And here we are, nearly at the end of the day, and I’m still staring at a blank sheet of paper.
There just aren’t words coming to my fingers like there usually are. I’m just not sure what to say. I’m not sure what message needs to be shared tonight, what words needs to be spoken from my heart to yours. My heart feels a little empty, a little heavy, a little achy… but not at the intensity in which it sometimes does. It’s a little dulled and hazy today. Perhaps its the whirl of the chaos around me, perhaps is the healing salve that time has given me, perhaps is just that today is a good day, a day when the pain isn’t so intense and the reality isn’t so harsh.
Today I remember. I remember the little child within, whom we had so hoped, begged, pleaded, prayed for for so many years. Years and years and years we had waited to be blessed with the creation of life within. Years and years and years we had doctored, and tried, and researched, and cried. Oh the tears that we cried throughout all those years.
The ache, the empty, the disappointment, the desperation. Years and years and years we endure and carried on, and continued on without choice, without change.
We would adopt and we would continue on for many more years trying, and doctoring, begging and pleading, fervently praying to be healed from this disease that no one saw, this illness that no one recognized, this disorder that no one understood.
Infertility. Ugh, what a word. What a thick, rough, ragged, silent, ugly word. Unexplainable secondary infertility, an even uglier phrase, an invisible diagnose of the most mean and degrading manner.
Never did I dream I would find myself nearly forty years old, and sick… so very very sick. Never did I dream I would hear those fateful words “there’s a baby in there” when I least expected it. I was so caught off guard, so taken aback, so shocked I could barely process it all that day as I lay on my back on the narrow table in the dark room. I was only hours away from officially entering my second trimester. And we were only weeks away from officially having to say goodbye to this dear miracle.
Oh the whirlwind that followed. The appointments, the emotions, the tests, the waiting, the bed rest. The walls of my life and my bedroom continued to close in on me over the next several weeks. It’s a girl. Trisomy 18. Palliative care. Funeral arrangements. Cemetery plots. Insomnia. Emotional overload. Mental over-processing. Internal attempted numbing.
And just about as quickly as we had found out about her, we also had to say goodbye to her. The heartbeat was silent. The life within no longer alive. My life within nearly died right along with her.
The shattered dreams and hopes. The unexpected love and loss of something so tiny, something so unknown and still so completely known and fully loved all at the same time.
God chose to dance in Heaven with our little Faith MaryJo before we got to dance with her here on earth. God chose her to come live with Him before we got to live with her here on earth. I don’t pretend to understand, I don’t say that I’m ok with it all… because I don’t understand and I’m really not all that ok with it. But, I trust. It’s all I’ve got left to fall back on really. I trust the story, my story, our story, her story. I trust that God does have my back and does in fact have her safely in His arms right now.
So today I remember. Today we remember. Today we take a moment to light a candle and reflect on all that was and all that will never be. We think of those around us also on this journey of loss and pain and hurt and confusion. We take comfort in knowing we are not alone on our journeys of love and loss. Oh no, we are not alone. We may often feel like we are drowning in our own sorrows and in our own silence, but we are not alone.
We have the hope of our savior, the promise of forever in Heaven, and the love and support surrounding us of all those around us who are also grieving the loss of children that they had hoped and dreamt and pleaded for as well.
No, we are far from alone, even when we feel like we are lost and the only ones on this hot, desolate, dessert island of grief and confusion and anger and despair.
Remember and honor today with me. Remember the babies and infants, the lost heartbeats taken too soon, and yet exactly at the right time according to God’s timeline for all that is right and meant to be. Remember the moms, dads, grandparents, siblings, families, friends walking through this reality, this loss, this heartache, this quiet unknown.
Remember. Love. Honor. Cherish. Pray over. Extend grace. Remember.
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