Mother's Day...

I haven't blogged about anything pertaining to Hannah in a while. Believe me, it's not because I don't think of her every day; it's that when I do think of her, most of the time I'm thinking thoughts of how she's with her Heavenly Father. There's a great peace in knowing that my daughter is in Heaven. It's much more than some fairytale to me--the reality of Heaven, of the grace of God and the blood of Jesus that guarantees our eternity there, and the truth of knowing that His Word is true, is a JOY. I value my faith, and I credit the grace of God for keeping me sane through the most difficult times in my life. I believe in Heaven, and I know it's there.

I'm still human, though...and as hard as I try to keep a positive perspective on life and loss, sometimes life just hurts. This is one of those times.

I see people celebrate Mother's Day...and since I have a mother that I love, I should celebrate her as well, right? And I do, even in the midst of family turmoil (which hasn't made the approaching weekend any easier). In fact, with as difficult as Mother's Day has been for me in the past, I've felt badly about not celebrating my mother more than I do. It's selfish, but this time of the year serves as a reminder of what I'm not, more than of who I have.

Today is a difficult day. Today I can't look at the pictures...today I can't seem to pull it together and focus or pray...today seems like the waves are winning, and I can't stay afloat. These days are few and far between...It hasn't been like this in a long time. Today, I feel completely alone in this ocean, and I find myself wondering if a good, long cry will be enough to bring me back up to the surface for air...

For every happy memory of Hannah that I have, I have an equally sad one, it seems...The joy of giving birth is eclipsed by the pain of having to bury my child. Memories of the NICU, of celebrating her leaps and strides, of putting her in her first outfit or of changing that first diaper...memories of how she smelled, or of the little noises she would make, or of how soft her hair was...These memories do not stand alone, as they are tainted by those last 5 days of heat lamps, oxygen machines...of beeps and whistles, of pick lines and blood transfusions...of brain swelling and spinal taps...2 weeks in the hospital, at the beginning; 10 days at home; 5 days in the PICU at the end, and it was over...29 days have changed my life.

I have a memory that plagues me. On nights when I can't sleep, it replays in my head, even almost 4 years later. I don't think I've ever talked about it to anyone, or even blogged about it, so maybe bringing it up will help me lay it down: On Hannah's last day, we prayed for a miracle that simply did not happen. I'm not angry; it's just the truth of it. God decided to bring Hannah home. We prayed for God's will, and it didn't carry out the way we thought it would...it carried out the way He planned, and that is the reality we live with. God's will doesn't always make us happy. But on that day, on her last day, she lay in the PICU of Cardinal Glennon surrounded by tubes and ports, machines, and a flurry of doctors, neurologists, and nurses. I didn't leave her side, until the neurologists made me; as soon as they gave the clearance, I was back in there to hold my little girl.

The meningitis caused her brain and her head to swell; my 6-pound daughter was probably double that size from fluid retention, and her skin was delicate from the stretching. She had spinal and brain fluid leaking through her skin, and to anyone else, she was not a pretty baby. To me, she was beautiful. Heat lamps made her smell different; not like her usual "Cheerios" smell (David and I decided when Hannah was born, that she smelled like Cheerios. To this day, I won't touch them). After the neurologists completed their second brain scan, they determined that for the past 48 hours, my daughter was brain dead, and there would be no coming back from it. Although Hannah was still hooked up to machines that were keeping her clinically alive, she had already passed away. Doctors were asking if we wanted to be organ donors; the chaplain was asking us about infant baptism; all I wanted was for the world to stop, for the clocks to stop, and to hold my baby for as long as I possibly could...

It's amazing, how crystal-clear these memories are. I can still see faces, hear the conversations, hear the machines making their noises...

They told me it was time to say goodbye, and I knew that it was. No one would pull the plug until we said we were ready, so for a while, we simply sat there. I had the nurses turn the volume off on the machine, in case she coded; I couldn't stand to hear the flat-line tone of the Code Blue. My mother, father, father-in-law, and sister were all in the room with David and I...

I have no idea how long we sat there, Hannah in my arms, trying to muster up whatever grace it took to tell the nurse to turn the machines off...but we finally did...

After a while (One hour? Two?), we let the nurse know we were "ready." Is anyone ever ready for that? With the machine turned off, I periodically glanced at the light on top of the machine, knowing it would eventually turn blue, but hoping against hope that God would do a last-minute intervention...I tried to sing to my beautiful girl, so that if she could still hear, the last thing she would hear would be her mother's voice..."Baby mine, don't you cry; baby mine, dry your eyes...." I don't think I even got the next line out, and to this day, will not listen to that song...I tried over and over to sing to her, but just couldn't choke the words out...The light on the machine turned blue, and it was finished...

There were no last-minute miracles, no "Hallelujah" moments...there was deafening silence in Heaven and on earth, and my child was dead.

I have no idea how much longer we sat there. This is the part that breaks me in half, even to this day: Two wonderful nurses came in, to take Hannah's body. I had to lay my daughter down, entrust her to strangers, and leave that room without her.

I did not go quietly.

It took the entire group of 5 family members to peel me out of that room, to carry me down that hallway, and take me into the grievance room. 5 people.

I had to leave my child.

My child was gone.

That, more than anything, is the memory that attacks me when I'm at a weak point (like today). It's what gets me when I can't sleep at night...I still remember the sound, that alien sound, that came out of my mouth when they carried me down that hallway--it was the cry of a childless mother, and those of us who have made that sound know exactly what I'm talking about. There's nothing in this world that sounds like that. That sound tore through my head every day for a year...then every other day...then every other week...and now, just a few times a year. This is one of those times.

Everyone else is celebrating the beauty of motherhood. This is not my pity party, don't get me wrong. This is not a self-indulgent trip to make someone feel sorry for me, so don't take this blog that way. This is simply the kind of thing that I, and any other mother who has lost a child, has to deal with, especially this time of the year. You replay every detail, wonder what you could have done differently, wonder if you did anything wrong...you wonder what life would be like (I'd have a 3 1/2 year old running around), and in my case, you wonder if you'll ever have that chance again. There is a beauty in motherhood, and it should be celebrated...For me, there is confusion. Am I a mother? Yes...and no. I have no children here on this earth, but who wants to explain all of that to a stranger? It's Mother's Day, and I am in a new church, surrounded by a few friends, some acquaintances, and strangers...do I stand up, when they recognize mothers, and ignore the questioning glances? Do I sit down, and hear my heart break because I know what's true? Or, do I do what I usually do, and skip church altogether?

I have no idea.

These things I've written, these are my private thoughts...these are the things I have pondered in my heart, and now that I'm at a point where they've begun to attack me, I am bringing them to light with the hopes that now that they're out here for the world to see, I will sleep more peacefully at night. It's taken me almost 4 years to be able to put into writing how Hannah's last day went, and maybe this is a sign of further healing. These days are, again, few and far between. Most of the time, when I think of Hannah, I think of the happy times, and of what a funny baby she was. Mother's Day is difficult for me, and I know I am not the only one. I may be one of the few who will open up my big mouth (or big keyboard) and say something about it, but I KNOW I'm not alone in this.

This Mother's Day is better than last year's...which was far better than the year before that, and so forth. Every year gets better...It's not that it gets easier; I think it's just that as I get older, I learn to lean more on the grace of God. I learn to suck up my pride and reach out to someone to say "Hey, I'm having a hard time here--could you pray for me?" Every year, it gets easier to acknowledge my own inadequacies, in trying to do things on my own.

I celebrate my chance at motherhood. I look around my church, and I am surrounded by awesome mothers who encourage me that should my time come again, I have unlimited resources in parenting and in education. My little family of 3 (David, Holly, and I) are continually blessed by watching the families in our church. Mothers deserve to be celebrated...

...And maybe I do, too.