Dread, Monsters, and Muppets...

It's that time of the year. Every October, I can't help but reference my favorite children's book: "The Monster At the End of This Book."

In years past, as soon as October 1st hit, the dread would start...Her birthday is coming....

The days go by...the calender turns page by page...

 Every day that passed by would take me closer...and closer...and closer...

 Infant Loss Awareness Day (10/15)....the National Share Walk for Remembrance and Hope (10/19, this year)....It kept building....

You can try to stop time, but you're not going to be very successful. You can see the monsters coming...you know that on that day, you will consciously and subconciously replay

 Every. Single Detail. 

You will remember what the doctor said when he came in to see you that morning at 8:00 am. You will remember frantically calling your family in at 8:04. You will remember regretting the orange juice, but being thankful that you did because it held off the delivery of your perfect princess until everyone could be there.

You will remember being aggravated at the conversations going on around you, as a drug that felt like liquid death coursed through your veins. You will remember the strength of your sister's hand in yours, of her blue eyes looking back at you with concern, and of wanting to throw Taco Bell at your husband...

The lights were too bright...things were too rushed...the shaking, the smells, the sounds...

The cry...

You will remember your first look at the most perfect person you had ever seen...

Tiny, elegant grace...

A quick kiss, before she's whisked away to the NICU...

At 1:24 pm.

You will remember

Every. Single. Detail...

(Okay, that's not exactly true. It just sounds good...I do remember all that I just described, but there's a lot that was a blur. Going into heart failure means that your brain just doesn't work as well, and there are a few things that I'm missing. And as much as I hate to say it, some memories fade over time...But I remember a lot, and I cling to those memories ferociously. And hey--although part of me wants to feel guilty over not remembering every single detail, the rest of me acknowledges that deliveries--especially high-risk ones--are full of rushed decisions, quick procedures, and kind of a hot mess of what's-happening?!?!? So, realistically, I can't be expected to remember it all. I just remember what matters, and that's her beautiful face...)

Of course, it happens: The day comes.  You wake up in the morning, you start to go through your routine, and then you realize (if it hasn't woke you up already) that it's time: It's her birthday. 
The sky is still blue...The sun still comes up. You're expected to maintain your performance at work, unless you have vacation time built up that you can take off (I don't).
You find yourself wondering how you can "celebrate: Do you go to the cemetery? Not possible, this year...Do you cry? Sometimes. Is it awful, if you don't? No--it just means you're not at that stage right now.
I'd like to take the day off...to get a massage with my husband, to get a pedicure, and to indulge in things that make me feel relaxed and quiet...to do something that gives me a place to process my thoughts, and to be together with him. I'd like to let go of balloons at the cemetery (but we'll get the chance to do that at the Share Walk). Instead, the day will be rushed, and my time for reflecting will be done in the evening as I'm in bed. I might cry my face off; I might not. Grief is unpredictable in how it strikes, when it strikes, and how it presents itself. 
I'll spend a lot of time thinking of what Hannah Elizabeth Gayle means to me...how she smelled like Cheerios (and when I forget, I will literally buy a box just to sniff it)...how she felt (she weighed about as much as a gallon of milk, and when I forget, I will cradle that in my arms)...I might go through her memory box, though I know that's a definite trigger (but sometimes, I just have to look back at those tiny handprints).
I'll spend time wondering what she'd be like...in the first grade...I imagine she'd be doing a lot of twirling. I'm not sure why I think that, but every time I dream about her at this age, I see her twirling. I also think she'd be a redhead, and that she'd probably have inherited her auntie's blue eyes.
I think my house would be a sea of pink and glitter, and that I wouldn't mind.
I think she'd love her brother, and that I'd be saying a lot of "Stop changing his clothes! He's not a doll! Put the glitter down!"
I think she'd be smart and funny...but don't we all think that, about our children?
The sun will rise on October 30th, and it will set. Millions of children will be thinking about Halloween costumes and candy...but I will be thinking about my princess.
Morning and evening will pass. The world will most likely not end, and I will get up on Thursday, October 31st, and I will have not just survived; I will have lived through another birthday and another year, of not having her with me...I will be one more birthday closer to seeing her again.

It's been 6 years and 322 days (as of today, 10/16) since I last held my baby girl's hand, and kissed her goodbye. That's 2,512 days.
I am 2,512 days closer to seeing her again.
October 30th is Hannah Elizabeth Gayle Cooley's 7th birthday, and as a mother who has lost a child, I grieve; as a woman who is also a child of God, I have hope.

I reference this book every year around this time, and if you've read my blog, you probably know that. It really does explain this month better than anything I know. You consciously/subconsciously dread the date, it comes, you survive, and it's okay (it's not okay). It builds up as much as you let it; you break through it as much as you let yourself break through it. You can see the tsunami coming, turn your back, and let it hit you full force. It will drag you down into the bottom, and break you, and drown you in the process...or you can cling to Christ as an anchor, and turn and face the wave, knowing that it's going to hit you, but knowing that you're hanging on to something/Someone Who will protect you...He will keep you grounded, but He won't keep you in denial. You will have to face it.
But you will stand, with His help, after it passes.

Jesus helps you face the Monster At the End of This Book: Yourself. 

This time of year in particular, I am My Own Worst Enemy. I'm Grover--I'm The Monster. 

When I pull back the layers...when I embrace Him instead of my own grief...when I confront the truth of the loss, my own lack of understanding (does ANYONE ever understand why their child died?), and when I trust Him implicitly, the Monster is revealed for who he truly is: I am a broken woman, with scars and missing pieces that only He can heal, and He can only heal them when I let Him. 

He is my Anchor; He is my Healer.

He is the One Who calms the storm of grief, Who soothes the panic attacks and the questions that for now, don't have answers.

He is the One I trust.

And He makes ALL things new.