemed so easy for me to say 'no.' I feel weak for not saying 'yes,' and angry at myself for caring about other people feelings, for worrying about softening the blow for them.

This experience reminded me of a passage from an excellent book my mom sent to me, Life Touches Life: A Mother's Story of Stillbirth and Healing, by Lorraine Ash. Even though her experience is with stillbirth, so much of what she writes about resonates with me and our experience with infant loss.

"Mothers of stillborn children often wind up soothing others...Eventually we parents came to realize that we may be the only firsthand witnesses of life's brutalities that some people ever know. Talking to us may be as close as many people have ever come to real horror. Perhaps stillbirth moms are all that stand between tham and the horror, and they desperately want us to keep silent about what we experienced. No matter how great the need to testify, most people want us to shield them from the blood and pain. They would rather not know. They are afraid to know."

I want to thank you for not allowing us to be silent, for wanting to know, for not being afraid to know, for being willing to embrace our horror with us. I want to thank you for all the amazing things you've said and done...things I would never have known or thought to say or do...things I will always do from now on.

One Month (Father's Edition)

2008-11-07T20:22:00.002-05:00

Emptiness. There's no other word that better describes it. We had anticipated so much would happen in the month after Elise's birth...sleepless nights, constant diaper changes, feedings, the sounds of crying echoing through the house, and multiple opportunities to hold her in my arms as she dosed off to sleep. Obviously none of those anticipated moments has come to fruition. Instead, our house is eerily silent. There's no crying, no dirty diapers, no daughter to hold in my arms.

It leaves you feeling empty. There's a void because we spent so much time and energy preparing "space" for her. Space in our lives that cannot be filled by anything or anyone else other than her. We have tried every day to put one foot in front of the other and continue on living our lives, but it's difficult when nothing is as you expected. Nothing fills the space.

Things weren't supposed to be like this. I shouldn't be waking up to an alarm clock, my daughter should be waking me up. I shouldn't be able to sleep through the night, so maybe that's why I wake up at all hours for seemingly no good reason. I shouldn't be lying on the couch with my arms folded across my chest, I should be holding Elise. I shouldn't be wondering what to do with myself, I should be looking forward to spending every waking moment with Elise.

Nothing is as it was supposed to be. Elise's birth brought us to the top of the mountain, and we expected to stay there for years to come. Instead, we got pushed off the cliff and began a free fall into a chasm so deep we never imagined it existed. There's a tremendous void in our lives right now. No matter how much we try to fill up our lives with other things, there's still a void, a space... a feeling of emptiness.

One Month - A Letter to Elise

2008-11-03T17:37:00.003-05:00

Dear Elise,

One month ago tonight you came into our lives and changed us forever.

We fell in love with you again the moment we saw you, just as we had so many months before. You were perfect in every way, from your tiny fingers and toes to your head of dark hair. We loved getting to know you and just looking at your beautiful face. Did you know your eyebrows are just like mine? They end abruptly somewhere in the middle and restart just above where they left off, two brushstrokes of the Creator's hand. Did you know your forehead is just like your father's? Broad and distinctive, a classic family trait.

In the short time we spent with you, you gave us so much joy. We never knew how much our hearts could open, how the rest of the world could fall away when we were with you. We gave you all the love we could, every moment of every day we had together, and we hope you felt it. We want you to know we loved you every minute of your life. Oh, how we wish we had more time with you. There were so many things we wanted to experience with you, so many hopes and dreams for you in this life.

Elise, we still struggle to understand why you were called home to God so soon. We know that He needed you and that He doesn't make mistakes, but that doesn't make us miss you any less. We know we may never have all the answers and that will have to be fine. We do know we are different because of you. We listen more and criticize less, we try to talk with God more, truly experience nature, and value our relationships with people. We are more patient and less petty.

Our lives will never be the same, little girl, and that is a good thing. And even though you are with God, we will always be your parents and we will never forget the precious 4 days that we had together as a family.

Love,

Mom

shenandoah

2008-10-26T14:59:00.003-04:00

Although we visited Shenendoah National Park over a week ago, I haven't really felt compelled to write about it...until now. It was definitely spur of the moment but seemed like what we needed; a little adventure, a reason to get away from Baltimore, a chance to be outside and renew ourselves somehow.

It turned out to be all of those things. With AJ's parents and my mother, we hiked. It wasn't very far but felt strenuous and exhilarating nonetheless. We walked through fields of hay-scented ferns, manuevered carefully down steep, rocky, leaf covered paths, and enjoyed spectacular views of the sprawlng Shendandoah Valley. We spent a short time on the Appalachian Trail which runs the length of the park and enjoyed the brilliant foliage, already peaking at certain elevations.

AJ and I hiked alone to the base of a waterfall and enjoyed the relative quiet of the forest. We talked about the future and felt a lot of the hike was a metaphor for our lives at this point...lots of twists and turns, not quite knowing what lay around the bend, but walking it anyway. I don't think we answered any questions or solved any problems, but it was good to be there and do something together that we've always enjoyed.

alone again

2008-10-22T19:15:00.004-04:00

AJ and I went back to work on Monday and my mom departed for the long drive home. And now we are along again. I awoke each morning this week and thought how strangely quiet, cold, and dark the house is, so different from everything we had expected, everything we had counted on.
Yesterday marked 2 weeks without Elise in our arms.
We talked for a long time last night about our pain, our loss, and our shared fear of what the future holds for us. We want so much to be more than just the two of us and Rocky, and yet that dream seems so elusive now, fraught with risk and worry and the sense that time is getting away from us.
I know this is all part of the process and I know there are brighter days ahead and I really look forward to standing in the sun again. But for now, we are in shadow, and we miss our dear sweet baby so much.

Afterward

2008-10-20T19:15:00.003-04:00

The week after Elise died was filled with painful decisions, wonderful conversations, and an outpouring of so much love and so many prayers for which we will forever be grateful. People we hardly knew or had never met sent us their thoughts, hugged us tightly, told us their own stories of loss...and continue to do so. People we've known for a long time, our friends and family, were (and are) so good to us. They performed the mundane household tasks that really made life easier and took on the important work of listening to us without turning away from our pain.

We held a short visitation on Friday, and a funeral mass at our church on Saturday morning, followed by her burial in the children's section of a cemetary near our church. It was all so difficult but, at the same time, so necessary and beautiful.

The hard work of grief continues for us daily.

Elise's Story Part III

2008-10-17T16:16:00.006-04:00

It was Monday night. We knew sometime soon we would let our little girl go home. We both dreaded the task of saying goodbye but, at the same time, she needed to be at peace. Hopkins was awesome. Elise was moved to a private room and she was assigned a nurse with no other duties for the night. When we entered her room, she only had the breathing tube and an IV. The nurse helped AJ get situated and he held her first as I sat next to him; I was afraid to hold her. Afraid of my emotions and afraid of how her little body would feel in my arms...that I may not be able to let her go. We talked to her and prayed for her and snuggled with her and tried to commit every moment to memory. We all held her for a long time and gave her so much love. The nurse took a picture of each of us with her. At first, the idea seemed wrong, but we felt we didn't want to leave this most important of nights uncaptured. We still haven't looked at those pictures, but I'm glad we took them.

About 4am my parents arrived from Indiana. My father had not yet met Elise and they spent some quality time together. My father always has his emotions in check and is very laid back about things; it was hard for me to see him where neither of those were true. My mom held Elise and sang to her. Uncle Dave and Aunt Shey arrived soon after and were able to say their goodbyes and give her a ton of love, as well. At 7am, we felt everyone had been able to love her and hold her and say goodbye and we didn't want to continue to prolong her life for our selfish purposes.

The nurse handed my daughter to me for the last time.

I sat in a rocking chair on a pillow. On my lap was our boppy pillow and on top of that, Elise. AJ was in a chair next to me leaning toward her with his arms encircling her. The physician came and turned off the ventilator and removed the breathing tube. We just looked at her beautiful face and felt so much love for her and sadness at the same time. She was the perfect size in my arms, warm and soft, and she was our baby, only 4 days old.

And then she was gone.

AJ new the moment her heart stopped beating. We continued to hold her for a while, kissed and hugged her, and cried with our families. It was heartbreaking for us but not for her...we knew she was now free, not bound to her body, in God's home.

While the nurses gave her a bath, took hand and footprints for us, and made a hand mold, we went for a walk. Bright sun streamed into the hallway and we hugged. We felt that we just did the most difficult thing we've ever had to do and now could begin the process of healing, of moving forward. We tried to find small blessings to hold on to in the midst of this difficult experience and we always maintained that she changed our lives, and many others, forever.

Over the next hour, our family went home and Uncle Dave and Aunt Shey waited to take us home. We gathered all of our things and the NICU team assembled a beautiful memory box. Leaving the hospital and Elise behind was so much more difficult than I had anticipated. AJ and I stood in her room at her cribside and cried. I couldn't believe how much I missed her already. I put my hands on either side of her little body swaddled in a hospital blanket and kissed her. I truly could not imagine ever leaving. This wasn't how it was supposed to be...at all. This little baby that we already loved so much, that was all we had thought about for so many months, she was supposed to be our daughter for the rest of our days and we were ready to be her parents.

But we knew she wasn't there. She was already finished with that body. She would be with us in whatever we did from then on, our angel. We kissed her forehead one last time and walked straight out into a gorgeous fall morning.

Elise's Story Part II

2008-10-15T19:30:00.005-04:00

Sleep did not come easy on Sunday night. We were so tired and yet so worried, our minds did not stop thinking one thought after the other, though all we really wanted was to shut it off. I awoke to my alarm every 3 hours to pump and I think that was the time I felt the most alone. I sat at our kitchen counter and cried, wondering if Elise would ever benefit from the milk I was making. It was such a ridiculous substitute for what a new mother should be doing and at the same time, it made me feel like I was being productive for her.

Monday came quickly. It took the balance of the day to get things arranged for her MRI and angiogram. We spent the day with our little girl, talking with her and doing the few things that we were able to do in the NICU setting. We met with lots of doctors, including an amazingly kind and gentle neonatologist and another physician who is one of 30 researchers in the world to focus on brain injury in full term infants. Finally, we talked at length with the pediatric interventional radiologist who impressed upon us the risks of the procedure she would undergo and what the possible outcomes were.

As she left for her tests, we bid her goodbye and took a walk. Throughout the day, AJ and I had consciously and subconsciously begun to prepare ourselves for all types of outcomes. We both felt it was important to stay grounded and realistic and face the reality that we could lose our little girl. We didn't want our selfish desire to be with her to cloud our judgment if it seemed clear she wouldn't have any quality of life. At the same time, we felt like we were betraying her to even consider life without her, like we had allowed ourselves to lose hope. It was a gorgeous fall day and we talked for a long time about how in such a short time she had changed us forever. The day to day decisions that seemed so important to us before, the rushing to get more done in less time, the stress over work...it all seemed so pointless to us now. Elise had taught us about the most important things in life like love, family, faith, kindness...all these things that are so different from what our culture tells you are important. We knew that whatever happened to her, we would never be the same.

We sat in the hospital chapel and prayed and sang "Be Not Afraid" and "On Eagle's Wings." We held the cross my friends from college had sent to us and asked God once again to give us strength for what was ahead. We thanked God for each other. Shortly after we got back up to the NICU floor, we heard her name over the intercom and realized they had brought her back to the unit...she had only been gone an hour for what was supposed to take at least 2 or 3. AJ and I knew this was not a good turn of events and we again prepared ourselves for the worst news.

We sat in the conference room with AJ's parents, the pediatric interventional radiologist, the neonatologist, our nurse for the night, and the neonatology fellow. The radiologist explained that the MRI revealed there was diffuse swelling and widespread hypoxic damage to both cerebral hemispheres. Her brainstem, which controls primitive reflexes, was the only area that was spared. They postulated that seizures or the brain swelling had caused the widespread hypoxia. The damage was significantly more severe than anyone had anticipated or expected and they felt that there was no benefit to doing the angiogram with this information. It was clear there was no hope for meaningful recovery or any quality of life; basically, the decisions had been made for us.

AJ and I were devastated but amazingly calm. I think this was the information we were fearing all day and possibly longer. For AJ, it was the end of worry. We now knew the task ahead of us and although it would be the most difficult thing we had ever had to do, we knew we needed to be strong and let our little girl go home to God.

Elise's Story Part I

2008-10-14T20:43:00.004-04:00

Aside from having gestational diabetes, my pregnancy was a breeze. I didn't experience morning sickness or have a lot of aches and pains. I gained about 20 pounds and continued to run (although slowly!) through the duration. I was excited to try natural childbirth and breastfeeding and cloth diapering and read just about every book and scoured numerous websites on the subjects. I got to know Harvey Karp and the baby whisperer just in case our baby was a little on the 'fussy' side. We were so excited about the new person that was about to come into our lives. We thought about how life would change, we dreamed about our new family, we looked forward to the hard work and joy of raising our baby.

My water broke on the night of Thursday, October 2nd. I knew that didn't bode well for having an unmedicated labor and delivery since we were 'on the clock' to deliver before the risk of infection became too high. Somehow, that just didn't matter anymore as the excitement of what was happening gripped us and we realized we would be parents soon. I was admitted and spent the night in the hospital, tossing and turning, nervous and excited about the day ahead...our baby's birthday.

Labor didn't start on it's own so my obstetrician started oxytocin the next morning. Things ramped up slowly but steadily and for the next 10 hours, AJ and I labored naturally. I have to admit, we were a great team, using almost every non-pharmacologic technique out there successfully. About 4 pm, I was exhausted and starving and started to lose my focus. After much discussion, I opted for an epidural. Three hours later, I was ready to push and did so for another three hours without much progress. The doctor on call recommended low forceps and our baby was out a few minutes later.

Elise Nora was born at 10:47 pm on October 3rd, 2008.

I can't believe how much I loved her the moment I saw her.

She needed some help perking up and was suctioned and given oxygen for a few minutes. After what seemed like an eternity of crying and praying, too afraid to look over at the warmer, she made her voice known...what a spectacular relief it was to hear her cry. She was in AJ's arms and then mine within 10 minutes and she was perfect, our sweet baby girl. We were a family with our whole life ahead of us.

But, that joy was so short-lived. She went to the nursery around 2:00 am to be bathed and evaluated and the pediatrician came into our room a couple hours later to let us know she was going to the NICU for observation. She commented on some unusual arm movements and turning of her head and eyes to the left. We were worried, but optimistic...she looked so good and acted so normally with us!

The news did not improve. I stop now to comment that the ensuing days were a horrendous exercise in lowering our expectations and coming to terms with worse and worse news.

By mid-morning, after long discussions with the neonatologist and a CT scan, we had the news that she had sustained bilateral interventricular hemorrhages (IVH). It was a surprising diagnosis since IVH usually affects premature infants and we weren't clear on why this had happened to Elise. AJ was in shock and so worried; I was worried but optimistic still and went about doing 'mom' things...trying to breastfeed, holding and singing, tending to my own wounds. We waited the balance of the day for the evaluation by a pediatric neurologist and, until then, the plan was to watch out for seizure activity and spend time with her. In retrospect, this time was a blessing. Each family member had time to spend with her, getting to know her, marveling at how beautiful she was, how you'd never know she was so sick just by looking at her. Her Aunt Shey took a ton of amazing photos while Daddy spent some quality time with his little girl.

By late afternoon, at the prompting of some of our family, we began to wonder if Elise should be transferred somewhere she could be offered the highest level of neonatal care. Her doctors agreed that she needed to be somewhere with access to a pediatric neurosurgeon and within 2 hours she was at Hopkins. AJ, Uncle Dave, Aunt Shey, and Grandma Nora followed and I had to stay another night in the hospital where I had delivered.

I know this was a difficult night for AJ. While it was heartbreaking for me to stay behind, I was relieved that she was being transferred and I had a lot of distractions...managing my own pain and bleeding, pumping every 3 hours and trying to get some rest...I knew there would be restless/sleepless nights ahead.

AJ had a night of little sleep and had to absorb an amazing amount of clinical information. Elise was intubated shortly after her arrival; she had become more agitated at rest and the team thought that sedating her may also help relieve some intracranial pressure. She had another CT scan and was evaluated by the pediatric neurosurgery team. It was then that the diagnostic picture changed. The neurosurgeons were certain that she had also experienced a subarachnoid hemorrhage (SAH), much more common in full-term infants than an IVH, and they felt this was more responsible for her clinical picture and could have caused the IV blood. We learned (and remembered from med school) that the most common considerations for SAH were vascular--either an arteriovenous malformation (AVM) or an aneurysm. The next step was to get an MRI to better evaluate the extent of bleeding and swelling followed by an angiogram, to try to diagnose and possibly repair a vascular problem. It was impressed upon them, though, that she had 'a lot of blood' in her brain and there was a great risk that the swelling from that bleeding would/could cause or already had caused brain damage.

I saw Elise for the first time at Hopkins on Sunday morning. She looked so big in the NICU where many of the babies were extremely premature. It was hard to look at her with at least 10 tubes/leads/lines connected, her eyes closed, the machine breathing for her. I wanted so much to hold her like a mama holds her baby, to feed her, to take her home. The NICU team was awesome. They let me take her temperature, change her little diaper, talk to her and stroke her legs, place my hand on her chest. We met with the physician team in the afternoon. There was really nothing new. Another CT showed that the bleed was stable but she had a lot of swelling in and around the brain tissues. What we could hope for was that no further bleeding would occur and that the swelling would start to subside...soon. No one was optimistic but we weren't hopeless either. We were hoping and praying for a true miracle.

After spending some more time at her bedside, we went home for some much needed rest...tomorrow was going to be a big day full of tests and, hopefully, some answers.

Forward

2008-10-13T21:53:00.000-04:00

I don't blog.

In fact, until today, I thought the idea of writing one's own thoughts into cyberspace was a little self-absorbed and reserved for people who had way too much time on their hands (forgive me you bloggers that I happen to know and love).

But now I feel differently and I know those things aren't true. Maybe because now I feel like I have something to say, a story to tell that I want you to read, a desperate need to feel connected.

The story of our daughter's life and death will follow but I think it will take me some time to write. Many of you have heard this already but I feel like I need to have every detail down. As much as I want the pain to be less, I don't want to forget a single detail of her life, of our short time with our beautiful Elise.