October 30, 2013
To
carry a baby for 41 weeks and 3 days inside of you, and then lose her to a
tragic event like a ruptured uterus without ever getting to hear her cry, see
her open her eyes, or watch her smile, is enough to make a mother crazy.
The
mother’s empty arms literally ache, and her heart stops caring enough to
beat.
I
know because my arms have never felt heavier or more empty, and my heart is
still shattered into a million tiny pieces.
I
know because I lost my daughter, Brynna Elizabeth on November 1st,
2011.
After
a perfectly healthy pregnancy and an otherwise normal labor, things took a
sudden and tragic turn, and after 6 days in the NICU, our beautiful baby girl
left this earth to be with the angels.
Prior
to all of this I considered myself a very spiritual person, by nature, but
surviving the death of our daughter has proven the largest test of faith, and
bump in the “spiritual road of life”, that I have ever experienced. Since she died, I really haven’t spent much
time being angry at the universe or at God, I’ve just been of the mindset that
no one in particular is looking out for us, and when push comes to shove,
shitty things just happen to really good people. Not because they necessarily did something to
deserve it, or because there is a particular lesson to be learned, but because
our existence is much more random than people care to admit, and very often,
life’s heartbreaks can’t be wrapped up in a bow made of sensibility and
explanation.
I
don’t care to hear that “God has a plan” or that “God doesn’t give us more than
we can handle”. I do not, and will not
ever, believe that there is a God that would make it His plan to give a mother
a perfectly healthy, full-term pregnancy with a beautiful baby girl, just to
rip her away in a brutal and cruel way.
I do not, and will not ever, believe that I was given this reality to
“show me the window that was opened when the door on my daughter’s life was closed”. And for the record, that whole “no more than
we can handle thing?” What’s the
alternative? A mother’s heart breaks and
her life seemingly stops, yet her body continues to function on autopilot, and
people continue to need her. Work
continues to need her. Life continues to
require her participation. So as much as
she wants so badly to lie down and die, she can’t because life won’t allow her
that luxury. It was not her time to go,
and this new life is her cross to bear. And let me tell you, in the trenches of
it all, it absolutely is more than
she can “handle”.
Hopelessness
is a real threat to a parent when their baby dies. Darkness consumes the mind and heart, and
there are days when standing upright proves an insurmountable goal. Oceans of tears are shed day in and day out,
and the heart struggles to understand what the mind knows is true- that the
baby is never coming back. That there
will not be any first steps, kindergarten graduations, elementary school art
projects, first dances, teenage angst and turmoil, sports games to attend,
first loves to witness, or weddings to plan…. There is nothing.
She
is gone.
And
you are here.
And
that’s it.
It’s
really quite easy to lose hope in everything.
The natural order of things has been upset in the most excruciating way,
and as a result your trust in everything is shot. You hear things like “time heals” and “it
will all work out, you’ll see,” but you know better. You are acutely aware that A+B does not equal
C. Just because you have suffered, and
are suffering, does not exempt you from further heartbreak down the road. Having lost a baby (A) in a really tragic way
(B) does not mean your life will be peaceful and enlightened from here on out
(C). You meet people like you, walking
this dark road of grief. Some having
lost one baby, some having lost many, but all have shattered hearts. And you recognize that suffering is part of
the human existence. This knowledge
causes an internal struggle and dialogue… Is it safe to trust that good will
happen again? Is it safe to invest in
the belief that not all days will be as debilitating as the one in which you
currently stand? It’s hard to believe in
the idea of a balanced universe. It’s hard not to be jaded.
All
the while, as I walk my road of sadness, however, I am aware of a glimmer. Most often it’s translucently subtle and, at
times, very hard to focus on. Almost as
if the harder I look directly at it, the more difficult it becomes to see. There are times I yearn so deeply to reach
it, to touch it, but it’s always just beyond the reach of my fingertips. Like a
rainbow, it’s always there but always ahead of me, calling me forward, urging
me to take another step. When I give in
and just walk, one foot in front of the other, one slow step at a time, I see
it clearer. I see it on the horizon of
my future. That glimmer is Hope. Hope in the future. Hope in all the tomorrows I am destined to
live through. Hope that my soul’s broken
wings will continue to heal over time, one day being strong enough to fly
again.
There
have been so many times since Brynna died that I have felt hopeless. I have been ready to give up and give in to
the sadness and despair. Often, I have
been to a point where I recognized that my sorrow was bigger than any
counselor, or book, or even family member could help me out of, and it has been
in those moments that Hope has spoken to me the most profoundly. Sometimes sneaking, sometimes thundering in,
it comes and shines its light on the darkest corners of my heart, showing me
there is more. More to this life. More than
this life.
Several
times, these moments of hope have been what I believe to be messages from
Brynn, telling me she is safe and at peace wherever she is. Red heart shaped balloons floating randomly
in the sky, rainbows caught out of the corner of my eye in an otherwise dark
and ominous sky, the “perfect” song coming on at just the right time, profound
fortunes tucked inside a cookie… the list goes on.
Other
times, the moments seem to carry the feeling of a gentle hug that wraps
everything broken about me in an embrace so tender it feels supernatural. Merciful moments, often only lasting as long
as it takes to blink away my tears, offering a momentary respite from the heartache.
Growing
up, my dad was Catholic and my mom was an atheist. I often found myself, even into my adulthood,
feeling caught between two ideologies, not because of any external expectation
or a belief system they pushed on me, but as a result of my own heart being on
its own quest to make sense of my existence.
I’ve
always had a belief in a greater power, in Love, and in a loving God, and have
struggled within my heart to define it comfortably. I do not believe that a person needs to
practice lessons of love and acceptance within the confines of building every
Sunday in order to be an enlightened, and God loving person. As we all know, some of the most conflicted
and maladjusted people reside and worship inside those walls, and no true
enlightenment happens for them there.
Occurrences
happen in life that we as humans spend endless amounts of time trying to
explain, justify, and make sense of, when in fact the very nature of each event
is very obviously unexplainable. I am
reaching a point in my life where instead of trying to rationalize it all away,
I instead take it on faith that these occurrences are messages sent
specifically for me, whether from Brynn or from God, to assist me in moving
through whichever moment I’m in.
In
the last couple of days, I experienced one such moment. Sitting at my desk at work and wondering what
purpose I serve at my job, I was reviewing a student’s file. I had one earphone in my ear, but no music
queued up on my phone, and I remember my mind momentarily drifting to the
thought of missing Brynna.
This
week is particularly hard as her birthday was 4 days ago and tomorrow, while
everyone else will be laughing and celebrating Halloween, we will be
remembering the late night hours of making the decision to discontinue life
support, and holding our baby girl while she took her last breaths.
I
remember having a thought like, “what do I do now? I’ve prayed, I’ve cried, I’ve fallen, I’ve
stood again, over and over…what do I do now?
Do I just keep crying out for clarity and guidance? Do I just keep breathing? Who can help me? Really…who can help me?”
All
of a sudden, without me touching any buttons, a song began playing in my
ear. I froze and looked at my phone
sitting on the counter, wondering how this happened, how the music could have
been turned on? I have over 5,000 songs
on my phone and this song, one that I don’t really remember hearing any time
before, was playing of its own accord.
Had I bumped something?
In
an instant I was captivated by the words of the song, believing at first that
Brynna was talking to me again through music, but then I experienced a perfect
and calm understanding that in that moment, it was my job to just listen. Not reason.
Not deduce. Not explain
away. Just listen.
When you try not to look
at me, scared that I’ll see you hurting.
You’re not hiding
anything, and frankly it’s got me worried.
Nobody knows you better
than I do.
I keep my promises. I’m
fighting for you.
You’re not alone, I’ll
listen ‘til your tears give out,
You’re safe and sound, I
swear that I won’t let you down.
What’s hurting you, I feel
it too.
I mean it when I say,
When you cry, I cry with
you.
I’m not going any place,
I just hate to see you
like this.
No, I can’t make it go
away,
Oh, but keeping it inside
won’t fix it.
I can’t give you every
answer that you need,
But I wanna hear
everything you wanna tell me.
You’re not alone, I’ll
listen ‘til your tears give out,
You’re safe and sound, I
swear I won’t let you down.
What’s hurting you, I feel
it too.
I mean it when I say,
When you cry, I cry with
you, oh
Yeah, I cry with you.
You need love tough enough
to count on,
so here I am.
You’re not alone, I’ll
listen ‘til your tears give out,
You’re safe and sound, I
swear I won’t let you down.
What’s hurting you, I feel
it too.
I mean it when I say,
When you cry, I cry with
you.
I
felt safe. I felt heard. I felt wrapped up in an embrace so tender
that the faint glimmer of hope always present on my horizon, for a brief
moment, became brighter than I’ve seen it in nearly two years.
Tomorrow
marks two years since we made the decision to allow Brynn to fly free of the
restrictions of her broken body and mind.
Making the choice to hold our baby without encumbering lines and tubes,
knowing it would be the first and last time we were given such a blessing, is
indescribable. It is the most profoundly
painful experience I have ever known.
Hearing her breathing slow, and watching her skin pale, I felt my heart
would most surely stop as hers did. And
yet, here we are… two years later.
Without our sweet girl, but somehow walking, often times limping,
forever forward toward the glimmer of hope that at least parts of our life will
be kind and fulfilling.
I
am not naïve enough to believe (nor do I want to really) that from here on, my
life will be balanced and “healed”. I
know more certainly than I know anything else, that my heart will be broken and
incomplete until the day my arms are no longer void of my daughter. I know I will continue to walk through this
life marked. A mother without her child,
I am to a certain degree, an incomplete soul.
But what I also know is that my broken soul is being tended to by a Love
so great, words cannot define it. I
recognize the shelter I am being given which is allowing my grief to manifest
in the ways it needs for however long it needs.
In this world where suffering is universal, I am recognizing that Love
is as well. I am recognizing that I am
heard and cared for.
And that is enough for now.
And that is enough for now.