In honor & Celebration of

This time, 2 years ago, I was getting ready for a routine 16 week appointment with my OB. Later that day we would find out that our baby's heart had stopped beating. Their best guess was that it happened just a few days before.

Since that day, there has been pain, sadness, happiness, joy, death, life, loss, and growth. Life moves on, even in the face of tragedy.

I have written a lot about Lilia, and I'm grateful to have been able to process my grief through words. I'm grateful to so many of you for letting me speak, for talking to me about her, for grieving with me. Someone recently told me they thought I was acting like a victim for posting about her.

Let me be clear.

I am not 'acting like a victim'.

I am a grieving mother, who lost her daughter.



And here is what I know from the last 2 years. Many of you have also lost daughters and sons. Some of you may lose a child in the future. I'm not trying to be morbid, but the American Pregnancy Association says that the risk of miscarriage, on average, is about 20-30%.

I know that miscarriage and pregnancy/baby loss is a lonely and dark place.

I know that using my voice from this experience has helped other women, because they've told me so. I know that I personally found healing through the voices of other women who shared their experiences.

Today, in honor and celebration of Lilia I will be donating my wedding gown to be used to make burial gowns for tiny babies who leave this earth too soon. If you know someone who has been impacted by the loss of a child, consider donating either your wedding gown, your money (just $10 can make a gown!), or your talents as a seamstress to NICU Helping Hands Angel Gowns program.

And to those of you who allow me to honor my daughter through written word or conversation, thank you. From the bottom of my heart.

xoxo

Also grateful to Amanda from Joy Ever After for photographing various stages of pregnancy with the fruit that correlates to the size of the baby.

We love and miss you Lilia Faith!

Twenty Fifth

Today is February 25th - a normal day for most of you, but a day that holds significance and sorrow for me.  February 25th was Lilia's due date, and I can't help but wonder what life would have been like if we were celebrating our little girl turn one this week.

I was feeling a little hesitant about whether I should acknowledge this day publicly - it seemed the last time I mentioned Lilia online, it caused a small firestorm of comments that hurt me deeply and had me crying on and off all day.  But the truth is, this is my little space of the world and she is and always will be a part of our family and our story. Read more here, here, and here.

And if there is anything I've learned from the baby loss community, it's that so many women feel as though they can't talk about the child they've lost. If this post helps just one other woman feel ok about continuing to grieve the loss of a pregnancy or child - I'll put myself out there.

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Dear Lilia,

It has been 526 days since I found out you were gone.

Some of those days have been soul-crushingly hard. Some of those days I didn't want to get out of bed and face the world without you growing inside of me.  Some of those days, the very sight of other little girls would bring me to tears. Some of those days I was angry, some of those days I felt like I couldn't breathe. Some of those days I wondered why God had taken you - my daughter - from me without any warning.  Some of those days I felt alone and abandoned by people I thought were my friends.

But some of those days I felt alive again, I felt joy and happiness and peace in my heart.  Some of those days I felt so madly in love with God I wanted to sing His praises as loud as I possibly could.  Some of those days I laughed and I smiled and some of those days I enjoyed coffee and good conversations with friends who weren't afraid to talk about you.  Some of those days I enjoyed the sunshine and the feel of the ocean waves as they lapped against my toes in the warm sand.  Some of those days I enjoyed a new life growing inside of me, your brother Declan.

It has been 526 days since I found out you were gone and while the ache has dulled some, I am still amazed at the sadness I feel when I think of you. I never got a chance to watch you grow or see you take your first steps, but I know with all that is in me that you are walking with Jesus, blonde hair streaming behind you as you laugh. It is painful that I know nothing about you, but it is comforting to know I can spend eternity getting to know you, getting to memorize every perfect feature on your face.

This past year has pulled me closer to and further from God more times than I thought possible. It feels like a constant tug of war between Him and I, but He never stops tugging. He never stops chasing me, and His love never fails. I am reading a book and the author says one of the best things she learned was to embrace the tension of God.  It is too difficult to make sense of it all - too hard to make Him fit into the box of humanness we so often try to force him into. In our limited perspective, the best thing to do is embrace the tension.

And so I find that I am learning to do just that.  To embrace the unexplained - I don't know why you aren't here, but I don't understand a lot of things when it comes to God and that's ok.

I do know this. You are loved. You are remembered. Your story has impacted many women who write to tell me so - and because of that, I can find a little peace in your absence.  Last year, your story caught the attention of some authors who wrote a book on baby loss and they shared with me their story of loss by sending me their book. I am grateful for the impact you have made and that other women who have been through this feel a little comfort knowing they are not alone.

Until I see your beautiful face,

Always your Mommy

Measuring Grief

Yesterday, I got a 5:45 am wake up call from Beckett.  It was a long but productive day, ending with a much much needed night out with a friend where we gorged on bad for us food and shared good, encouraging conversation.  These days, I have to all out exhaust my body in order to get more than 2 hours of consecutive sleep.

I woke up only once last night to use the bathroom, a far cry from the standard 5-8 times.  And when Beckett awoke a little after 7, I opened my eyes and felt dread.  A pit in my stomach.  Nauseous.  Something was wrong, I knew it.  I couldn't figure out how I'd slept so hard all night, not noticing the usual Declan kicks.  I laid still in my bed, willing him to move but felt nothing.  I felt very very NOT pregnant.

I actually had to reach down and make sure my belly was still there.  This is ridiculous - if you've seen me in person, there's no denying that belly.  It's growing at a rapid pace and even if something was wrong with Declan, the belly doesn't disappear overnight.

But I woke up with fear in my heart and absolute panic.  After laying there for about 20 minutes, I finally felt him move.  Relief flooded my body and I felt like I could breathe again.

Those of us who have experienced pregnancy loss dance around our grief, almost feeling as though we don't deserve to be sad.  There are those who lost babies early in pregnancy - who apologize for feeling sad over a baby who was lost at 4 or 5 weeks.  And then there's my category - 2nd trimester losses...some of us forced to experience labor, some of us not - and we apologize because we can't imagine going through it in the 3rd trimester.  And then there are the women who give birth to stillborn babies at 35 weeks, at 39 or at 41.  Tragic yes, but there are apologies for sadness because they can't imagine what it must be like to lose an older child.

Why do we measure our grief?  We would never say to someone newly engaged - "Congratulations on your engagement, but try not to be quite so happy ok?  Because Lucy up the street got a much bigger diamond ring than you did.  SHE'S the one who really deserves to celebrate.  Your little ring is ok, and worth some celebration - but move on quickly and let Lucy live it up."

We don't do that, because it would be ridiculous.  Don't get me wrong, I fully believe that there are losses that hurt far worse than others.  I have no doubt that if I'd given birth to my baby girl and lost her at 40 weeks, it would have been a much more devastating experience.  However, it doesn't change the grief I felt and still feel over her not being here now.   When we were at the beach last month, almost a year to the day we found out we were pregnant with her, I thought of how we should be driving in the car with another child in the backseat.

Todd shared this video on his Facebook page a few days ago.  It's the story of friends of his, who lost their baby boy at 18 weeks.  Watch it.  Even if it makes you uncomfortable.  It needs to be watched, their story needs to be told and their baby deserves to be remembered.  Pregnancy loss, miscarriage - it's a subject rarely talked about.  I was shocked at the number of messages I received after our loss from women who have been through it.  Overwhelmed at the number of families who have been affected by this, because I just never knew.  Statistics say 1 in 4 women experience a loss.  I have to wonder if it's even higher than that.

It's easy to think you know what a grieving family or mother might feel or need after the loss of a child.  And each person/situation is different.  But the more we talk about it, the more we allow ourselves to truly grieve ALONGSIDE someone else, the more Christ focused, real and intimate our relationships become.  So again, I encourage you to watch.  Even if you cry, which you probably will.  So much of this story is my story, and the story of so many other women.  I'm grateful to Sarah and her family for being brave enough to share it.


Matthew: The Story Of Sarah Henderson from Renovatus Video on Vimeo.