The Silent Question In My Mind

 

This week as I was scrolling I stopped and went back and clicked on a post.  The photo was of a little girl, smiling, happy... but the words weren't as happy.  They told of returned cancer, of possible options, of probable timelines...

And I thought of the losses of children - losses that happened beyond birth. The parents that have buried their children after having them in their arms and in their homes and lives for a period of time.  Perhaps months, or years.  Perhaps to toddlerhood, perhaps to teenager, perhaps even longer.

And I heard the silent question in my mind ask for the millionth time... wouldn't it be worse to lose them AFTER you have them for a while?  Surely that has to be worse than having them born sleeping... worse than never having them at all.

And I don't know the answer of this.  And I'm sure every person, every family, every story is different.  But I'm sure that it will forever be a silent question I will carry with me for the rest of my days.

Over the past ten years I have seen parents, families, caring for a child with a disability.  The wheelchairs, the tubes, the determined exhaustion.  I can't help but wonder if having them live, but need so much forever care, would that bring more joy, or more burden to my life... if we're to be totally honest with ourselves.  Because my honest self is the one asking myself these questions.

And I completely admit, this is something I currently do not know the reality of firsthand, and it's also something that I realize is not probably even supposed to be talked about, admitted to... and yet... here I am.

Now, I am the parent of a child with high needs due to factors known and unknown, from things like trauma and brain damage, from a spectrum of neurodivergence.  The high need things that are less outwardly visible at a glance, less understood, less tolerated.  It's drowning in a sea of "societal normalcy" bc so much of it all is so against the normal, against the tide of what the world expects and demands.  School, rules, standardized "anything" ~ it's all supposed to fit into such a tight tidy little box, but that just isn't the reality, isn't a possibility.

But alas, that is a bit of a different subject than that which I originally started this post about.  And one I am well aware of that someday, I do need to circle back to and begin sharing more openly about.  But not today.  Not yet.  I'm still floundering too far down to begin to try go there.  And, I guess I'm still battling the whole "not probably even supposed to be talked about" thing on that subject yet.

We lost faith before she was born.  She did not breath, she did not cry.  She was born sleeping and immediately was welcomed through Heaven's gates rather than into our arms.  And we knew this was going to be her reality from almost the day we found out about her little existence.  Trisomy 18.  No life expectancy outside the womb.  We knew.  We were prepared.

Well no one is ever "prepared" for death, what am I even saying.  But logically speaking it's the "right thing to say" in that kind of circumstance.

We grieved only what wasn't. We grieved only what wouldn't be.

We didn't have to grieve all that had been, and already was.  There was an ultrasound photo in a frame, but there was not scrapbooks full of the passing of time, the smiles, the milestones, the holidays, the normal every days.  There wasn't video clips or live photos on our phones. There wasn't Facebook memories to pop up.

And I know the loss of a child is the loss of a child, no matter how or no matter when, the how and why's do not matter, so I'm not even sure why this whisper in my mind whooshes through every now and again.  Surely I cannot be the only one that hears this inside their head...

When I hear of the tragic accident, when I read about the horrible diagnose, when I see the mom loving and caring for her child with special needs and extreme disabilities... when there is also the small answering whisper trying to answer that question - I think I'm glad we lost her before we actually had her, then losing her after having her alive and in our arms on this earth.  

We didn't have any clothes, or toys, or books.  She didn't have a room all decorated and ready to come home to.  Surely having to take care of all those details after the loss has to just be so much worse than not even needing to have any of it at all in the first place.

But I don't know the other reality, but oh the souls I see through the eyes of their mama's is just so raw and so overwhelming to me and I can't help but think surely their pain has to be worse than what my pain is / was.  

But it's not a comparison game.

None of us are looking to be awarded loss mom of the year awards. Not one single one of us asked for this, wished for this, hoped for this. No one. No matter how or when we got this cursed title of "loss mom" it's each and every one of our own worst of the worsts.

I am only carrying my story and my loss within me... but Lord I pray I am able to somehow walk well beside all the others who are also carrying their own stories of their own losses within themselves. I pray that somehow, some way, all our broken hearts can help hold each other together as we walk forward in our own journeys, filled with our own questions, and our own battles and sorrows.

Our stories and our losses are all our own yes, but may we also simply allow ourselves to be stronger together.

Previous blog post { Dedication } here

Dedication

This morning we attended the church service of the dedication of our granddaughter.

I got myself up, through a small workout, showered, squeezed into some non-fitting clothes (swearing for the trillionth time to get back into shape), got in the car, drove to a neighboring town and walked in to an in-person church service.

In-person church is hard for me. And I realize some (most?) don't understand this... actually if I'm honest I can't even tell you why this is my reality.  But, it's hard, and it really has been much of my life.

As a child I think a lot of my uncomfort perhaps came from a very basic need to show up well dressed and looking all in order - and I struggled wearing that fake front... perhaps struggled isn't the best word, but I just didn't understand this societal request of me.

While I'm not always very good at it, I think in my very core I was born into a desire of authentic living.  Sure I hide and cover up and even lie my way through things for the sake of looking good on the outside just like we all do, but the blood in my veins does seem to always want to run real, pulse authentically, and it's only so long that I can hide away and continue to pretend.

(Also on a super odd side note, my brother flew in from South Carolina this weekend and I found myself sitting in church next to him and my parents, the original Oldenkamp party of four... I could not tell you the last time we were all sitting together in church - probably all the way back in the day of our childhood...)

As I have mentioned in earlier posts, I firmly believe in God and His mercy and my deliverance, but I also question so many things and find God's sense of humor most days not all that funny.  Do I doubt Him, no.  Do I try fight against His wishes, sometimes. Although the older I get the less I try to resist.  I hear that little voice, feel that little nudge and just sigh and think, "For realz God?!? You can't possible want me to think / say / do that..." but I also close my eyes and in fact know yes, He does want me to do exactly that.

I watch our church sermons online very regularly, read the Bible verses regularly that go with the current sermon series, but I don't often actually arrive in-person in the pew for worship.  It's hard.  It's just hard.

But I did today.  Our granddaughter was getting dedicated, and we all showed up.  I don't know how many rows of pews we all filled, but we showed up with our love and our commitment to God and our family.

I sang a little bit during worship, but not much.  It's kind of hard some day to sing all the praise and goodness when the things in life are a bit too heavy.  Yes, I realize that is exactly the purpose FOR the worship and singing... and sometimes I get there, and sometimes I don't.

And then three tiny baby girls were brought to the front of church.  They were held in the arms of their amazing and loving parents.  They were prayed over, they were read scripture over, they were given gifts and blessed with oils.

I watched young parents pray over and cry over their little miracles, so grateful for the answered prayers in their arms.  So ready to live and love and raise these beautiful children in the ways of the Lord, surrounded by family and friends.

And, as always, there was this little prick in my heart. The prick of pain, of loss, of uncomfortable, of grief, and perhaps even some jealousy.  We didn't get to hold our little baby girl up in front of church.  We didn't get to pray over her and have her life dedicated to the Lord.  We didn't even get to take her home from the hospital.

We got to attend her funeral service.

As I watched them move from the first little babe to the second... I couldn't help but think about how God, for whatever reason, decided heaven needed Faith more than we did.  Heaven needed Faith before we did.  She was chosen to have immediate dedication, not just to the Lord, but with the Lord.  We didn't give a promise to the Lord to raise her well, we gave her directly to the Lord before He even allowed us to have her.

And He didn't give us a say in that decision. And I found myself very torn this morning as I thought about that.  Why doesn't it feel better knowing she was chosen for greater things than the pain and suffering of this earth.  Why doesn't it hurt less knowing she's pain free and sin free in heaven since her very first breath.  Statements that should have given me comfort and joy... and yet just gave me tears... deep guttural tears that I had to fight back with all I had in me to not allow the ugly crying to overtake me during this moment that wasn't even about me.

It was about our granddaughter. The little sister to our other granddaughter.  The daughter of our son and his beautiful and amazing wife.  The little blessings God gave them, and us, after giving my hubs and I a different "blessing" reality.

They moved from the second little baby to our granddaughter. And the ugly tears I fought of my own grief and sorrow and loss and anger and confusion and jealosy and bitterness suddenly was also engulfed in these overwhelming feelings of great pride and joy and gratefulness.  A next generation was standing up there - holding their other children, praying over and dedicating their own children to the Lord, the same great God that twenty-eight years earlier we had prayed over and dedicated them to.  We had promised God to raise them well, with the help of so many others, and there they were... standing up there as strong amazing believing adults who are now carrying on this great and mighty thing to the next generation.

I have no idea how one is to wrap their mind around the reality of all those feelings and thoughts all within mere moments and minutes of each other, but like so many other things... that is how it goes.  This incredible juxtaposition of thoughts, feelings, hope, despair, disappointment and utter pride and overwhelm. 

Do I fear God taking my precious children or grand babies before me, you bet I do.  It's a simmering fear that is always just below the surface.  Did I fear God would take my grand babies to Heaven before He let us have them here on earth, you have no idea the fear I mired through and the prayers I laid at His feet over and over and over again... And... He gave them life and breath here on earth.  He left them be born alive and begin their journeys on the earth, and I give praise and glory for that.  I am so incredibly grateful, beyond words.

And yet... as proven today, even in all the ways I try to praise God in all things, there are those little pricks of pain and grief right amid the songs of joy and rejoicing that somehow get all tangled up in the moment and make the heart hurt and the soul ache for that which did not happen.  No, it did happen.  The ache is from that which did not happen as we had planned and hoped for, and for the journey we are left to continue on, on this narrow little road God has laid out for our lives.

I cannot fathom the reasons why some babies are here and some are quickly taken to heaven.  And it's obviously not my place to understand while still earthside, so I need to stop trying to figure it out. I need to simply continue to trust this journey and continue to show up for everyone as I best can.  Some days that's easy and some days that's hard. Some days I can show up in-person, and some days I can't.  But know either way, I'm fighting my way through it all with as much honesty and authenticity as I can possibly allow myself to live within.

Previous blog post { Love Baby Devotional  } HERE

Next blog post { The Silent Question In My Mind } HERE

Loved Baby Devotional

A few weeks ago I went to a local 5K color run for infancy and child loss awareness.

They had a table of resources, and I stopped and looked at a few things.  I'm not a new grieving mom anymore, I'm double digits in to this thing ... this journey. What would I possible need off a resource table...

But there was a small child's board book about loss, and a devotional that I reached down to touch.  I took them both home with me.  I put the children's book on the shelf next to the board books we were given as the announcement we were going to become a grandpa and grandma - which was interestingly enough in the exact same place as where we told my parents about Faith.  At the end of the kitchen counter peninsula.

I haven't thought about that before this moment.  One was told quietly with dread and sadness, one was told boldly with smiles and laughter.

I also took home a devotional.  Loved Baby, 31 Devotions Helping You Grieve and Cherish Your Child After Pregnancy Loss but Sarah Philpott, PhD.  It's pink with little flowers on the cover.  It has a little built in pink bookmark ribbon. I quietly set it on top of my Bible that had been sitting open on the kitchen table when I got home that day.

It's been several hot minutes (months/years) since I have regularly done any kind of devotions (or working out, or sleeping, or eating healthy). I do the weekly Bible readings faithfully that go with the church sermon series, but that is about all I've been doing. 

Actually - I have a dear friend that for over a year now messages me every day with scripture, devotion and prayer for me and my family.  I am beyond honored and blessed by this, and most days if I'm honest I'm left feeling so guilty, because I know I am just not at any place emotionally, spiritually or physically that I have enough within me to give in that manner to someone else. And yes, that is exactly why she does it.  Because she knows I cannot, and she loves me.

The next morning after the 5K I pulled out the kitchen table chair and I read the sermon series verse of the day in 1 Kings, and then I picked up the devotional.  I opened the devotional.  I read the introduction.  I took some deep breaths. And I read Day 1: You Are Becoming A New Creation.

I have been repeating this almost every morning since then.  Granted I am leaving my open Bible and this devotional out on the middle of the kitchen table all the time right now - which also means, we are not eating at our kitchen table.  Although if I'm honest, we stopped - or at least I stopped battling meal time a long time ago.

Mealtime is hard for everyone I am sure. I grew up in a home with every meal at the kitchen table, and every Sunday meal with the extended family at grandma's kitchen tables. We did eat at our kitchen table for years. And one day I just couldn't do it any more.  The actual making of the meals on a timely manner when you're working full time, keeping the table clean on a daily basis, meal planning, buying the groceries... but most of all, I couldn't do the mealtime meltdowns and mayhem any more.  I won't go into all the details, but at our table there is one of the fastest least picky eaters I have ever known, and one of the slowest and most picky eaters I have ever known, with control issues (not eating certain foods when made by certain people).  And the mix of those dynamics, are exhausting, especially for the mediator and maker of all the food.

The time at our table was not filled with laughter and stories of our days. It was stressful and full of anxiety and disagreements.

So I fed one in front of the tv in the basement, one in front of the tv in the living room, and I ate by myself alone at the counter.  And usually it was also three separate meals for each of us.  On occasion right now if it's just Brian and I home for supper, we will sit together at the table, although we aren't great at waiting for each other to actual eat together at the same time at the same place.

All that aside, one day I realized I was also not reading my Bible regularly and not doing devotions, and I started getting out my Bible and just leaving it out and open, and trying to read it almost every day.

As I have continued on with this Loved Baby child loss themed devotional, I find myself reading and reflecting and knowing that most of the book is written towards someone who is fresh in their loss and grief journeys... And I'm beginning to understand that while I am ten years, double digits in to my grief journey, it has taken me this long to actually reach a point where I am ready to do something like this. 

There are still unopened gifts that came home from the hospital with us on the day she didn't get to come home from there with us. I think they were little gifts to open on the hard days.  I'm assuming maybe a little lotion or a little candle or a little something along that line.  I have still never opened one of those gifts.  They are still individually wrapped and together in a purple gift bag with study handles in the very back of my bathroom closet. 

I am also at the same time reading through 1 and 2 Kings which encompasses its own amount of death and grief and loss and murders and death of mothers and children and so many others. I try and envision what living in that time and place must have been like, but I just absolutely can't imagine (although is it perhaps really all that different than the times we are currently living in?)

As I've continue to spend more time in silence and reading and intentional reflection with this daily devotional, I know much of the last few years I've been trying to keep myself closed off from the pain and loss of Faith, simply a survival mechanism I wasn't even fully aware of, while desperately struggling and trudging along through our current reality.  And now, while I'm not fully back to that fresh level of grief and despair, I do find myself thinking about her more again, I've been reaching out a tiny bit more to some of the other loss mom friends I have that I haven't been very connected to recently, and I have even dialed in to a loss moms support call or two recently.  

I am still drowning and lost in my current journey, but I am also feeling a small pulse within trying to remind me to not forget about Faith, not to forget about myself - who I really am, what I really believe in (which I honestly have absolutely no idea who and what I really even am anymore)... And my eyes have reopened and refocused just enough to realize how far away from everything I have allowed myself to be right now. Closed off, guarded, shielded, on a survival automation that has left me basically unrecognizable to myself.

It took me over seventeen years to get to this place, so I know I cannot reverse and recover anything with any speed, but perhaps someday there is a chance that I will be able to find a glimmer of hope again.

** {Previous blog post here: October Infant and Child loss Awareness    }

October Infant and Child Loss Awareness Month

Well, I wasn't sure I was even going to be able to log back into this account it's been so long.  And yet, here we are.  It's been a long time.  A very long time.  Much has happened, much has not been documented or shared.

I may go back and try fill in a few of the larger things, but then again, I might not.

I am currently in a season of utter deep, dark, drowning in the trenches of some really really hard life stuff right now.  All my life I haven't shared much about that journey in our life, mostly because it isn't entirely all my story to share.  Granted, Faith also isn't only my story to share, but... she is not here to someday read, someday compare, someday accuse of oversharing... Although the deeper and longer this other journey is going, the more and more I am feeling that at some point there will come a point where I do need to share at least some things - mostly because I know I cannot be the only one, we cannot be the only family in this similar place.  And while I do know I am not alone, I do also know this is one hell of a hard and lonely ride right now.

But for now, this blog is still about Faith.  About our Journey to Faith.  The life and loss of our infant daughter now over ten years ago.  Double digits. Wow, where does that time go?  Who would she have been? What would her personality have been? What friends would she have? What loves would she have? What favorite foods would she want? What would her favorite color have been?

Several weeks ago my beautiful daughter-in-law messaged me a link to a local Infant and Childless Awareness 5k Color Run.  She asked if I would be interested in doing it with her and the girls. 

**{Girls}** Insert quick side note, in July we welcomed our second granddaughter into our lives.  And there is so much to tell about her and her life, that I do promise to come back to a share a few of those stories with you all.

She took care of signing us all up, she took care of getting Faith's name added to the back of the t-shirts, she took care of reminding me about the event and she pulled into the event parking lot about two minutes after I had arrived and we put on our shirts and put in our miles together, and I knew it was one of those moments in time when you just know you are not fully mentally or physically prepared for it before you arrive, and yet also know it is going to be something special.

I was out running early one morning and got attached by a dog in early July and was injured and haven't really been able to run much since.  I have done some walking and some elliptical miles, but overall I have been sidelined from running and working out.  Some I'm sure is just an excuse I'm using with the dog bites and hematomas, some I'm sure is also just an excuse that I am just currently spread too thin to allow time for working on anything for myself, beyond getting through each day.

As we stood in the parking lot of the event, we were surrounded by individuals and families all holding infant and childloss close to their hearts and minds.  There were strollers and kiddos and puppers and runners and walkers and color stations and wind. So very much wind.

I laid in bed that morning, not wanting to get up. Not wanting to face people, interact with people. I didn't want to have to push myself and sweat and feel just how out of shape I have gotten, how much weight I have gained. And as I got up and drove in silence alone in my car, I also realized I was probably trying to just continue to leave that door into my heart shut. 

The pain in my heart is so great these days, that it has just kind of closed Faith's door for a while.  I don't have enough available inside me to deal with it all at the same time.  So without actually even knowing it, she closed her door and slipped into a quiet corner, still holding my hand, but also holding her pain and loss for me.

As I drove and thought about this, part of me was so sad that I had allowed this to happen, letting her silently just slip into the shadows during this current season, and part of me was so grateful as well. As I thought of her and all the things... all the what ifs... all the memories... I just knew that holding both of these journeys side by side in both of my hands at the same time would have been too much.  Too much.  So for a while I've had to let her go, as I've grabbed on even tighter with both hands as I am being drug along in this current season.

Physically she is not here on this earth with us.  I don't understand why that is our reality, and most days I'm able to say (and believe) the words that God has a purpose for all this. For her, for us, through her loss.

I know there has been gains through our loss.  Friendships, chances to share our story, bring awareness, stand in the silence with others knowing a small inkling of their pain from their loss... And I realized yesterday that I am also failing miserable in that whole portion of my life right now.  No, I know I'm not failing it - but I am not available to fully (or even partially) invest in the infant and child loss awareness as I have in the past.  And I'm sorry for that.

I'm sorry I have gone silent and have slowly disappeared over the last few years.  And I have to be completely honest, it's going to be that way for a while longer. The light is not yet visible at the end of this tunnel I am currently so lost in.

The devil is busy at work telling his lies of failure and not good enough's, and I know it is not just me he's preying on.  The entire world right now is hurting and also feeling lost and broken.  We are all battling big hard things that we think we are the only ones.  But I have to also trust that we aren't the only ones. 

I'm reminded of our sermon from 1 Kings today about Elijah, exhausted and tired and ready for the Lord to take him. He thought he was the only one left, completely alone, not enough, ready to die... and in fact... God was assembling a crew of seven thousand other believers waiting to join forces with him...

Elijah wasn't alone, and neither are we. Elijah was enough, and so are we.  Even when we feel most alone and most not enough.

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