When it gets close to the holidays, I love opening my mail. It's not the usual junk mail and bills. The holiday cards start arriving and, with them, the pictures of our babies and children, with news of their year. It's the highlight of my day when I get to sit down and read over all of the cards. Today, I opened my mail and, as usual, posted all of the pictures of families and the children and cards on a wooden cabinet in the main hallway of our office where everyone can see them. As I got to the last envelope, I was disheartened by what I found myself reading.
Suzi and Jeff adopted Katie 11 years ago. When they decided to adopt again, along came Jillian, now a spunky 7 year old. Their family complete, they settled into what should have been an idyllic life. Then Jeff got sick. This year, the cancer that made Jeff so ill took his life, leaving Suzi to raise the girls by herself. To go through life, chapter by chapter, sharing the pain, the joy, the heartaches and the triumphs, only to be unable to finish the book is profoundly unfair. But, life isn't fair. Katie and Jillian are learning this at a tender age. This will be their first Christmas without their father there to put together toys or eat the cookies left for Santa.
Unfortunately, many of us have experienced losses that cause us to understand how precious life is. It's not a club that anyone wants to be in and, yet, only those who are in it truly understand. Suzi, I am supremely saddened by your loss and I pray that you, Katie, and Jillian will heal and receive blessings beyond whatever you thought possible after such a difficult time in your life. The holidays can be a tough time, especially so soon after you've lost someone you love. You will continue to see Jeff in each one of the girls as they grow.
Jeff, just like Suzi, wanted to be a parent and worked hard to achieve that goal. He had to leave too soon to see his girls learn to drive, go on a first date, or walk them down the aisle. But I am certain that he is watching them every step of the way and cheering every accomplishment from the sidelines. I'm sure he would say he is so proud of Suzi and his girls. I'm sure he would say we should all cherish our loved ones and never take them for granted. We should love one another and spread the Christmas spirit all year long. That's really what Christmas is all about. Rest in peace, Jeff.
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Showing posts with label loss. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Happy Birthday, Cody
This week the election has taken center stage and, for the first time in many years, perhaps because of the distraction, November 2nd came and went without too much sorrow. November 2nd, 1992 -- 16 years ago -- I lost my son. Cody Andrew came into this life and left it all in one fleeting moment. After having two healthy children, I had no reason to believe that my 23rd week pregnancy was anything but normal. One evening, I felt a lot of fetal movement -- really the first I had felt in the pregnancy -- and suddenly I was aware of the little life within me. I was happy and excited to go to my regularly scheduled pre-natal visit the next morning. It would be the day I would find out the gender of my child. I had a boy and a girl, so it didn't really matter, but I would be able to choose a name and think about all of the possibilities. My youngest had gone off to kindergarten and I was feeling the sting of an empty nest. I couldn't wait to have a new baby home to fill my days with the joy only a baby can bring.
When I arrived at the doctor's office, I was humming and reading the most recent Parent's Magazine. It was a beautiful day. I was called in and my doctor, a very sweet older gentleman, began the ultrasound -- the first I would have of this pregnancy. I could see the screen and wondered if I would be able to identify the gender without him telling me. As he scanned, he began to concentrate and focused on the screen, angling it back towards him. I was disappointed that I could no longer see what he was scanning. After a few moments, he stated, "I'm not seeing what I want to see, so we're going to switch from the doppler to the internal ultrasound". "Okay", I responded. Once he positioned the wand, he looked up and uttered the words that would keep echoing in my mind, "I'm so sorry, honey, but this baby doesn't have a heartbeat". At that moment, I think my own heart stopped. I felt frozen in time. I was there by myself.
I don't think I said much. I remember him hugging me and telling me he was so sorry. I got off the table and walked out of the building and across the street, passing my car in the parking lot, and heading for the hospital where I worked. I remember walking in front of a moving car and hearing the honk. I felt zombie-like. I walked in the front door and passed several people I knew who greeted me. It was all I could do to stay upright, so I said nothing as I proceeded down the hall to my unit -- Labor and Delivery. As I pushed the button that would open the double entry doors to the unit, I remember feeling like I was in a bad dream. I fell to my knees and I remember screaming. Someone said it sounded like a wounded animal, a primal scream.
All of the nurses working on the unit were my friends. They all came running and picked me up and took me to a labor room where they talked with me, sat with me, and prayed with me. One of my friends, a physician, came in and quietly explained that I would have to wait to go into labor and then deliver the baby. He knew I would likely at some point want to have another baby and didn't want to cause my cervix to become incompetent by forcing it open. Fetal demise happens occasionally, but late term fetal demise is not common. No one knows why he died. Perhaps a non-functioning placenta or an underdeveloped umbilical cord. I went home to wait. I can't explain what it does to you psychologically to carry around a dead baby. I was showing, so when I was out people I didn't know would come up and ask when I was due. Some would touch my belly. I knew I couldn't go into details without completely falling apart, so I would just give the due date and move on. It took a week before my body was ready to deliver Cody. I went into labor at 2:00 a.m. on November 2nd.
I went into the hospital and labored for something like 12 hours before he was born. So tiny he could fit in the palm of your hand, but the labor felt like a full term baby. My doctor asked if I wanted to have a D&C. I couldn't even conceive of it. I needed to see him, to hold him, and to bury him. I had quite a support system in my friends there. Sharon, Jana, Margie, and an angel on earth, Annie. They stayed with me, prayed with me, and helped me deliver Cody and say goodbye over the course of those 12 hours. He was tiny, but perfect with all of his parts intact. His skin was almost transparent, but his features were delicate and he looked peaceful.
I can't even say I regret the experience all of these years later. It was, of course, very traumatic, but Cody taught me more without ever walking on this earth than any other person, child or adult, friend or teacher, has taught me in my lifetime. I view his death as God's will. Cody fulfilled his mission here on earth. He taught me what it feels like to be a birth mother with empty arms. He taught me what it feels like to be unable to deliver a full-term healthy baby. He taught me about grief and how to deal with it. He taught me that you can't take life for granted. He taught me who my true friends were. He taught me that there were people in my life who weren't true friends. He taught me how to tell the difference. He taught me how precious life is and how sometimes we don't think about others who are grieving because we are caught up in our own lives. He taught me what is important and what is not. He taught me that we all have a purpose and how important it is to fulfill that purpose. In retrospect, he did everything he needed to do before he went to be with God.
After his funeral, when leaving the cemetery, I had a sudden urge to go back to the grave site. I knew it was time to go and it felt a little crazy asking my husband to turn the car around so I could go back. But the urge was so strong, I insisted. When we got back to the little clearing surrounded by woods where my parents are buried, I was stunned at what I saw. There, on top of Cody's newly dug grave, were a family of deer. A beautiful 8 point buck stood guard while an adult female munched on the fresh flowers atop my son's grave. At her feet was a tiny fawn, still not totally sure on his feet, gingerly nibbling on the flowers. It was a sight I'll never forget and, in case I do, I have pictures that I was able to snap. I saw that as a message from my family -- "Cody is fine here with us"...my mother and father had him safely within their arms. When my children asked me why Cody had to die, I told them "because Grandma and Grandpa needed to have a grand baby to love and hold in Heaven".
Cody will always be my son, just as surely as my children who have grown to adulthood. It was a privilege to have witnessed an angel taking flight. Happy Birthday, son.
When I arrived at the doctor's office, I was humming and reading the most recent Parent's Magazine. It was a beautiful day. I was called in and my doctor, a very sweet older gentleman, began the ultrasound -- the first I would have of this pregnancy. I could see the screen and wondered if I would be able to identify the gender without him telling me. As he scanned, he began to concentrate and focused on the screen, angling it back towards him. I was disappointed that I could no longer see what he was scanning. After a few moments, he stated, "I'm not seeing what I want to see, so we're going to switch from the doppler to the internal ultrasound". "Okay", I responded. Once he positioned the wand, he looked up and uttered the words that would keep echoing in my mind, "I'm so sorry, honey, but this baby doesn't have a heartbeat". At that moment, I think my own heart stopped. I felt frozen in time. I was there by myself.
I don't think I said much. I remember him hugging me and telling me he was so sorry. I got off the table and walked out of the building and across the street, passing my car in the parking lot, and heading for the hospital where I worked. I remember walking in front of a moving car and hearing the honk. I felt zombie-like. I walked in the front door and passed several people I knew who greeted me. It was all I could do to stay upright, so I said nothing as I proceeded down the hall to my unit -- Labor and Delivery. As I pushed the button that would open the double entry doors to the unit, I remember feeling like I was in a bad dream. I fell to my knees and I remember screaming. Someone said it sounded like a wounded animal, a primal scream.
All of the nurses working on the unit were my friends. They all came running and picked me up and took me to a labor room where they talked with me, sat with me, and prayed with me. One of my friends, a physician, came in and quietly explained that I would have to wait to go into labor and then deliver the baby. He knew I would likely at some point want to have another baby and didn't want to cause my cervix to become incompetent by forcing it open. Fetal demise happens occasionally, but late term fetal demise is not common. No one knows why he died. Perhaps a non-functioning placenta or an underdeveloped umbilical cord. I went home to wait. I can't explain what it does to you psychologically to carry around a dead baby. I was showing, so when I was out people I didn't know would come up and ask when I was due. Some would touch my belly. I knew I couldn't go into details without completely falling apart, so I would just give the due date and move on. It took a week before my body was ready to deliver Cody. I went into labor at 2:00 a.m. on November 2nd.
I went into the hospital and labored for something like 12 hours before he was born. So tiny he could fit in the palm of your hand, but the labor felt like a full term baby. My doctor asked if I wanted to have a D&C. I couldn't even conceive of it. I needed to see him, to hold him, and to bury him. I had quite a support system in my friends there. Sharon, Jana, Margie, and an angel on earth, Annie. They stayed with me, prayed with me, and helped me deliver Cody and say goodbye over the course of those 12 hours. He was tiny, but perfect with all of his parts intact. His skin was almost transparent, but his features were delicate and he looked peaceful.
I can't even say I regret the experience all of these years later. It was, of course, very traumatic, but Cody taught me more without ever walking on this earth than any other person, child or adult, friend or teacher, has taught me in my lifetime. I view his death as God's will. Cody fulfilled his mission here on earth. He taught me what it feels like to be a birth mother with empty arms. He taught me what it feels like to be unable to deliver a full-term healthy baby. He taught me about grief and how to deal with it. He taught me that you can't take life for granted. He taught me who my true friends were. He taught me that there were people in my life who weren't true friends. He taught me how to tell the difference. He taught me how precious life is and how sometimes we don't think about others who are grieving because we are caught up in our own lives. He taught me what is important and what is not. He taught me that we all have a purpose and how important it is to fulfill that purpose. In retrospect, he did everything he needed to do before he went to be with God.
After his funeral, when leaving the cemetery, I had a sudden urge to go back to the grave site. I knew it was time to go and it felt a little crazy asking my husband to turn the car around so I could go back. But the urge was so strong, I insisted. When we got back to the little clearing surrounded by woods where my parents are buried, I was stunned at what I saw. There, on top of Cody's newly dug grave, were a family of deer. A beautiful 8 point buck stood guard while an adult female munched on the fresh flowers atop my son's grave. At her feet was a tiny fawn, still not totally sure on his feet, gingerly nibbling on the flowers. It was a sight I'll never forget and, in case I do, I have pictures that I was able to snap. I saw that as a message from my family -- "Cody is fine here with us"...my mother and father had him safely within their arms. When my children asked me why Cody had to die, I told them "because Grandma and Grandpa needed to have a grand baby to love and hold in Heaven".
Cody will always be my son, just as surely as my children who have grown to adulthood. It was a privilege to have witnessed an angel taking flight. Happy Birthday, son.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Grief and Mothers
Often people say to me, "Oh, your work must be so rewarding and satisfying". Whenever I hear that, I say "Yes, it can be", but I also think to myself, "You have no idea how heartbreaking and emotional it can be too". It's always a happy event when a baby is born and goes home to a loving family. Birth is a miracle that unites families. However, for birth mothers, it can be a source of grief. A mother with empty arms is a mother, nonetheless. Even though she has made the choice of adoption for her child, she still goes through the cycle of grief that comes with losing someone or something very meaningful. It can be very much like a death in the family. I have yet to meet the birth mother who didn't love her child. Adoptive moms are no strangers to grief either. They have to grieve their infertility and childlessness before they can move forward to find other ways to build their family. Of course, a new baby erases all that pain and grief for an adoptive mom. But what about the birth mother? She goes home with empty arms and breasts full of milk. It can be a very sad time for her. Open adoption has gone a long way to helping birth mothers heal. While birth parents can give a child to a waiting family, that family can give peace of mind back to the birth mother. Just knowing that her child is healthy and happy and being cared for and given the life she couldn't provide at the time of birth helps a birth mother cope with her loss. It's important, too, for her to know what a gift she has given to the adoptive parents she has chosen. A letter and a few pictures now and then aren't too much to ask. What a long way adoption has come in the past 50 years!
When adoptive parents express to me that they are apprehensive about keeping in touch with the birth mother, it is generally because they are fearful that at some point, their child will be reclaimed and they will be left childless and heartbroken. Once it is explained that at the point that an adoption is irrevocable that won't happen, they are more willing to share. Adoptive mothers and birth mothers have a great deal in common. They share the same grief. Adoptive mothers grieve the loss of children never conceived or lost through miscarriage and stillbirth. Birth mothers grieve the loss of the child they bore, but were unable to care for, either physically or financially. When they realize that they share this grief, more often than not a bond is formed and a relationship is born. Then, both families can be united by the love they share, and the child can't get too much love.
When adoptive parents express to me that they are apprehensive about keeping in touch with the birth mother, it is generally because they are fearful that at some point, their child will be reclaimed and they will be left childless and heartbroken. Once it is explained that at the point that an adoption is irrevocable that won't happen, they are more willing to share. Adoptive mothers and birth mothers have a great deal in common. They share the same grief. Adoptive mothers grieve the loss of children never conceived or lost through miscarriage and stillbirth. Birth mothers grieve the loss of the child they bore, but were unable to care for, either physically or financially. When they realize that they share this grief, more often than not a bond is formed and a relationship is born. Then, both families can be united by the love they share, and the child can't get too much love.
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