Almost June

My dearest Georgie,

It is almost June, just a little over two months since you've been gone. Almost summer, and your mama is so sad these last three days--sadder than I've been a long time. I miss you so terribly. God has given me such peace about where you are, but this separation is so hard, so so hard. Mommy is finding it hard to get out of bed lately. I feel as if so many people have moved on, and expect me to, and I am stuck in time right now, like the world moves around me and I don't.

Why couldn't I have kept you a little while longer?

I am so grateful for the 9.5 months I had you inside me. You may not remember any of this in heaven, but you kept Mommy morning sick the whole time you were inside me. You also gave me terrible heartburn, and I just knew you'd have a lot of hair, and you did! You had such beautiful dark blonde hair, especially at the crown of your head and in the back. You had the most perfect face I have ever seen--so beautiful.

You loved fruit, especially watermelon and peaches. You also loved cream of wheat and yogurt. And cold ice water. You would have continued loving all these things if Mommy had been able to keep you longer.

You loved to dance in my belly. I remember the first time I felt your beautiful flutter, on a special Wednesday night in October. Your daddy started talking to me, and suddenly there you were. A beautiful little flutter that got stronger everyday.

You loved to kick on the left side of my belly. One time Quatro was lying next to me on the couch, and you kicked so hard he felt it! He looked at me in surprise and jumped off the couch!

You also loved to get your tiny little bottom squeezed under my ribcage. You had a tiny little bottom. Where did you get that from? Certainly not from me. :)

We had a few special nights near the end when I couldn't sleep. So I woke up, went downstairs and sat on the big chair and talked to you. I talked to you about all the great things we would do together, how happy you made me, how special you were.

We had such a wonderful Christmas together. You got so many presents! A stocking with an angel on it, full of fun little pink shoes, a little sippee cup, little onesies. You were given a beautiful little pink dress. A dress nobody ever gets to wear, a dress I will keep special in memory of you.

I am so thankful and so glad for your little life. If God told me He would rewind my life and give me the choice to go through this or not, I would still choose to go through it because I knew you, even for a little while. What a blessing and what a gift.

The first time I really saw your face, when you were born, oh I was so in love with you. My heart was so broken from falling in love with you so much, a deep deep love I never knew I could have. I am still in love with you, and wish so much you were here with me. My heart is still so broken.

I am so broken over your beautiful christening gown, which we never christened you in.

I am so broken over your beautiful gold shoes, which we buried you in. How is that possible?

I am so broken over your nursery full of your things. I cannot open the door, can barely look at it. How can I ever decide what to keep for you, what to use for another child? How can I ever make myself put it all away, or even open the door?

I am so broken over the joy we all felt, only to turn into the worst sorrow I could (n)ever have imagined.

I am so broken over my own sorrow, over my family's sorrow.

So broken, little one. Missing you so much.

I hope you feel my love from here. I hope God cleanses my love and strips away the sadness, confusion and bitterness that often surrounds it right now. I hope you feel nothing but the unimaginable devotion and joy I have about you, my special one.

So much love to you, my saint baby. So much love.

Music

For those of you who know me well, you know I love music, and I love to sing.

I put some songs together (down below) that remind me of Georgiana.

I pray they bring you hope!

Love to you and to my sweet baby girl.

God's Promises

I have been trying to be more mindful of who God is the last couple of days.

A good friend reminded me the other day that my perception of God in my mind is not really who God is.  This is a true piece of wisdom to keep in mind.

The grief is there, but it warps out of focus lately when I start to think God is not there, God did this, God does not love me.

This is my perception, and not the reality.

God does love me, He does answer prayer, He is there.

This is hard to see sometimes.

But as so many remind me, Jesus never promised there would be no suffering.

In fact, just the opposite.

Jesus said we would experience suffering, and that we would experience more as believers.

He also said He is the way, the truth and the life, and if we believe in Him, we will not die, but live forever.

So...(1) suffering; and (2) heaven.

I will take the suffering if I can get to the heaven part.

But, please, God, let me have some living children before I get to the heaven part.

Amen, amen, please God, amen.

Love you Georgie. Miss you more than life. Love you, Mama

Instead

She had her baby.

Her baby was born to heaven first. Then born to earth.

Instead of well wishers, there were mourners.

Instead of tips and advice, there were books on grief bought.

Instead of her child burying her someday, she buried her child.

Instead of carrying a child in her arms, she carries the child in her heart.

She began filling out the family bible. Under "Children," she wrote "Georgiana Bliss."

She covered all the blanks that would never be--baptism, confirmation, wedding--with stickers, because she could not bear to see all the blanks.

Her child lives in heaven.

She lives on earth.

She is divided.

The world is upside down.

Happy

Not me. Not right now.

But once.

I love both these pictures.

Dave and me in Hawaii.

The dog at the bottom, covered in snow, is our little Havanese, Quatro.

Clinging to God.

Clinging to happier times.

Please Pray

I ask you all for extra strong prayers as our daughter's death shakes our foundations.

I pray to God to make me gentle, make me kind, and give me wisdom.

Georgiana, pray for us.

I Will Carry You

"I Will Carry You" by the Christian band Selah.

I heart. It makes me cry. It gives me hope.

Georgie, I will miss all the little things with you, my baby. All the little things.

(Bitter)sweet Memories

I realized my last post puts my mind in the ditch.

On Friday, her 2 month mark, I went to the grocery store. I bought her flowers, a bunch of multicolored roses and a bunch of pale pink, almost white, roses.

I baked a banana cake for her. It was delicious.

I bought a candle for her and lit it on Friday night. The scent is called "Pink Sands." It is beautiful.

I thought back to the day of her funeral. I wore a black dress my grandmother bought me, one of about 8 I had to choose from. A black shawl. My feet were so swollen, my belly a deflated, saggy, empty pouch.

I looked at myself in the mirror that morning. I wore berry lipstick, the rest of my face pale--a face that walked the valley of the shadow of death. So pale. My eyes so swollen. It was as if I looked at someone else. I looked at my mouth, my chin, my jawline. It looked just like her face. I looked down at my still swollen hands. They were replicas of hers. Or hers were replicas of mine? My mind swirled.

I hurt from birth. I dragged more than walked. I could smell the cabbage on my skin, from what had been used to try and stop my milk from coming in.

Dave and I walked together, in front of everyone else, broken and clutching each other's hand. I felt like running, screaming, away from my life. I knew there was nowhere to go.

It was a dreary day, with the cold rain pelting us as we walked in the chapel. We drew to Georgiana, to her little casket. She was wearing what would have been her christening gown, the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. She was wearing gold shoes her uncle Clay picked out for her, gold shoes that sat on the table at her baby shower just a little over a month before. A beautiful bonnet. She looked so gorgeous, so...quiet.

She wore a beautiful pink and white blanket her Nana bought her.

Dave had bought her a little pink hippo for Valentines day. It's name was "Big Kiss."

Here is what the tag reads:

"I'm a hippo that's red and pink
I look this way because I think
Of you each and everyday.
I love you more than words can say!"

Sigh.

We tucked it in with her.

I gave her my most prized possession, a little white hankie my dad gave me at my wedding, stained with the joyful tears of nearly three years before when I had prepared to walk down the aisle, to a new and different and exciting life.

I now have another white hankie, from her funeral. I placed the joyful one in with her, tucking it under her right hand. I put a beautiful bracelet on her left hand and a rosary.

I keep the sad hankie now. It looks just like the one I gave her, but it is so very different.

Dave gave her his Iraqi campaign medal, tucked just over her heart. Our brave little soul, going ahead of us, preparing a way for the rest of us.

I felt as if I would collapse during her Mass. I didn't. I died all over again inside.

We walked out to bury her. Her little coffin sat outside, being rained on. There was a fresh hole in the ground. The priest gave me a crucifix for her, so tiny. I stood there and stared at all that was left of my daughter on this earth, a coffin ready to go into the ground. I could not breathe.

I realized everyone else was waiting for me. I stepped forward and put either arm on each side of her coffin, encircling her inside me one last time. I laid my cheek on her coffin. I talked to her. I held her for the last time. I prayed to God.

I willed myself to walk away. If I hadn't made myself, I never would have. I would have begged them to bury me in the ground with her.

How I miss you, my sweet Georgiana.
I have to remember the memories from this day, as there are so few we have now. It is so important, for my beautiful little daughter, for me.

Georgiana.

Love of my life.

Dark Thoughts

Warning: This post is not for the faint of heart. It will make you sad, and will probably frighten you. It's okay if you don't read past this.

Friday marked the second month mark without Georgiana. Oddly enough, despite being immeasurably sad, I felt as if 1% of me was back that day. I realized that day how unbelievably sad it really was. I also realized that on that day, back in March, I felt Georgiana for the last time. I had her with me here on earth, body and soul together, her body within my body, for the last time. This day will forever mean joy and sorrow to me.

Lately I spend a lot of time trying to keep the awful thoughts out of my head. It does give me comfort that my daughter is in heaven, that her happy little soul is with the Savior. A priest told me on Saturday it is the best place for her to be.

My logical self knows that. I can understand that comfort with my logic.

My emotional self has a much harder time with this.

Most likely, Georgiana died from what is called a velamentous cord insertion. The pathologist deemed that there was a placental abruption due to velamentous cord insertion.

For those of you who don't know, a placental abruption is when your placenta tears away from the uterus. This cuts off blood flow and oxygen to the baby.

What does this look like? Blood. Lots of blood when my water broke, and afterwards. I didn't understand anything of what had happened until my water broke. Much more blood when I was in labor. Blood when she was delivered. Much more than there should be. When I saw this the first time, after my water broke, I knew something really wasn't right. The nurse tried to convince me otherwise. I could tell from the feeling in my heart, from the look on my mom's face, that something wasn't right.

Of course, already nothing was right, because my daughter had already died. I already knew that. I had already heard the words from the doctor as she ran the wand over my 38 week swollen belly.

"I'm looking and looking, and I can't find a heartbeat. I'm so sorry."


My heart smashed to the floor.

I died.

I started hyperventilating. I couldn't catch my breath.

I heard myself say, "Are you sure? Are you sure?"


She silently turned the ultrasound screen toward me. There was no flutter of her heart, like I had seen before. She was still. She did not move.

I collapsed into Dave. I begged him to stop touching my belly.

Later that day, when Georgiana was born, the doctor, the nurse and my mom looked at her placenta. The cord was inserted on the side of the placenta, not in the middle where it should be. Most likely, the cord pulled the placenta away. There was an area of clotting on the placenta about the size of a baseball, where it had torn away.

When we talked to the doctor later, she said she "couldn't say for sure" this caused Georgiana to die.

I feel pretty certain about it.

Memories of this day are horrific, seared in my mind. Right now I relive them everyday, usually in the morning when I wake up, sometimes at other times when they come into my head unexpectedly. They are in my mind. They are a horrendous pit in my stomach. Sometimes I allow them to play like a film. Sometimes I push them out. Sometimes I have no choice, and they play anyway.

Really, though, the first dark thought that often plays in my head is how angry I feel right now. The focus of the anger changes, but often spotlights on God. How could God have created her, and had a hand in creating her life support system that ended up faulty? How could what He created to give her life also take her life?

Why did this happen to me, to my family? All I wanted was my daughter. I was so ready to be a mother to her--outside the womb. Everything was ready. The dresses, the onesies, the booties, all washed and ready. Her nursery, so perfect, so beautiful, just waiting for her. The swing, the bassinett, her crib. Her beautiful pink dress her Ya Ya gave her for Christmas.

And now, nothing.

I am so angry. So beyond angry. So even beyond rage. There is no word in language for it. It seethes beneath the surface. I try to talk it away, to reason it away, but it doesn't always work right now. The tears are hot and flow like a waterfall, an angry waterfall.

The priest told me all I can do is give the pain and anger to God, and ask Him to transform it. I know that's right. That's all I can do, it is the one thing I can control. So I do it. I offer it to Him. I ask Him to transform it, to turn the anger into more love for daughter. As if it possible to feel more love for her. As it is now, the universe cannot contain it.

I pray. I cry. I scream out loud, and more often scream in my head. I am still angry. I give it to God. I pray to Him for strength, to re-work this path I'm on called life.

It makes no sense to me. None of this.

The second dark thought I have is of her little body in the grave. This one I wish I could stamp out forever. This one comes in my head when I least want it, when I least expect it. In the middle of the dark night, in the middle of a conversation.

I will not visit the cemetery for a long time. Not until I can trust myself not to claw my way to the earth to her little coffin. What would I do if I did claw through the earth? I have no idea.

My body longs to be close to her, even in her death. She is so much a part of me, so much of me has died with her. I am unsure whether that large part of me will ever really come back.

I told my mom this last night, the first time I had said it aloud to anyone. She cried and said she understood, but that I need to remember that her body is just her little temple. That her soul is not there anymore.

I know she is in heaven, with a new heavenly body, more glorious than I could imagine.

I know it does not matter to her now that she is buried in the earth.

But, oh, it matters to me. Her precious body matters so much to me. Her earthly body is still so sacred to me, so, so sacred. So sacred that it's absence, that the thought of it in the ground, is almost too much for me to bear.

The incredibly pervasive evil that surrounded us, especially after we returned to Colorado after her death has gone. Whatever was there has realized it has no souls to take now. We talked to the priest about this too. He was going to come exorcise the evil from our house, and told me to pray a Novena in the meantime.

I started the Novena on a Sunday. I chose St. Joseph because his feast day is March 19th, he is the protector of the Holy Family, and so I knew it was right to ask him to pray for my family, for my baby. I know Georgiana knows him. I was certain he would help us, he would ask God to protect us.

On the second day of the Novena, the evil left.

The evil leaves a pervasive sadness, a grief that cannot be described, a daily terror/pain that I feel certainly destroys me daily, it is so intense.

I am left with thoughts of her in the grave and I have heard "where is your God now?"

I know He is there. I wouldn't have made it over 2 months without Him.

Oh God, I trust in you. I need so much from you right now. I know you will not leave me.

Rants

Losing a child is like a huge sucker punch to the gut. It literally feels like this. And unfortunately it's like getting punched every morning, over and over again.

I have had so many swirling emotions since Georgiana died. Anger. Confusion. Sorrow. Frustration.

Yesterday, I was talking to one of my paralegals and she was telling me about a guy she knows who is probably cheating on his wife. They have a new baby.

I found myself thinking, "why does he get to have his baby and I can't have mine?"


I was very angry thinking about this.

I know in my head that life is unfair. Dave reminds me it's a fallen world. I know this. But sometimes it's hard to convince my heart of that, when everything screams inside of me how unfair this whole thing is.

How is it that people get to have children and then treat them terribly, or don't appreciate them? All I wanted was to be a mother to my child, and so much of that experience has been ripped from me.

I know, I know. Bad things happen to good people. I get it. But there is a part of me that doesn't want to get it, the part of me that knows no peace right now.

Then I went to the dentist today. For those of you that know me well, I never have a good time at the dentist. They always find something wrong with me. Today was no different, and of course, worse than ever.

Dentist: "So, what has changed in your medical history since last summer when we saw you last?"

Sigh.

Me: "Well, I got pregnant, and I lost my baby."

Dentist: "Yeah, miscarriages happen all the time."

Me: "I didn't have a miscarriage. I had a stillbirth."

Dentist: "A what?"

Sigh.

Me: "A stillbirth. I was full term."

Pause.

Dentist: "Ouch."

Seriously?

Then the dentist gets his tool and starts to examine my mouth.

Dentist: "Wow..."

Me: (muffled, his hand is in my mouth) "What?"

Dentist: "You have a really bad cavity. One of your teeth is basically decaying out of your head."

Me: "Oh. Of course."

Dentist: "You know, I've been a dentist for nearly 30 years, and I can tell a lot about a patient's lifestyle just from looking at their teeth.  You really need to stop drinking so much soda."

Me: "I don't drink soda. I drink about two Diet Cokes a week."

Dentist: "Oh...well, I guess it's just bad luck."

Me: (in my head) You've got that right.

So of course I get to go next week and have some massive dental work done.

I called Dave and told him, and he said, "well, that sucks, but it's not that big of a deal."

He's right. It's really not that big of a deal. Nothing really is anymore.

But it still sucks.

Life is just all about throwing the sucker punches lately. Compared to losing my baby, this is a small one. But I feel it nonetheless.

Two Months

Sunday marked two months without you.


It feels like an eternity and yet also feels like it was yesterday. The timelessness of grief.


I can still feel you in my arms, in my belly. I remember the last time you moved. I will always be able to remember exactly how, and where. And where I was. And how I felt.


I can still remember how your face felt against mine. Your beautiful, beautiful face. 


I still remember how I felt when I saw you, how my heart broke again and also burst with love for you. How I would have traded places with you, how I still would. 

A parent's love is so much like God's love.

I am reminded of the moment Jesus was crucified, and God turned away because even God Himself could not bear the pain of watching His own son die. I understand that pain.

As time passes, I think each morning that I am one step closer to my daughter in heaven, yet one step further away her little life here on this earth. Like many things right now, it comforts me and yet it pierces me. My sorrow is so deep that at times it chokes me and I can't imagine another day of this, much less many years.

Dave and I talked yesterday about what Georgie would have been like. He thinks she would have been really fun. I think she would have been really sweet. When she was inside me, I loved to talk to her and feel her move. I loved when her Daddy talked to her and she would move even more.

I am realizing that a huge part of me is gone--my heart, my soul. I am realizing I am not going to get it back, at least not this side of heaven. I do need to figure out how to function without that huge part of me. I imagine this is how someone feels when they lose a limb. The limb is never coming back, and the only thing to do is figure out how to function without it, how to compensate. This is how my heart feels now that Georgiana is gone.

Georgie, what would we have done together at two months old? I would have so many sweet and breathtaking moments with you, and now I won't. You are part of me, I am a part of you. I hope you feel my love where you are in heaven, that you look on your mommy and daddy and feel the immense and unconditional love we send to you. I pray for the day when I meet you at the gates of heaven and I am whole again. Love you, my little saint, Mama

I Have a Lot to Say Today

Grief is a circle, not a line. Sometimes it feels right up on me, like I've just been punched. Other times it's like the space between blows and I think maybe it's getting further away from me. Then it hits me again.  Like a circle, around and around.

The best thing all of you can do for me right now is pray for us, love us and not expect us to get over this. We won't. I'll "move on," so to speak, have joy again, have more children (God willing) and live the rest of my life as faithfully as I can so I can meet my daughter again.

But I will never get over this until Heaven. Until then, speak to me of my daughter. Acknowledge that she was real, beautiful, perfect. Speak her name to me. I have never heard a sweeter and yet more piercing word, but her name, she, is with me all the time.

Acknowledge her. My first daughter. A child of God. A real person. A granddaughter, a niece. Hopefully, someday a sister.

I want to hear her name, spoken, in prayers, whenever. I promise that it won't make me more upset than I already am. To not speak her name hurts even worse, and makes me feel as if the world won't acknowledge that she lived, that I was pregnant with her, that she was 21 inches long, 7 lbs 13 oz.

Act like she doesn't exist to me and I will not hold back with you. They always say that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

No, hell hath no fury like a grieving mother.

Ok, no more posts for awhile. I will not lose it in the airport. Been there, done that.

On A Side Note

That relative who was pregnant? She had a miscarriage.

My heart is heavy. I am sad she miscarried. I do not understand.

I'm sitting at the Colorado Springs airport right now. I look around me, and not a single person looks happy around me. Maybe it's just my perspective, but I feel like I can read suffering on a face now. I look at mine every morning in the mirror.

I want to say to all these people that if I can make an effort, so can they! But then I also realize that I have no idea what they're going through either, just like they don't know from looking at me that I lost my child.

Just had to get that off my chest.

In happier thoughts, I'm going home this wkd to watch my brother Hunter graduate from college. I am so proud of him and really looking forward to spending time with my family.

My husband always laughs about how much my family loves being around me, and how much I love being around them. He's right. :)

Focusing

"Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding." -Proverbs 3:5


I have to try to focus on what you were, what you are. I have to try to focus on your life in heaven, your joy, your peace. I try to focus on my precious time with you inside of me for a short, perfect 9.5 months.

I try not to focus on what will never be, at least in this life. It makes your mama too sad. But then your absence hits me like a tidal wave, and I focus on it anyway.

I see the sliver of light coming out from under your nursery room door, and I focus on it.

I think of the Halloween outfit your Ya-Ya gave you that you will never wear, and I focus on it.

I think that I will never breastfeed you, or teach you to walk, or teach you to say Daddy. I focus on it.

I look at my childbirth-ravaged body in the mirror as I go to take a shower, and I focus on it.

I know God has plans and hope for me beyond my wildest dreams. I cling to that. Up until this point, the love of my life and my wildest dream was you, my dearest Georgiana. You are the love of my life.

That is what the wall of your now empty nursery says: “Georgiana--A Dream Come True”

You were a dream come true, to all of us. But that dream was far too short, especially for me.

I have to hope that God has more in store for me, that He even has--joy and happiness--at some point.

I like to think of a couple of options for Heaven:

1. When I arrive there and meet you, my beautiful, perfect daughter, you’ll still be a baby. God will allow you to grow in heaven, in front of me, in front of all of us who love and miss you desperately. Then I won’t miss out, but my joy is just delayed right now. I like this thought.

or

2 Maybe you will be a little girl by then, a few years old. I can picture you. A thick head of honey blonde hair. Beautiful porcelain skin. Big deep blue eyes. Your perfect mouth. I will know you as a little girl, but God will give me all the memories, and in His perfect grace, make it as if I knew them all along. He will wipe every tear away when I finally get to meet you again. I will forget that I had sorrow. There will be just you and all those I love there with me.

I love you, my baby. I will miss you all the days of my life. You are my heaven. You are the promise for me. I look forward to that. Always, Mama

Grief

"Behold I make all things new." -Revelation 21:5

Grief is like a car wreck.  You are driving alone on a road, the sky is sunny, not a care in the world. Then you get blindsided by another car. Your world spins out of control. You literally spin in circles. Glass breaks and shards fly everywhere. The pain is searing, the noise, unbearable. You're disoriented, confused. You think you might die. You cling to the hope that you won't. You're panicked.

In the aftermath, you sit in shock and disbelief and wonder if this happened to you. You wonder why this happened to you. You tell yourself you're ok, and then you look down and a huge shard of glass sits in your chest. You hadn't even realized it was there before, but now that you realize it, you realize how badly it hurts.

This is grief--thrust on you, unrelenting.  It makes no sense.

This is how I feel now that my child is gone.

I have always considered myself a take-charge, positive person. I have always told myself I could handle whatever life throws my way.

This is too much even for me. I wish I could just set the grief down and tell it I'm moving on, but unfortunately it doesn't work that way. It assails me. My dreams haunt me. Memories hurt worse than physical pain. I would take any physical pain over this, anything.

I realize that it does not "get better." It ebbs and flows, like waves crashing on me. It ebbs, and I start to feel slightly normal again. It flows, it crashes, and I'm left floundering and barely hanging on. There is no controlling it.

I found out yesterday that a dear relative of mine is pregnant. All I could feel was anger, hurt and confusion. Why now? Why right after my daughter died? Why less than two months later? Why?

Why has this turned my world so upside down that I cannot be happy about a pregnancy? That the mere thought of babies and children makes me feel like I'm dying all over again?

I could say I feel happy about it, but I'm not being honest with myself. When I found out, I fell in a black hole, I couldn't breathe.

I will pray about it. And pray for her, and for the little life that grows inside her. And for myself. That's all I can do right now. And it has to be enough.

This morning Dave and I were talking about Georgiana. We went to a SHARE meeting last night, which is a group of people who have experienced miscarriage, stillbirth and infant death. No way to describe other than a room full of heartache, but somehow comforting and helpful nonetheless. Exhausting, but helpful. At the end of the meeting, we received a white rose and a white carnation.

I put the rose in a vase and threw the carnation away. When Dave asked me why, I told him Georgie wouldn't have liked carnations. Dave told me Georgie would have liked Jean Claude Van Damme movies.

I told him I doubted it.

It struck me as I walked upstairs how loved Georgiana is. I can't imagine the love she feels in heaven--beyond incredible.  Beyond that, so much love comes to her from all of us on this side of heaven, and I know she feels that. I think my love alone must hit her like sunshine everyday, or at least I hope it does. It swells in my heart and threatens to burst out of me. It is joy and pain all at once. I want her to feel the joy, and not the pain. I'll reserve that for myself and keep that until it passes away like all things, until Jesus makes all things new.

I have faith that there is joy in the morning. I admit that I don't know when the morning will come, but I trust and have hope that it will.

Georgiana, my love, my life, my star, my saint. I hope you feel the love I send you for the rest of my life. I pray to God every minute that He brings me to you someday. We all miss you so much and feel lost without you. What a beautiful little life I had with you. We talked, and I sang to you, and Daddy and I loved you everyday of your little life, and still do, and always will. Do you remember when you used to hear Daddy's voice, and you were so excited that you moved around? You loved your Daddy so much. Do you remember when you and I would poke back and forth, when you would kick me, and stretch, and hiccup inside me? I cherish all those things now, even more than I already did. I wouldn't take it back for anything. You are the most important part of my life. I love you, baby girl. I miss you desperately. I send you all my love, every minute, every day. I can't wait to see you again. Love, Mommy

Missing You

"Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows." -Luke 12:7


My baby Georgie, I miss you so badly today. I missed you so badly yesterday, and the day before. How is that we never met face to face, and yet I knew you so well? You blessed me beyond belief. I know our Lord set you apart when He made you. And He knows all the hairs on your beautiful, perfect head.

I look at my own hands and feel my heart break again. Your hands were just like mine. I look at photos of you and your hands were little miniature versions of mine. I look at them and am reminded of you. It hurts and warms me at the same time.

Your mama is still left on earth without you. My faith sustains me here, my child, but the days and nights are so long right now.

I wonder if this will ever get any better short of heaven? Every morning that I wake up is so unbelievably hard right now. My heart is pierced every morning again, and again. I feel like a shadow of myself.

I found out today about 3 other women who experienced a stillbirth like me. All went on to have more children. I pray desperately to God right now that He gives Georgie brothers and sisters.

The stories of this tragedy happening to other people seem to come out of nowhere right now. I still gape in shock when I hear about it, even though the reality has happened to me too. I think if they can do it, so can I.

On a side note, I hate the word "stillbirth." I don't know what else to call it, but i hate it nonetheless.

Tomorrow I'm going to an "International Babylost Mother's Day" breakfast.

I also hate the word "babylost," but I guess I will hate all these terms that remind me that my daughter is no longer here with me. I am meeting with other women tomorrow who have experienced this.

One of the women I have come to know over the last few weeks lost her baby girl when she was born. This woman has been trying for several years to conceive again. She just found out she is pregnant.

Please pray for her and her husband.

This week one of my co-workers, but someone I also consider a friend, told me she was going to start going to church again. I praise God for this. We will pray for her too, and for her husband, who is a brave warrior often gone on missions defending our country.

Finally, I make a plug for one of my favorite Christian artists--Danielle Rose. Her songs have been very comforting to me right now. There is a song called "Abraham's Offering" that is particularly beautiful. I remember that Pope John Paul II loved her music.

My love to all of you out there praying for us. Please pray for all of us who suffer from this tragedy. There are so many of us out there.

My love to my baby girl, Georgiana. How badly I long to see her again.

The Weight of the World

"Be still, and know that I am God."  Psalm 46:10


This post is a lot of random thoughts, because there is a lot going on in my head right now.

I went back to work today. I may not have gotten there until 10 am, but I am convinced God helped me pull myself out of bed and take every step needed in getting dressed, in the car and to work.

I woke up this morning, and as usual, everything flooded into my mind at once, as it has every morning since Georgiana died. Mornings are the hardest. Evenings are the best right now because I know I can sleep. The sun seemed harsh flooding in the window, my stomach felt like it had a boulder sitting in it. My back hurt. I could actually feel the grief lines on my face.

Then I looked around my room, and it was covered in rainbows. Rainbows on the ceiling, on the walls, on the floor. I stared at a particularly bright one on the ceiling, sighed heavily, and got out of bed.

Fast forward. I'm dressed, albeit uncomfortably in a uniform top that does not quite fit my new mother's body. The U.S. military is not exactly forgiving when it comes to women's uniforms.

I'm driving on my way to work, struggling to focus on the act of driving. I drive past a row of houses I always drive by in the morning, and movement catches my eye. I turn my head and there, right on the side of the road, are about 30 beautiful whitetail deer.

I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders today. But God gives me little pricks of light. I have to sit up and take notice of them, even if I don't feel like it.

Back to self-pity for a moment. Here are some things that happened today at work that I'm angry about:

1. A coworker came in and said, "I'm glad you're recovering from your situation."

Recovering? Huh?

In a very real sense, there is no "recovering" from the "situation" of losing a child. I know the pain will sit in my soul forever until I meet Jesus in the light of heaven. It does feel very like when Simeon told Mary that "a sword would pierce her heart." A sword has pierced my heart, and it often feels like being pierced again and again. Unfortunately, that wound stays, and will stay until I am reunited with my Heavenly Father, with my Georgiana. But God also tells me in my heart that there is a reason I am still on this earth. Trust me, I have tried to bargain with God to take me, but apparently that is not the plan right now. I know I will get better. I know there will be joy. I know this. It's just not right now.

But again, there is no "recovery" from this kind of "situation."

2. Most of my other coworkers either (1) did not say a word, or (2) did not come to my office at all.

To put it mildly, this annoys me. I can understand in my mind that many people do not know what to say. If I were on the other side of this nightmare and this had never happened to me, I don't know if I would know what to say either.

The problem is, when people don't say anything to me, it makes me feel as if they don't believe it ever happened at all, that they don't recognize Georgiana as real. The truth of this is that I had a daughter, my unbelievably beautiful daughter. The truth is that my daughter died, my little person that my husband and I created in our love together with God. It is the greatest thing I have ever done, create my daughter. And she was taken from me. My heart is ripped and torn.

And people say nothing. It's not the right thing to do.

A couple of options for what to say to a grieving parent: (1) "I'm so sorry."; (2) "I'm praying for you."; (3) A hug; (4) Asking me about her, what her name was, anything.

I guess one good thing about this whole situation is that I will always know what to say, what to do. That is a grace I've been given from this. It is grace at too high of a price, but it is still a grace and I will do good in His name with this grace when I am stronger. I do not fear death and I do not fear sadness anymore. I think someday that will give me a great capacity, with God's help, to give comfort to another woman experiencing this tragedy.

Oh and I heard a crying baby in our office today. Remember when I said this is as if a sword pierces my heart? A sword pierces my heart when this happens. I even wonder if the cries of my other children will pierce my heart like this, a joy mixed with sorrow. I think probably so.

Here are some things that are not so bad:

1. Some of you may not know, but another attorney in my office had a son born the same day Georgiana died. I dreaded seeing him, talking to him, anything. I was convinced if I never saw him again, it would be ok with me.  He came around the corner of my office, crying. He told me how sorry he was. I told him if I had no faith in Christ, I would have killed myself by now. He said he totally understood, and I believe as a parent, he understands and can imagine how it would feel. I asked to see a picture of his new son, Abram. I looked at the little picture and didn't feel as much pain as I thought I would. God is with me. I know this. Then of course, I thought, well, he's cute, but not as cute as Georgiana. I felt bad about this for a split second, but then, thought, every mother feels this way, that her kid is the cutest. And that made me smile a little to myself.

2. Work itself.

I admit, I'm completely exhausted from a 6 hour workday. I feel as if I'm about 90 years old. I feel like a kindergartner trying to play a lawyer, and could not remember the most basic things today. But it was a small step in the right direction. I don't deceive myself and tell myself it's only getting better from here. I'll stumble, but small steps are good things. I have to be at peace with that and know my limitations. I have to remember that in my weakness I am strong.

Enough emoting. Onto brighter topics.

What I am grateful for:

1. My wonderful friends and family, especially my incredible mom. I think I must have been given the best mom on the planet, and have felt that way for a long time. As I mourn the loss of my child, she mourns the loss of her first grandchild and she mourns her own daughter mourning, and she courageously walks through this pain with me. I am so beyond blessed to have her. I pray to God that when I reach heaven in a great many years from now, she will be standing at the gates with my daughter in her arms.  I love this thought.

2. Dave and I are so blessed to have so many otherwise wonderful families. Our wonderful, supportive siblings, who have all cried with us. My beautiful sister, and her penchant for baking in a time of crisis, who is as much a part of me as I am of her. My two incredible brothers, who have knelt with me and cried many tears of sorrow. I am so thankful for them. My father, a warrior of a man who prays for me, loves me and tells me to put on the armor of light. He is right.  Dave's two wonderful parents, his strong, faithful father and his lovely mother who truly feels like a second mother to me. I love her for the beautiful pink owl I wear around my neck that is a constant reminder of my daughter. I love her for her beautiful soul, her kindness, that she cries with me. Dave's two brothers, who were there for both of us and continue to be with us still. Dave's brother Tom has offered to let me throw a tube TV of his out the window. I may take him up on that. It is very tempting. My beautiful aunts, grandmothers, cousins, it goes on and on. I know how much you all cry for us and with us. I feel this, and there is a true healing unity to the sorrow.

3. Beyond that, Dave and I are so blessed with a wonderful group of faithful and supportive friends. To all of you who have called and emailed, know that I feel your love. It does make a difference to read your words, to hear your voices. I am making small steps to call you back, and haven't been able to call anyone yet. I will soon. Know that I love all of you, how much I appreciate the love and support you have given us. We will talk soon, I promise. And rest assured, when you go through life's troubles like this, I will be right there!

4. I am so thankful that God made me--fearfully and wonderfully--with a soul made to love Him, made to know Him, a soul made for hope. My mom said this to me the other night--that if there was no heaven, our souls would know it and would just stop, just die from this kind of pain. I believe that. God made my soul for Him, made my soul to hope beyond this world. This world has so much divinity in that it is God's creation, but we are not made for it. Our souls bear that imprint. I have hope even in the midst of such brokenness.

5. I am most thankful for my beautiful daughter Georgiana, that I have a child who is a beautiful shining saint now in heaven. If I could take this back so that I never had her, never had this pain, I never would. I would go through this again and again just to have had the brief time I had with her. We know how much Jesus loved children the most, that He told His disciples to let the little children come to Him. I know He loves my daughter more than I could, which is hard for me to fathom. I know at the same time that He holds her and keeps her until we meet again, that He sorrows with me, that He never leaves. I know she knows a joy right now that I will never know in this life, and that gives me a deep joy in my soul. I know she has escaped the pain of this world, but also that we will see her again and that we will be reunited for eternity. This is the reality that helps me continue to try and walk this journey on earth.

As my beautiful friend Annie wrote to me in an email: "Be strong, mama! He will not abandon you."

She is absolutely right. I am a mama! I weep with Mary. And He will not abandon me. He never has. I feel Him with me.

May we all try to be like Christ in this way--constant, loving, loyal beyond all pain and sorrow. May we all be warriors for the truth. May we have the courage to walk through that pain with others when we need us. May we stare death, pain and evil in the face and tell it that it has no power over us, that our God is greater than all these things.

Love is stronger than death. Let us spread the message. May we walk this narrow path, steep and rocky as it may be. May we all be united in Christ in His heavenly love for all of eternity. May we have the courage to believe, to have faith. This is my prayer.

I will remain faithful to you, my God.

I send my love to you, our perfect baby girl Georgiana. How we all yearn to know you, how we all ache for you, my beautiful child. My heart has opened so wide and holds you in a love I never thought possible. I ache for you, my baby, I can't wait to meet you in heaven.