Room with a View

I haven't felt like there has been much to say lately. I had a little bit of a blue period which I wasn't entirely prepared for. I don't know, she passed and I was sad and it was a slap in the face but then I felt peace and closure and I thought, maybe I've survived this. Maybe I'm okay. And then I just sort of slipped. Partly me but mostly my husband and good friends kept me from slipping too deep.

I have one friend who for whatever reason is just acutely aware of me and my needs. (and lies).

a few weeks back I was supposed to be somewhere and I just told her I was tired/not feeling well/busy ALL at the same time so I wasn't going and she said, "me too. We should probably go to dinner and a movie instead."

And we did. And it pulled me back a little closer to the surface. And today I am good again. I guess that's how it will be. Ups and downs. I know people have told me that but for whatever reason I like to think I don't belong to THAT club. That's for OTHER people.

But maybe not.

But to the point....

Here is Gracie's place. Isn't it beautiful. In the spring Wildflowers are just EVERYWHERE. It is magical.

This is a headstone I really really wanted to replicate but we are finding it difficult to find a stone cutter that won't charge A LOT. We'll figure it out someday I guess.You can see Gracie's plot in the background with the pink flowers. I love this headstone because it is tiny and beautiful. At the bottom it says "Weep not papa and mama for me for I am in heaven waiting for thee" I love it. 

This is her spot. In the background you can see a little bell. My boys call it her door bell and when we go visit we ring the bell to tell her we're here and then she comes to be with us. At first it was kind of just a special story to tell the boys but I don't know. I ring it when I am alone and I can tell you that I know I have felt her spirit very close. A bell for our Belle.

I plan on continuing to write on here for thoughts on Gracie and this experience but I think I am going to try to start writing on my old blog again. www.ejray.blogspot.com I have three crazy monkeys disguised as boys to think of after all.

Love, Emma

Brave Like Gracie

I've been into reading lately. Little portable escape routes.

But reading pre-Gracie and reading post-Gracie feels different to me. Like I understand something there that I didn't before.

I love to write. It is a hobby and it helps me escape a little. But I've always struggled with protagonists. Specifically protagonists in tough situations. I could just never really get behind them emotionally. For example, in a lot of these hero stories, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, pick your poison, I would read about these protagonists who were the "key" to saving whatever world they had to save.

They were the only ones who could do it. And to me, I was like "come on! Buck up Harry! YOU are the chosen one so just do it!"

And when they were frustrated or reluctant I always thought, Well geez. It's for the greater good you know. Pull it together.

Call me insensitive. Call me immature. I probably was both and more.

But I feel like I get it now.

I was the chosen one. I was chosen to be Gracie's mother, to be the vessel that got her here and back to her Father in Heaven. And I can say that many times I didn't want to be. I didn't want to carry that ring to Mordor.

I would sometimes lay there at night with my husband and throw a tantrum like a five year old and just keep saying, "I don't want to do this. I don't want to be this. I don't want to do this!"

Sometimes I would hope I would miscarry. They told me every dang appointment I was going to. Please, just end it, I thought. Or can't this be happening to anyone else? ANYONE else?

But it wasn't. It was me. It was happening to me. It was my "quest".

And now she's safe and sound and things are returning to that quiet stability I once knew. And I feel different about life. I feel older, sure, but I feel stronger. I feel sad, but I feel great hope.

I guess I can see now that I am the protagonist of my story. And I will get discouraged and I will get beaten down but I feel like I can be brave now, something I had never really felt before.

The Benefits of the Doubted

Sometimes I can't sleep at night.

Last night was one of those nights. I wasn't having a particularly hard night or anything I was just restless. I think My husband was too because he was silent as the grave. Whenever he is silent, he is awake. It's the snoring that lets me know he's asleep. (and in his defense it isn't snoring, it's just breathing but I need silence to sleep dangit! Can't he just not breathe?)

But anyway. I was laying there and my thoughts were drifting all over and back and I began to wonder why. The question of all questions. I don't really ask it in a "WHY??????-insert tears-" kind of way anymore. I just wonder why.

What was the purpose? What was the point?

Well I know, for Gracie, at least she needed to come here and get a body and become part of our family. But for me. Why for me?

And I don't think I know the complete why, or the rippling effects she will have in the years to come but I do think I have learned one thing.

Everyone has hard things.

It's simple, obvious even, but I think we forget. We all know... but we forget.

I am now an advocate for the doubted and am constantly fighting for their benefit.

Everyone, everywhere gets the benefit of the doubt from me. Whether it is someone who said something seemingly rude or someone who cuts me off in traffic, they are now recipients of my benefit.

I can tell you this though. There is nothing like a personal tragedy to bring people out of the woodwork who want to share their tragedy with you and give you the beautiful gift of empathy. EVERYONE has hard things. EVERYONE.

Most people just don't wear a name tag that says, My name is Veronica and I am currently struggling with [blank], the hardest thing I have ever had to do in my life.

I cannot even count the number of times I was driving home from a doctor's appt in  Dallas just trying to keep a grip on the edge of the precipice I was hanging from. I was distracted. Sometimes tears were blurring my eyes. Yes there are road rage jerks out there, but I like to think that often times there are people like me. Just hanging on.

I am not sure why I wrote this. I am debating whether or not I should even post it. But I probably will. Maybe everyone that reads it will remember it and be a little kinder, a little softer to others. And I think that would be good.  

People Who Don't Know

My phone just rang from our bank's fraud prevention department because I just paid all the medical bills. Guess it's good to know they are aware.

I was on the phone with our insurance for a while and they were so confused about billing and neo natal services and we finally whittled it down. She said she was going to have to forward me to something something management. Apparently at least at this hospital, as long as your baby leaves with you their costs just go on your bill. If they stay in the NICU then they get their own bill.

It was really frustrating because I kept getting put on hold and shuffled and I would try to cut in and explain and then some obnoxious music would cut me off.  I don't know why there was such great confusion but there was.
And the lady was finally like "How long was your baby in the hospital after you left?"

And I said, "She wasn't."

And she said, "It has her listed her as having been in the NICU with blah blah blah staff."

And I said, "She did have a NICU nurse but she died so really, she left before I left."

Silence.

Shuts them up every time.

And it's weird. Because most of the time I am so grateful to come across people who don't know. I don't have to talk about her. I don't have the identity of girl-who-lost-her-baby. And then sometimes I just have this inexpressible urge for people to know.

Like the guy at the tire shop or a random lady I'm chatting with at the park. Or on a plane.

Which brings me to another story.

I recently went to Utah to visit one of my best friends for a little down time.

On the flight there, there was a woman sitting next to me and we made small talk for a second and then I got out my book and she reclined to sleep. I looked down at my locket that has pictures of Gracie in it and I turned to her and said, "Can I ask you a weird question?"

She said, ".......Yes"

me "You asked me just now how many kids I had and I said three boys. I actually had a little girl too, but I didn't mention her because she died.  But what I am always wondering is would you, as an objective stranger feel uncomfortable if I had said that or would you be fine? I just don't know what to say to people."

By her expression think I pretty much shocked her pants off.

"No, it's fine. It's sad, but I don't mind that you told me."

I told her a little of the story and showed her the pictures in my locket and then said thanks and went back to reading.

And then she starts crying. I mean crying. For like ten minutes. I apologized and she said, "no, no it's fine it's just touching and a little sad"

So. What do I learn from this? Maybe don't mention her??? Or maybe don't break out the pictures? I really don't know. But most of all I think I learned that there are still so many good caring people in this world and I'm really touched that she, a total stranger, would cry for me and my baby.

And to all of you readers who have cried with me too, friends and strangers a like, I'm so so grateful for you too.

The Funeral Part Two

I'm not going to lie. I've put this off.

Sometimes the days are easier when I don't relive things. Sometimes I can't control it, out of the blue a heart wrenching horrific memory will assault my mind and I can see everything with excruciating detail causing me to lose it. But sometimes I can, for example the blog.

I don't want too much time to pass though because I want to remember.

So. Funeral Day.

I wore pink. And I carried her blanket. When they took her away at the hospital I clutched onto that blanket like it was the only thing keeping me tied to this Earth. I clutched it for days. I slept with it, ate with it, basically all but showered with it. I still sleep with it but I suppose that will pass in time too. Just not yet.

We went to the funeral home. I was apprehensive. We went into the foyer and off the foyer were all these double doors. We were pointed to our doors and went inside. And there she was. Laying peacefully in a cradle. She could have been sleeping. I ran to her and held her and sobbed.

We prepared her coffin. Her sweet little coffin my dad made. It was perfect. We filled the bottom with rose petals. There was a little white pillow for her head. It was as lovely as it could be.

I don't think I can write much more about that. It was a deeply personal and sacred time. I think this picture pretty much sums it up.



Kendall and I had to part ways before the funeral. He had to go home and pick up some of his family members and I needed to stop at the pharmacy first so I went with my mom.

The time for the funeral was getting closer and closer and I started feeling more and more nervous. I didn't want to be there. I didn't want to go in and have everyone stare at me and look sad and say they were sorry. So I told my mom I wasn't going.

I wasn't.

Let me just pause a second to express my gratitude for my parents. For everything they have done for me. Without them I would be....I don't have words.  

But my mom. She is my best friend and often times a second self closely aligned with my thoughts and needs. She just anticipates--me.

Anyway. She turned to me in the car and said, "You need to put on your big girls pants and go. Gracie would want you there. You go, you bear it and then you can go home and fall to pieces. But you go."

I felt like a little child again. She was right. So I went. 

But when I walked in the foyer and I saw people standing there I bolted for an empty classroom somehow grabbing my youngest sister by the arm as I went. She was like a shield. I pretended to be engrossed in a conversation with her until we closed the door. 

I collapsed onto a chair and she sat down next to me. Now. She is ten years my younger and still in high school. Let's just say, her life experience is a little different than mine. But she was exactly what I needed. She said, "What do you need? Do you want a hug? Do you want me to tap dance? Because I can do that." (and she literally could because she had been practicing for her school musical)

I laughed and said no dancing was necessary and then we somehow got started on planning this amazing junk food fest for after the funeral. It was very very detailed involving a handful of establishments and carefully ordered food and the creation of a junk food pyramid balancing the salts, and sweets, and sours. It distracted me and made me laugh a little. 

And then my mom flung open the door saying "there you are. Everyone has been looking everywhere for you!" 

I hadn't relized no one witnessed us going into the classroom but oh well. It's not like they would start without me.

We went to another classroom where all family members were and held a little prayer. My monkeys and the other cousins were running around laughing and screaming and everyone kept telling them to be quiet and tried to restrain them but I liked it. I imagine that if Gracie was with them she would be doing the same thing  

Now. This what I think about funerals. It's like a wedding except there is no honeymoon at the end. I had expected there to be my family and maybe a handful of others. But I was wrong. The entire chapel was packed. I was not prepared. I suddenly felt self conscious and emotional. I don't even know who was there really because all I could do was stare at the ground as we walked the long aisle to the front. 

The service really was lovely. We sang an opening hymn and then Kendall's dad offered a prayer.

And then....Kendall spoke. When Kendall had said he wanted to speak I thought he was crazy. I knew that if I had tried to speak I probably would have sobbed until I blacked and out and they would have had to carry me out of there. But he did. And he did it with grace.

He wore a hot pink tie. If any of you know my husband, you know this is highly irregular. The only reason he possesed a hot pink tie was that he was forced to wear it for one of his brother's weddings. He is just not a pink guy and definitely not a softie.

But oh, Gracie Belle. She was only with us for a matter of moments really and he will eternally be wrapped around her little finger. He wore that pink tie with pride for his little girl. It was all his idea. I love that man.

He somehow managed to speak and then a family friend, Eric sang a beautiful arrangement of 'Silent Night'. My dad accompanied on the piano. I found out after the fact that they were very very nervous about the performance because they had never made it through the song without mistakes or without breaking down once. Not ONCE. But I believe the Lord strengthened them because they performed it PERFECTLY. I am almost certain not one eye was dry afterwards.

Then our stake president, President Riding spoke. I have known him since I was very young and he helped guide Kendall and I through this trying time and I just felt he would be perfect. And he was.

We had a closing hymn at which point my children were about to bounce off the walls and my father said the closing prayer.

I know this took forever for me to post and you to read but I do have more to say about the burial. HOWEVER. I will have to have a funeral part three because I am done for now. 

Until then.

Watch your Pews

I'm fine a lot of the time now. I go long stretches without crying or feeling overwhelmingly sad. I do miss her.
A lot.

But I feel a great peace about her and the knowledge that we will be together again someday.

I've been finding ways to keep busy though. Every door in my house needs to be painted so that's been SO fun. The monkeys are, of course, all consuming with peace treaties that need negotiating and the literal entire gallon, of spilled milk (the morning after I mopped the floor), to clean up. And at our house we DO sometimes cry over spilled milk.

This weekend my brother blessed his new little baby boy (born about 3 weeks before Gracie). I felt no apprehension about it. Seriously. None at all.

Sunday morning went something like this. I got up, the boys had colds so I was going by myself. I woke up a little late so I was rushed, James spilled an entire gallon of milk on the floor, tears ensued, stress levels rose, but I got out the door and on the road.

I arrived at the church about 20 minutes early. I searched for my family and my sister-n-laws family and couldn't find them  so I went ahead and reserved two huge long pews towards the front. I felt so proud for being early and productive. I shooed people away looking for seats. I was saving them for MY family. WE were important. MY brother was blessing HIS baby today. I relished in the quiet and peace without my circus. And the time passed. And passed.

And finally it was five til so I texted my brother and said, "where are you? I have two rows saved!"

he texted me back and said "we're all here... where are you?"

At the wrong church apparently.

I was so embarrassed I grabbed all my things that were strewn across the two rows and ran out. It was fine it was just embarrassing.
*(my brother has decided to call this pew terrorism. He thinks we should show up at random churches, save a handful of prime pews and then abandon them right before the service starts. I think it could catch on, no?)

Anyway. I booked it to the correct church and got there barely in time. I was flustered. My brother got up to give the blessing. I tried to settle myself after rushing there. I bowed my head and closed my eyes and he started speaking and I started crying. Like serious crying.

Here's the thing. It wasn't like I could feel it coming. There was absolutely no warning. I wasn't apprehensive. I didn't feel the tears threatening to come. My throat didn't tighten up. NOTHING.

I was fine and a split second later I was not. Like a slap in the face.

I concealed myself the best I could and when he was done excused myself to use the restroom. I made it into the bathroom, into the stall, locked the door and lost my mind. I had to keep it quiet for the first few moments while a lady finished washing her hands and the second the door clicked I cried.

It's a fine balance because I am so so happy for my brother and their healthy little baby. He is darling and I love him. I love holding him. It fills the little hole in my arms.

But I guess, it's still hard. By the way I lost it, I apparently wasn't aware of just how fragile I still am but I guess I am.

Church is hard in general. Lots of little babies. Lots of people asking you how you are. You are close to the spirit and I think that makes your heart tender. It also didn't help that in that particular meeting a man got up and spoke about his new little baby girl born with a heart problem. He described watching the oxygen monitor, watching it decrease little by little and it just brought back such a flood of memories. Vivid vivid memories.

When I got home, I explained to Kendall how shocked I was that I went from zero to 160 emotionally and of course, as Kendall usually is, he wasn't surprised. He said that he thinks surviving something like this leaves physical wounds but also spiritual ones. And that I can see the physical ones and monitor the progress and see when I am healed, but the spiritual ones are little bit trickier. And someday, the spiritual ones will heal too, but there will always be a scar.

He's probably right.

   

I am Pariah.

Or at least I feel like one. It's like I am in this semi-existence. Half-in, half-out. Wanting to resume business as usual but also not.

Harrison's Valentine's party was today. My attending it hadn't given me a second thought until I pulled up to the doors. This is a place where everyone knows what happened, but I don't really know anyone there. As if trying to make small talk isn't hard enough.

I considered not going and then I realized I had his Valentine's so I had no choice. I walked in and everyone said "Hi!" and I mean "HI!!!!!" Too much. They knew it. I knew it, but no one knew how to de-awkwardize the situation so they all fell into small groups of twos and threes and chatted.

I kind of went over to Harrison and hovered, attempted to jump into a conversation which came to a stop when I came over and I eventually wandered back to Harrison. I sat on his tiny little chair and made him sit on my lap.

He was like a human shield. I acted really engaged in what he was doing and saying. And then they pulled him out of the room to play some game. So I turned to one of his little friends and acted really engaged in what HE was doing and saying.

And I've come to realize that it is much easier for me to socialize with four and five year olds. I am starting to feel much better about my plan to teach preschool in the fall. One of the little girls who had previously been OBSESSED with the fact that I was pregnant came over and said, "Is the baby out of your tummy?" I said, "Yes." She looked me up and down and said, "Okay" and started talking about Rapunzel.

Now that's the kind of conversation I can handle.

I know I never posted part two of the Funeral but I am just not in..."that place", I guess. Right now, it feels better to keep things tucked away. I think I am in a place where I don't want to relive it over and over in my mind. But sometime I will be. I'm sure of that.

My friend and amazing photographer Toni Elmer (http://tonielmer.com/) sent me the rest of the pictures and I this is one that I love.

Signing out.