One Month Closer

One month ago, I was holding Lucas for the first time.  I'm so grateful labor was long enough that the horrors of yesterday are separate from the joys of today.  Because, holding Lucas was pure joy.  Delivering him, helping him into his first and only diaper, kissing his sweet forehead, reading him his first book...these are the moments that make me feel like his mommy.  And I can celebrate that today.

I thought for a long time about what I'd like to do for today.  Yesterday was miserable, reliving the moment we learned he was gone over and over again.  But today?  Well, it's still so difficult of course, there is still so much pain surrounding the memories.  The quiet of his birth, the lack of monitors beeping, the smiles on the doctor's/nurse's face.  But through it all, there is immeasurable joy.  Because our time together was so special, full of such great memories.  Memories we knew would need to last us a lifetime, and so we absorbed every second of our time together. And I can sit here today and look back through our pictures, and remember his sweet little face.  And how ridiculous it was the he had a unibrow at 23.5 weeks.  And that a nearly 1 pound baby could have a little chub to his cheeks.  Oh, he was so cute. 

So, I imagined what we would have done today if he survived.  If he was fighting it out in the NICU today.  Well, for the boys, we bought them presents - clothes, a new book to read as we sat together in the NICU, and some special things for their room.  At 1 month old, we finally began to think of decorating their room.  But Lucas is gone, and doesn't need those things.  But...maybe another little boy would.  Maybe another little boy born today would appreciate a surprise blessing.  So, we headed to the store.  And I took a few deep breaths and headed into the baby boy section.  And together, the kids and I picked out some special items for a baby boy we would never know, including a pink plaid romper that Dean absolutely loved.  If it came in 4T he might have gotten one.

And then we did the most difficult part.  We walked into the hospital, past the triage room, past the memories of the gut wrenching cries I let out, down the hall of labor and deliver.  And we handed everything over to the nurses with tears in our eyes, with tears in their eyes.  Then we walked out.  The ride down the elevator was the hardest part, remembering it all too well, when I made that trip after handing over my son.  

So today, I am 1 month closer.  One month closer to be reunited for forever with my sweet Lucas.  And Reagan.  And Reagan's twin.  Half of my children are gone.  I pray they would be proud of us, that they would always know how much we love and miss them.  My dear Lucas - Mommy misses you more than words could ever express.  My heart breaks at knowing all the moments I will miss, all the while knowing that you are loved and cared for beyond what I can fathom.

One Month

Today marks 1 month since the darkest day of my life, again.  One month since we learned our sweet Lucas had gone to be with Jesus.  One month since the nurse sadly shook her head no, tears streaming down her face.  One month since my life shattered.  One month since I last had hope.

There are so many painful reminders all around me.  Even fun things that I can now do that I couldn't because of my pregnancy restrictions - jump into a pool, ride a roller coaster or water slide with Warren and Dean, carry Hannah AND my diaper bag, go for a run - all these things that I've been looking forward to doing again, but now they're surrounded by guilt.  Guilt because Lucas is gone, because I shouldn't enjoy something that I shouldn't be doing if everything was perfect.  I've loved seeing my kids' faces as they laugh at me in the pool again.  Hannah was too little last summer to remember any of it, so she's especially found joy at swimming dates with mommy this week.  But, underlying it all, mixed in to each "happy" moment, is the grief and pain at missing my boy so desperately.

I miss Lucas so much I physically hurt.  Sometimes I feel like I can't breath through it all.  But I've tried my best to put on my happy face and make Lucas' life count for something.  I could so easily bury myself in my covers, hiding from the world, never leaving our home.  It's what I actually want to do every second of every day.  But then my desire to be Lucas' mommy takes over, and I chose to shower (sometimes), get dressed, and take a step forward.  I do my best to not go running from the park when the pregnant women gathered around me are complaining about how miserable it is to be big in the heat of the summer.  I try not to break down while looking for children's books and seeing the display of  "Big sister" books.  Because, Reagan should have had those first, and then Hannah.  But ultimately, we have no reason to be reading them in our home.  Broken.  I would do anything to go back to June 9 and have a different outcome.  To arrive at the hospital concerned and anxious and be told that everything was okay.  As I lie awake at night, I relive those moments over and over, questioning, processing, and ultimately crumbling all over again as I hold Lucas' sweet baby blanket and look through his pictures.  I cannot believe it has already been a month since he died, that tomorrow will mark 1 month since I met him and said goodbye.

Disappointed

I've been asked a lot these past few weeks how I'm doing.  It's not a bad question, it's a very natural one.  And one that lets me know people are still thinking about us and remember Lucas, so I appreciate it.  But it's given me a lot of reason to think through my answer.

Ultimately, some days are better than others.  Some days I can run and play with Hannah.  Some days here little giggle makes my heart soar.  Some days I can enjoy her.  (I should state Warren and Dean are gone this week...)  But other times I can hardly get out of bed.  I want to curl up in a ball and hide from the world.  I find myself absentmindedly rubbing my belly before I remember with a start that all that remains is a pudgy reminder of the child I once carried.  And then I cry this big, ugly cry, and Hannah gives me this look like Mommy's gone crazy.  And so the cycle goes...

When I think about it though, I'm not as angry anymore.  Still a bit bitter and jealous of all the other women who seem to have it all so easy, who go through pregnancy without a care, who conceive the exact weekend they want, and then have the audacity to complain in front of me about their pregnancy symptoms.  But mostly, I'm disappointed.  I'm disappointed that the God of the universe, my heavenly Father, who I can think of as "Daddy," is letting this happen.  That the first pregnancy when I trusted Him, when I wasn't overcome with anxiety and worry, ended like this.  I know better than most that babies die, we learned that with Reagan.  I know that pregnancy can be filled with complications and end with severe prematurity, we learned that with Warren and Dean.  And I know that I can think everything is about to go wrong, live in fear for 8 long months, waiting for terrible news that is never delivered; we learned that with Hannah.  But this time?  Well, this time I really trusted God.  I never thought something would go wrong.  I had only a few brief moments of anxiety, once when I didn't feel him for a few days around 18 weeks, and once as I approached 21/22 weeks when we lost Reagan and I went into labor with the twins.  I feel like my Daddy has failed me, that He has let me down.  Again.  That He didn't take care of me.  Or Lucas.  And though I know Lucas is actually very much taken care of, that He is loved beyond what I could ever do, I'm not really strong enough to remember that in the daily moments.  I just miss my sweet little boy too much.

I had great plans for this week, this time with just Hannah and Lucas.  I was going to put the twin's room together with their big boy beds and their new bedding, as we transitioned their old cribs into Lucas' room.  I was going to get everything ready for Lucas' arrival as, now in the 3rd trimester, I knew he could potentially arrive at any time.  And now, I'm sitting in a quiet house while Hannah naps.  My new to-do list includes boxing up my maternity clothes, cancelling our diaper subscription, unsubscribing from pregnancy emails, and trying to stop the auto shipments of the medications that were going to help keep me from going into labor.  How much can one endure?

Missing

A piece of my heart is missing.  Two, actually.  Ripped out suddenly.  I'm overcome with it all, with the shock and disbelief that Lucas is really gone.  How?  How can this be?  How can life just keep going on all around - how do we smile and celebrate our twin's 4th birthday, how do I take them to the park, how do I take a breath and put on my happy face and pretend to be fine?

I felt like it took 4 years with Reagan.  Maybe that's too long, maybe that's not normal...but it took me 4 years before I could celebrate with other women when they got pregnant, when they had girls.  Four years before I wouldn't spontaneously break down in the store when I saw someone who resembled what I imagined her to look like at 2, 3, or 4.   My heart always ached for her, I always missed her at family events, holidays, vacations.  I always wondered what it would have been like for Hannah to have a sister to play with.  I still wonder those things, still feel that ache, but it's an ache filled with less bitterness and anger and angst.  It's more of a recognition that our family is incomplete, that our daughter is missing.

But now??  Can a parent really overcome losing 2 children?  Can I go through these years of grief again?  Can I face a future always wondering, always thinking about what we are missing out on with Lucas.  This time around, I know more.  I know what it's like to hold a crying baby when they just need you in the middle of the night, I know what it's like to nurse a baby to sleep, I know what it's like the first time they call you mommy.  I feel more deeply what I'm missing with Lucas because it's not just what ifs in my mind, it's what I've lived through over the past 4 years.  So many beautiful little moments I'll never have.  Oh my sweet boy, how I miss you.

So, how do I move forward from here? When all I want to do is hide, curl up in bed, never face the world again.  How do I give my kids a fun summer, let them be kids and run free and play, when I just don't have the strength?  I keep thinking back to that last moment of hope, and that's what hurts the most.  The last moment I thought things might be okay.  Obviously we headed to the hospital for a reason, but home dopplers are unreliable.  And I had just felt him the day before.  I just keep thinking back to the ultrasound tech, and how she took a minute to scan things, face blank.  I remember anxiously looking at her, eyes darting between her and Andrew, waiting.  And then she silently shook her head.  That was it, that was the end.  I feel naive for thinking things would actually be okay, for having that moment of hope.  I feel disillusioned and disappointed by the God I've served for as long as I can remember.  And right now, I'm too weak to even cry out to Him.  I'm living in a fog.

Lucas' Memorial

Lucas had a beautiful memorial service yesterday.  Our families and community rallied behind us to help us put together something that would celebrate our sweet boy and his brief time here with us.  I've had several people ask if we would record Lucas' service, which we did not do.  I didn't think to talk to Andrew about it until the service was starting, and then I wasn't sure I would want to watch it again, thought it might be too painful.  But, I have the words I shared about my Lucas:

Isaiah 65 “See, I will create new heavens and a new earth.  The former things will not be remembered, nor will they come to mind.  But be glad and rejoice forever in what I will create, for I will create Jerusalem to be a delight and its people a joy.  I will rejoice over Jerusalem and take delight in my people; the sound of weeping and crying will be heard in it no more.  Never again will there be an infant who lives but a few days or an old man who does not live out his years; the one who dies at a hundred will be thought a mere child; the one who fails to reach a hundred will be considered accursed.  They will build houses and dwell in them, they will plant vineyards and eat their fruit.  No longer will they build houses and others live in them, or plant and others eat.  For as the days of a tree, so will be the days of my people, my chosen ones will long enjoy the work of their hands.  They will not labor in vain, nor will they bear children doomed to misfortune, for they will be a people blessed by the Lord, they and their descendants with them”

I first studied these words in detail after the death of our first daughter, Reagan.  I poured over them, relishing in the truths and promises of the Lord.  I found so much comfort in knowing more about my eternity, and my entire perspective on life was altered.  I never imagined I would be reading them again after experiencing the same loss.  Never thought I would find myself in this place again, saying goodbye all too soon to a child I loved so dearly.

I first laid eyes on Lucas in January and, amidst the craziness and distractions of raising 3 other little ones, I loved him in an instant.  He was such a happy boy on all our ultrasounds – we watched him smile, watched him wave, watched him suck this thumb.  He was always active, never quite wanting to be still for his pictures, very much like his older brothers.  When we found out we were having a boy, we were shocked.  I had been so sure he was going to be a girl.  But oh, we were excited.  And we immediately started planning how we would do life with another Savant boy running around in our home.

We dreamt about how Lucas would fit into our crazy, messy life.  It certainly would have been an entertaining place to grow up, with older brothers who are wild, carefree, and loud, who love to play and laugh and sing.  I could see Lucas following around behind them, wanting so badly to be a big boy just like them.  And I could totally see them plowing right over him, knocking him down.  But I would have been right there to kiss away the tears and make his boo boos all better.  Hannah would have been a great big sister, once she got over her jealously of not being the baby anymore.  She came to every appointment with me, watching the screen intently, learning to say “baby” for the first time.  Andrew was excited to have a 3^rd boy, to complete his golf foursome, to coach his baseball team, to teach him how to be a man.  And me?  Well, I was just ready to care for him.  To love him, give him kisses, rock him to sleep.  I didn’t want anything more than to just be his mommy and all the daily tasks that went with that.  I wanted to see him play in the woods, to zoom trucks around the house, to build the most intricate train track, to stack Legos and form tall towers or whatever his imagination could think up.  I wanted to dance with him in the kitchen when he was still too little to stand, to jump around and be silly to some of my favorite songs, and to hold him at night when he just needed his mommy. 

But God had different plans for Lucas.  And, though I can’t wrap my head around the why, that I can’t understand His will and His plan, I am so grateful for the time I had with my son.  I’m thankful for the quiet moments in the middle of the night when he would kick so hard, grateful for the way he’d wake me up by pounding on my bladder.  And I love that we got so many ultrasound pictures, that our ultrasound tech was kind and let us see him for longer than was needed for the measurements, that we have pictures of him smiling, that I saw him suck his thumb, and he waved to us.  These are precious moments I will treasure. 

On the morning of June 9, I woke uneasy.  And I couldn’t find a heartbeat on the Doppler.  As we headed to the hospital, I prayed that I was wrong, that I was overreacting, that our sweet boy was fine.  God chose to answer those prayers in a different way than I had hoped.  As I saw the image of our son, still, on the ultrasound, I broke.  We broke.  And our sweet boy, Lucas Robert Savant, was born the following morning at 4:41 am.  He weighed 14.8 ounces and was 11.5 inches long.  He was perfect.  He was fearfully and wonderfully made, beautiful.  I think he looked the most like Warren, but I could see all my other children in his sweet little face.  He had Reagan’s big pouty lips, Dean’s upturned nose, Hannah’s full cheeks, and Warren’s eyes, eyebrows, and chin.  I wonder what he would have looked like when he laughed – would his nose crinkle a bit like mine and Hannah’s?  Would his eyes pour with tears like Dean’s when he got sad?  I hate that I will not know the answer to these questions any time soon; that I have to watch my other children grow up knowing our family is incomplete, knowing they have an older sister and baby brother that are but a memory to them.

Having faced this before, we knew our time was limited, that we had a few hours to create a lifetime of memories.  I loved my morning with Lucas.  I’m so thankful he was born in the quiet hours of the morning to give us some time together.  I took in his face, memorizing each little detail.  I read him some new books, rocking him in our chair, kissed his forehead, and sang him a lullaby.  All these normal things parents get to do with their children, only I knew I would never do them again this side of heaven.

But that is where Isaiah 65 comes in.  I don’t get to those things with Lucas here, in my timing, in my will.  BUT, I get an eternity with Lucas, filled with Joy and wonder as we worship our Creator.  There will be no weeping or crying.  Infants will not die.  And I will be reunited with the children I lost.  We will get to see them laugh and smile.  We’ll watch them dancing on streets of gold.  We’ll run and play ball, and explore God’s creation.  And as we walk through the pearly gates into heaven, Lucas can run to us with his tiny perfect feet and embrace us for the first time.  Oh, what a moment that will be.  Lucas is loved perfectly now by the God who created him.  He is well cared for, longing for nothing.  Never will he experience the pain and heartbreak this world brings.  He went straight into the arms of Jesus.  Today, I am resting in that, in where my son is, in our eternity together.

We also chose to share a slide show of Lucas, sharing most all of our pictures of him and how we spent our time.

How are you

I've been asked how I'm doing more times in the last week than ever before in my life.  While I appreciate that we are being considered, that people are checking in on us, I haven't figured out the appropriate response to that yet.  Just exactly how honest and vulnerable to be.  Because, I'm afraid if I utter one word of truth, I'll lose it.  The truth is, I'm barely holding it together.  I cry constantly, any chance I let myself think about what is happening.  I feel immense guilt when I try to play with my living children that I am forgetting Lucas, but guilt when I am hiding in the bathroom from them because I can't let them see me like this.  How do I love them, support them, encourage them when all I want to do is find a quiet spot.  I am not okay.  My body has failed, and another child of mine is gone.  I'm left in this horrific place, experiencing normal postpartum pains, engorged and unable to cuddle with my kids, all painful reminders of what should have been.  I still need maternity clothes, but I can't bear to put them on.  Instead, I have them in a pile in my closet, unable to pack them away yet unable to put them on.  So I'm settling on my 1 pair of stretchy pants that still fit, despite the fact that it is 95 degrees outside.  And yet, I know when this goes away, so will any physical trace of Lucas' life.  And that, perhaps, is the cruelest of all.

This week, I'm planning Lucas' memorial service, trying to figure out what words to use to communicate so much more than just my grief, trying to find the purpose behind his life.  His service is Wednesday.  Along side this, Father's Day is tomorrow.  And I can't bring myself to come up with all my usual cute handmade gifts, all the special things I would normally do to show Andrew how much we love and appreciate him.  No man is more deserving, no man has done more for their family.  I tried to go shopping today, and found myself sobbing uncontrollably in the Walmart parking lot.  Walmart - the last date I had with Dean, the night before Lucas died, when Dean was just so excited to pick out special juice and suckers, and when I thought nothing was wrong.  What a terrible place to be my last happy spot, because I normally hate Walmart.  And then, in one week, we are celebrating Dean and Warren's 4th birthday.  A birthday party, two weeks after Lucas died.  How??  How can I face our friends and family, put on my happy face, and sing to my oldest boys?  How can I celebrate them while my heart is still breaking, when my body is still recovering, when my mind is still reeling??  I don't want them to resent Lucas, to miss out on things because he is gone and Mommy needs more time.  But it's all just so hard.  Putting one foot in front of the other, taking steps forward in life, seems so much harder this time.

So, how am I doing?  Well, not sure any of this fully answers that question.  I'm broken, hurting, confused, angry, and torn.  I'm overcome with guilt, facing the truth that my "hostile" environment will likely cause this again, trying to come to terms with the fact that these 3 I have here may be all I ever have.  I'm searching for peace and guidance, as the truths I have known to be true seem to be, in fact, false.  I am paralyzed at the thought of facing people, of running into the multitude of women I know who are pregnant or just had babies, afraid of the bitterness I've battled for years after Reagan died.  And, ultimately, I'm not sure where to go from here.

One Week

It has been one week.  One week since our lives were forever changed, shattered.  One week since we headed to the hospital, praying I was overreacting to the lack of movement I felt the night before.  One week since I thought surely everything would be fine, that God wouldn't have us endure this again.  One week since our triage nurse told us, with tears streaming down her face, that she couldn't find a heartbeat.  And one week since I saw my baby Lucas, appearing to just be sleeping, but ultrasound missing that little heart flutter.  I remember this sound coming out of my mouth, hardly recognizable.  I remember crying out "no" and repeating all sorts of words of anguish in this weird babbling.  And then I remember going numb, feeling too much pain to even let myself feel anymore.  And less than 24 hours later, Lucas was born.

Grieving this time is so very different.  We had few responsibilities with Reagan and every second of every day in the weeks after she was born were spent thinking about her, doing things for her, crying over her.  But now?  Well, there's so much more going on.  Just like in pregnancy, poor Lucas doesn't get as much attention as I'd like to give him.  But I will say, I didn't smile for a long time after Reagan died.  And now?  Well, my kids are crazy, and they're funny, and sometimes they'll say ridiculous things to make me laugh.  Or at least smile.

I find myself frustrated that they don't have a clue, that their lives are unphased by our family's tragedy.  I would never wish them to be so sad, never want them crying and broken, but sometimes I just wish they'd recognize that Mommy and Daddy are sad and just need a few minutes every now and then to think about Lucas.  Probably too much to ask of our almost 4-year-olds.  Instead, they are fighting over toys and throwing temper tantrums, far more than usual, over the most ridiculous things.  I don't know what I would do without a community willing to step in and take them for a few hours in the afternoon.

So, as a week has past, so many things have happened.  I was induced and Lucas was born.  We were able to spend some time with him, and then we said goodbye.  Since coming home, we've expanded our Reagan's Garden space to create a Lucas Garden.  For Andrew, this involved moving sod and digging up plants.  But we now have a space outside where we can sit and look at flowers planted for each of our heavenly children, carefully picked and planted through tears.  We've created a photo book for our boy, with our favorite pictures of the day and our pregnancy, special moments that celebrate his brief life here with us.  And we've begun the work of planning his memorial service.  I remember planning Reagan's, knowing I would be speaking, and breaking.  I remember telling my mom how no parent should ever have to do this, that it just felt so very wrong.  And here we are, doing it again.  Trying to create a service that will honor Lucas' life, that is unique to him and how we think of him, but that will still point to the hope we have in our Savior.  Because ultimately, without Jesus, this would be the end.  Lucas' life would be over, and we would never see him again.  And, though I am still incredibly hurt and angry, though  I am confused and broken, I HAVE to trust and rest in that truth.  I have to remember that God is good and His plan is perfect, even when writing those words makes me want to scream.  I get eternity with my boy.  With my sweet Lucas.  With Reagan.  Our story does not end here.

Anger

It's the middle of the night and I should be sleeping.  Ultimately, I should be sleeping with baby Lucas dancing away in my belly.  But instead, I am lying awake in pain.  Physical and emotion.  With Reagan, I was in shock at what I experienced after delivery.  I certainly hadn't gotten that far in my pregnancy books to have a clue about labor, delivery, and postpartum healing.  This time, I felt more prepared.  And yet, I'd just done this twice with living babies.  So, now my body and my heart know that feeling too, what it's like to be up in the middle of the night because of crying, to be bone tired because of caring for a little one (or two).  And that makes these middle of the night wake-ups so much more painful.  I know what I am missing.

So, I am angry.  I keep hearing that I am strong.  And brave.  Well, I don't feel strong.  I feel weak.  I couldn't protect my child, couldn't keep him safe.  I tried, but I failed.  And it seems that God failed me too.  I know he didn't fail Lucas - that Lucas is safe and happy and healthy.  That Lucas has his Heavenly Father to care for him, and 2 siblings to play with.  But it just doesn't seem like God is really for me this time, and I am so angry with Him right now.  The moments of peace, the joy at seeing my son, they're there at times.  But right now I just want to scream.  I'm angry that I am planning a memorial service for the second time.  I'm angry that I endured 12 weeks of daily shots that my body fought every step of the way - bruised and swollen and some days unable to walk.  I'm angry that my morning sickness never went away, that I had 23 weeks of feeling so sick.  I'm angry thinking of all I gave up to try to keep Lucas safe - the events we didn't do, the food I didn't eat, the time I spent resting instead of playing with my children - and that NONE of that even mattered.  He's gone anyway.  And all my attempts to protect him weren't enough.  I would gladly give up anything to protect my children, and I naively thought I was doing that.  I'm angry that God chose to take Lucas early, that this freak cord accident happened to us when we've already endured so much.  I'm angry that this is my 4th, FOURTH, 2nd trimester baby.  I'm angry that my postpartum body serves as a constant reminder of what should be but isn't.  I'm angry that my milk coming in creates so much pain that I can't snuggle my children, can't sleep at night.  I'm angry that I finally allowed myself to relax and start prepping for his arrival, that shipments are still coming in.  That we were just picking out the few things we wanted new or different for this time around.  I'm angry that I ordered a whole stack of maternity clothes, laughingly saying it was about time on baby #5, only now to face a stack of unworn clothes I'm going to have to return.  I'm angry that my laundry is full of the few maternity clothes I did own and that they don't have a home anymore, that they are just sitting there in Lucas' nursery.

I KNOW the Truth.  I know that God has a plan, a purpose.  I know that His ways are best, that His plan is sovereign.  But why? WHY?  God can use another family now, because I just cannot anymore.  Reagan forever changed my perspective on heaven and my eternity, and I am thankful for that in these early days.  But it just hurts so much to feel.  And so I keep bouncing back to numb.  I imagine it's my way of protecting myself.  But I don't want to be numb.  Or angry.  I just want my boy back.  I just want to find a way to do something, change something, that would give us a different outcome.  I want to go back to Monday when we got incredible ultrasound pictures of him, when we were reassured that he was healthy, when I saw him sucking his little thumb.  To go back to those moments when I thought life would be okay.  When the worst I planned on was being sleep deprived and overwhelmed.  I want to go back to that time and beg God to spare his life.  But I've been down this road before, and I know that none of that is possible.  That I will spend the next days, weeks, years bouncing back and forth between places of peace and understanding, anger and bitterness, and utter despair.  That I will feel Lucas' absence at every family gathering, every holiday, every birthday.  That I will always keep track of what he should be doing - when he should be born, when he should be walking, when he should be going off to preschool.  The knowing made the hospital time so special, allowed me to focus solely on him and our time together, gave me a chance to soak up and memorize every aspect of his little body.  But now?  Now, the knowing only hurts.  I'm angry about things that haven't even happened yet because I know that they will.

It's been 72 hours since Lucas was born.  Since I saw him for the very first time.  My precious child.  I've been questioning if we missed something on Monday's ultrasound.  If we should have looked more at the cord.  Not that we could have known anything was coming, but those doubts are there nonetheless.  Reagan was 3 days shy of "viability."  Lucas though, he was on the other side.  If we had seen something on Monday, could he have survived?  And would we have wanted that life for him?  I just don't know.  But oh, how I long for him.  How I miss him.  How I wish I could have heard his laugh just once. He looked like Warren - would he have Warren's giggle?  Or seen his eyes.  What color would they be? Would he start to get my freckles like Dean?  Would he snuggle with me like Hannah?  I'll spend the rest of my life wondering these and so many more.  How can one sleep when I keep thinking of more?

Oh my sweet Lucas, your mommy misses you so much.  So very much.  Amidst the distractions of your siblings, amidst caring for them and managing their temper tantrums, I long for you.  I don't know how to do this every day, when it hurts to much, to try to stay strong for your siblings, to put one foot in front of the other and just keep going.  I'm so sorry son, so very sorry.  I love you dearly, and this was not at all what I wanted.

Saying Goodbye

Yesterday, I said goodbye to my son.  It felt like my heart was breaking into a thousand pieces.  I don't know how I am going to make it through this again.  How much can one endure?

Lucas was born in the early hours of the morning while the rest of the world was sleeping.  I had a handful of regrets with Reagan.  None in our time together, but I always thought if I would do it again, I would stand strong in my decision to not use pain control and not cave in the final hour.  I wanted to feel every second of time I had with her.  And I so wish we had pictures.  Our hospital didn't say anything about infant loss photography, and we just didn't know our options.  The only picture I have of Reagan's face is the one in my head.  So, I knew going into this again, I didn't want to make the same choices.  I battled through some intense labor, but God knew when I'd reached the end of what my body would tolerate, and Lucas was born relatively quickly, 9 hours after induction began without the need for a 3rd cesarean.  He was quietly cleaned and handed to me.

He was beautiful.  His face was just perfect.  He had a sweet little upturned nose, peaceful resting eyes, and big pouty lips (just like Reagan and Dean).  He had a true Savant chin, and just a hint of pudgy cheek.  The hair that he did have was blonde, just like Reagan's.  I could see pieces of all 5 of us right there on his little face.  

Lucas had the most precious little hands.  Perfectly formed, just tiny, resting.  I held his hand for a moment, relishing the feeling of his little fingers on mine.  The detail was amazing, truly amazing.  And I just soaked it in.  And he had some big boy feet!  All the texture in the sole of his foot, long thin toes.

  

We were so blessed to be able to spend some time with our sweet boy before we had to say goodbye.  I knew from Reagan all the special things I wanted to do.  So Andrew went out Friday night to get him a few things that would be just for him.  No hand-me-downs allowed when you have such a brief time together.  He found a great blue and white blanket used for our professional pictures, the one thing Lucas was wrapped in that we get to keep forever.  He also bought him a few books so we could have some new reading material for our special boy.  We spent our morning soaking up every second we had together - took some pictures early in the day, had the kids come up and meet their baby brother, rocked and held him while reading his new books and singing all our favorite songs.  It was a special time filled with a mix of joy and sorrow.  I am so grateful for those precious hours with Lucas, and so devastated that those hours are all I get.  

  

  

  

And then, that was it.  Our time was over.  A lifetime of memories were crammed into those few hours.  I couldn't hand him over.  I couldn't let him go.  Knowing what it feels like to never see your child again, knowing the recovery that was ahead, knowing the stillness I would feel in my belly as I tried to sleep.  It was all suddenly to much for me.  I am broken.  Again.  Oh, how I miss my Lucas.  Andrew bravely carried him over to the nurse, swaddled in his sweet blanket, gave him a kiss on his forehead.  And then we fell apart, leaning on each over, overcome with grief.

Less than 12 hours after he was born, I was home.  I am so thankful for our doctor who made an exception for us and allowed us to leave without spending the postpartum time, allowed me to come home and snuggle 3 of my kids.  And I am so thankful that I have those kids.  That the sounds of their laughter fill our home.  That they can make me smile.  That Hannah knows how much I need her baby snuggles and is willing to crawl up in my lap and let me hold her.  That Dean and Warren love their baby brother so much and want to know more about him.  That my parents drove down to meet Lucas and help with kid management so I have the time to sit and write and process some of this out.  That I have a community that rallied behind us and took care of our kids without question while we were in the hospital, are bringing us meals and supplies.  God is providing for us during these dark days when I have no strength, when I am so angry with Him, when I just want to scream.  Even now, I know that He is with me.

Time together

Our brief time with Lucas has been incredibly sweet. He enter the world silently early this morning at 4:41AM weighing 14.8 ounces and 11.5 inches long. Our lives will never be the same. 

Holding my baby boy

Reading Lucas his first book

Such a sweet little hand holding on to Mommy's 💙

Big man baby feet

Lucas Robert Savant

I cannot believe I am about to write these words. That I am facing a lifetime of not knowing my child. That God has called another one home. Why? WHY?!? 

On Monday, we had a great OB appointment. We saw Lucas smiling and sucking his thumb. We got some incredible pictures. He was happy. The week went perfectly, we had no reason to suspect anything. And then, Thursday night he wasn't active. I didn't feel any kicks. This is not unusual for us at just over 23 weeks, so I didn't think much of it. But I was unsettled all night. And had some more cramping and contractions than usual. To put my mind at ease, I grabbed a Doppler Friday morning.  Only I wasn't reassured, I was met with silence. Trembling, I called Andrew.  And together we came to the hospital, only to confirm our worst nightmare was repeating itself. There was our sweet Lucas, still, chest missing that little flutter. 

As I lie here waiting for contractions to pick up, waiting to meet Lucas, to hold is precious body for the first and only time, I am overcome. Broken. Confused. Angry. I don't even know what to feel, how to process. I am questioning God's goodness. Surely that must be meant for someone else. How can we be facing this again?

Oh my baby Lucas, how hard this is. I love you so very much. You were loved before we even saw you, prayed for from before you existed. You were wanted, and you will be greatly missed. I was so looking forward to kissing your pudgy cheeks, to rocking you to sleep, to figuring out how in the world to do life with you in this crazy world of little people. Your big brothers gave you kisses every night before bed, sometimes even over kisses for their mommy. They couldn't wait to have a baby brother to play with, and they even said they'd share their toys with you, which is no small feat. And your daddy, oh how he loves you. He was so looking forward to having a golf foursome all ready, to coaching you in baseball, to taking you to Clemson. Our family is broken without you, my child. 

But you also have an incredible big sister, who you will get to know far sooner than any of us. She can take your hand and teach you to dance. And you have another sibling we never knew, who was gone in an instant. And most of all, you are meeting Jesus.  And though I am very angry with Him right now, hurt and confused and unable to express myself, I know that He will care for you. That He loves you. And so, my Lucas, you are not alone.  And you are immensely loved.

Happy 4th Birthday!

Oh my dear sweet Reagan,

Happy 4th birthday love!  Four years ago you entered this world, making my dreams of becoming a mommy come true in a way we never imagined.  Not a day goes by that I don't think of you, don't feel the hole left by your absence.  I love you so much.  So much.

I remember everything about that day.  The fear of the unknown as we walked into labor and delivery unsure of what to expect, praying this would all be a mistake and we would be told you were actually okay.  I remember holding your Daddy's hand, seeing that final ultrasound, knowing then what was being asked of us but not understanding why.  I remember Daddy tenderly holding my hand, comforting me throughout labor, reading the psalms over us.  I remember how it felt to deliver you, the silence that followed.  But most of all, I remember how it felt to have you placed in my arms.  To look at your beautiful face, those long eyelashes and big pouty lips, and see us reflected in you.  You were the most beautiful little girl, so peaceful.  I remember rocking you, remember reading to you, remember singing you a lullaby.  Those hours are all I have this side of heaven.

As I sit here glancing at the few pictures I have of you, imagining your life and what you are doing, listening to How Deep the Father's Love and sipping coffee, my heart is overflowing.  I am so thankful God chose me to be your mommy.  So thankful for every second of time I was able to carry you and those precious hours I could hold you.  Your life has had such a profound impact on me, on your daddy, on those who have never met you.  It's such a mix of emotions today - on a day when we celebrate you while missing you.  I love that we have this special day for you.

So, today we celebrate you.  Hannah and I have already had a dance party - you would have loved it!  I can't wait to watch your video tonight and see you dancing again :).  And even more so, have a dance party in person when we are all reunited.  We have a cake all ready for you.  Dean helped me make the icing and Warren added the sprinkles.  I hope you can see that and hear them sing Happy Birthday with their sweet little voices.  We got you flowers today and finally put together your new garden.  It's such a special place where we can just smile as we remember you, another way you have impacted our lives.  And of course we each sent you a purple balloon with some sweet messages.  Dean was having a rough day, but in a tender moment decided to draw you and him holding hands on his balloon.

Thank you for making me a mommy sweet girl, for teaching me how to love.  I experienced such joy with you, and my life is richer with you as my daughter.  I love you baby girl!  Happy birthday!

Love always,

Mommy

Mother's Day 2016

Mother's Day is rapidly approaching.  We're spending time making an assortment of handprint/footprint art for that special day.  There is nothing I like more than something with my kids prints on them.  I love looking back at the handprint platter from the boys 1st Mother's Day, knowing their huge hands now would never fit on such a small surface.  I have a whole collection I cherish.  And yet, it is so painful to see.  It's so hard, because not all my children are included in the way I would want.  My children, all 4 of them, are not accurately counted.  And that will always make this week difficult.

I'm so incredibly blessed to have Reagan's footprints.  I know not everyone who experiences stillbirth gets those, especially children who passed in the years before Reagan.  I stamp each of my living children's hands or feet, get these blurry images that I love so much, messy just like real life, getting a glimpse into the crazy of life.  And then, when the kids are all tucked into bed, I pull out Reagan's box, handcrafted and painted by my parents.  I sift through her cards, letters, special clothes, until I find her footprints.  And then I have to make a photocopy.  And then cut those out, or trace over them, or do something to try to transfer them to the art project of the moment.  I am so so thankful I can always include her in our art, that her footprints are right there with her younger brothers and sister.  But it's so heartbreaking.  Those feet never change.  They remain so, so tiny.  They actually seem to get smaller as everyone else grows bigger.  I HATE that I don't get to see them grow.  I HATE that life seems to be passing her by.  I HATE that I don't get to see my first baby girl grow up, that I miss those bouncing curls and ballerina feet.  I love that Hannah gets to wear her clothes and use her toys and blankets, but it some days it makes me miss those moments with Reagan even more.  As everyone comments on how beautiful Hannah is, I remember vividly how beautiful Reagan was.  And how no one else got to experience that, no one else besides us got to see her.  Oh, how I long for the day when I can introduce her to our families!

It's been many years since I walked the road of infertility.  And many in our new town would never know the pain this holiday brings for us, as I am so much surrounded with living life as a mother.  Mother's day - the day I dreaded for so long.  I still, years later, am just filled with anxiety about the day.  I feel for my friends who are waiting for their babies.  I feel for my friends who have lost babies, long ago forgotten by the world, who are waiting for their families to be complete.  This Mother's Day, take a moment to pray for the wife sitting quietly without kids running by, the mother who has experience miscarriage, the mother who doesn't have all her children at home with her.  This is one of the hardest of days.  And yet, one of the most beautiful.  Reagan made me a Mommy.  She was my first, will always be my first.  SHE is the reason I was able to celebrate this day before I had little feet running through the house.  And for that, no matter how painful, I am eternally grateful.

Full Term

Life with a full term baby is so SO different.  I am not balancing feeding schedules and apnea monitors.  I do not have to lie awake at night, imagining the beeping of the alarm to signify they've stopped breathing.   I've never watched Hannah struggle to catch her breath, never stood by helpless as she turned blue, never had to teach her to eat.  She came out huge and round, ready to go.  She came out crying, ate as soon as I was stitched up, and had these beautiful full cheeks.

And yet, she is growing up before my very eyes.  Each day, she is SO much bigger than the day before.  She is developing so fast - in growth and what she is able to accomplish.  She knows nothing of the battle to overcome the way Warren and Dean did.  She was born knowing so much, possessing so much.  Oh, how I would have taken it all for granted were it not for my 2 little miracles sleeping upstairs.  I wouldn't have given it a second thought - the ease at which she accomplishes all these "normal" milestones, eating and sleeping and playing exactly like she is supposed to.

Our weeks with W&D are now filled with 6 therapy appointments, progress notes, and goals to achieve.  Two and a half years later, they still have to work for it.  But, you know what?  They will be better because of that.  They will be stronger.  They will understand work ethic and persistence from a young age.  Life with preemies hasn't been easy, from our end or theirs.  But we are all so much different, so much stronger, because of their journey.  As I think back on my pregnancy with the boys, as I continue to struggle with guilt and pain at not providing more for them, I have to remind myself that God is still bigger.  His plan is STILL better than mine, whether I understand that at this exact moment in time or not.  It's a constant struggle for me, that letting go and trusting.  Even if it's simply letting go and trusting with what has already happened.

I love Hannah immeasurably.  And life with just Hannah would have been so carefree and easy.  She's such a blessing, a joy, to raise.  Even in the wee hours of the morning, when she smiles up at me, I'm filled with such love.  But who I am, the mother I have become, is all shaped by years of trials.  Of saying goodbye to Reagan, of standing by unable to do anything but pray and wait and trust with the boys, of months in the NICU.  I watch Hannah as she is growing up so very fast, trying to not take a second of that time for granted, knowing that tomorrow is never promised but desperately trying to not live a life of fear.  If I had never experienced difficulty, loss, sorrow, trials and struggle with our first 3 children, I would never have known what a blessing life truly is.  I might begrudge those 3am wakings, the crying and fussing in the evening.  But God has taught me how precious life is, how precious my children are, and how short time on earth can really be.  It's a lesson I wish I didn't understand, and yet I am grateful, because it has given me a greater depth of love.

Saying Goodbye

This is a hard post to write, coming after a difficult decision for our family.  We are moving.  There, I said it.  My heart is heavy and a bit broken, though I know this is what is best for our family.

Andrew has accepted a position with Pinnacle, the company he worked for the first 5 years we were married.  It's a family business, and we're both so excited for him to work for such a Christ centered company doing something he loves.  The struggle for me lies within the move itself.  We haven't been able to be as involved in Charlotte and our community as I would have liked, or even as much as we did when we first moved.  Years filled with loss, bed rest, and then isolation took that from us.  I pictured our lives here, close to the mountains and beach, close to family, with our kids playing in the parks I drove past daily, playing t-ball on the field near our home, dancing in the studio with the neighbors, swimming in our awesome neighborhood pool.  I pictured this long before we were actually able to have kids, and the image shattered when we lost Reagan.  We talked of moving then, of trying to run away and escape the broken dreams that haunted me.  But God graciously gave us Warren and Dean, and then Hannah.  And the life I pictured slowly started to take root.  Though it was always broken, though our family is never complete, I pictured our children growing up here.  We talked of moving closer to Charlotte, getting more involved in the NICU at the hospital, doing more of the speaking engagements.  Most of what I pictured could happen in just about any town...the sports, the parks, dance recitals.  The scenery might be different.  The weather might be hotter.  But the activity, the memories we could create, would all be very similar.

Here's the hard part: Reagan.  This is Reagan's home, her only home.  This is where her butterfly is painted on the wall, the only remnant of her nursery.  This is where I held her and loved her.  This is where I said goodbye.  That's it.  She only gets one home, and I'm leaving it.  And Reagan's Garden.  We started that organization to reach families specifically in Charlotte, so that no one would ever feel as alone or isolated as we did.  And now?  We'll continue the services, I'll still be making cards and NICU boxes.  Hurting families here in Charlotte will continue to receive all the same materials of support because this is Reagan's home and where my passion lies.  But I won't be able to really minister to these hurting families, to potentially meet up with them for coffee, to hear face-to-face about their little ones gone too soon.  My passion, my heart, is still in this community.  I pray it will one day grow to include communities in Florida, and I trust that it will.  But in the mean time, I still feel like I'll always have one foot in Charlotte where our eldest daughter lived.

So, you ask, how can you support us?  We are in need of prayers - prayers for my heart as I leave this town, prayers for our family as we transition, and prayers for Reagan's Garden - that we would be able to find willing families to run support dinners, that we would continue to be able to grow and support families in Charlotte, that I would be able to keep up with making the cards and boxes so that no one goes without simply because we are not local anymore.  I want Reagan's memory to live on here, I want her life to continue to be impactful, I want to help families find hope amidst the loss and despair after suffering the death of their child.  It will be difficult, but I must trust that God can work out all the details.

I have 4 children

How many children do you have?  This seemingly innocent, easy question still causes me to cringe.  I'm not quite sure how to answer.  If I answer truthfully, 4, the follow up is usually how old are they? As I've taken Hannah out and about while the boys are home or at the park, I tend to get asked "Is she your first."  Maybe something about me screams first time mom?  I get some looks of shock when I reply, no, she's my 4th.  And then that question...how old are they?  Sometimes it's easier to say 3 and twins who are 2.  Sometimes I'll say our oldest would be 3 and I have twins who are 2.  But sometimes I take the easy way out, particularly when I'm out with all 3 of these crazy kiddos, and I just say the 3 of them.  And then I'm hit with this wave of doubt, of guilt.  Reagan made me a mommy.  She made me feel this attachment and protectiveness I'd never felt before.  She made me into the woman I am today, the mom I am today.  And yet, I feel this pressure to pretend like she doesn't exist.  I hate that.

Since Hannah's birth, we've been able to bond.  Despite sleepless nights and stressful days, I love that little girl immeasurably.  She brings me great joy.  And yet, I feel a longing for Reagan even more.  Maybe it's simply that she's a girl.  That I think of my own sisters and the relationships we had and I know Hannah will never experience that with Reagan.  Maybe it's the sense of normalcy that was completely lacking after the boys were born, when I didn't have much time to just process through the emotions of having our rainbow babies.

Christmas season is especially hard.  Well, really, the entire holiday season, from Halloween (for obvious reasons) to Thanksgiving and Christmas.  It's all a reminder of this empty spot in our lives.  Another seat that should be around the table, eating turkey and pie.  A missing stocking hanging from the mantle.  Only 5 instead of 6.  One whole member of our family is just erased from our holiday pictures.  I want her to be included, I want her to be remembered.  She was born, I felt her kick in my belly for months, watched her heart flutter on ultrasounds, planned my life with her, and then held her still body in my arms.  The fact that she didn't get to take a breath outside me doesn't erase her life or her significance, doesn't mean she isn't just as much a part of my family as our other kids.

This is our 4th Christmas without Reagan.  How can that be? It seems like just yesterday I was holding her close.  Regardless, as the years go by, that empty spot does not.  The grief, the raw and gripping pain, the immeasurable sense of loss, are all still just as present this year as years past.  Our home is full of laughter and tiny feet, but one set is always missing.  One blonde girl dressed in purple is dancing in heaven instead of with her mommy.  Nothing changes that.

I have 4 children.  I have 2 girls and 2 boys.  I did not "finally get a girl," I already have one.  She's being cared for by her heavenly Father instead of her earthly parents.  But she is still very much our daughter.

Happy 3rd Birthday!

Happy 3rd birthday sweet girl!  Some days it seems like just days ago you were dancing away in my tummy, loving life and content.  Sometimes though it seems like forever ago, so long since I was able to see your beautiful face.  I never know quite how to feel on your birthday.  There is so much sorrow, such heartbreak, as I long so desperately to hold you again, to hear you laugh, to see you smile and dance and play.  There is so much I am missing out on by not knowing you now.  And as the years move forward, I am continually reminded of all the milestones I miss.  I hate that.  And yet, today, we get to celebrate you.  We don't grieve without a purpose, for we know Jesus is holding you close right now. 

I will never forgot those precious hours together in the hospital.  The moment I became a mother, as my heart leapt with joy as the nurse gently laid you in my arms.  I remember what it felt like to just breathe you in, to love you so completely, to fall so hard in a matter of seconds.  You were already gone, but there was something just so special, so wonderful, about the first time I was able to hold you.  You were so tiny, so incredibly tiny.  But everything was perfectly formed, knit together in my womb.  My heart, though shattered and broken, was incredibly full.  I still feel that as I remember our special time together.

I can picture you then, looking so very much like your mommy, so peaceful.  I still find myself clinging to your pink blanket when I miss you, closing my eyes and picturing exactly how you looked in that moment.  And I can picture you as you must look now, so happy and full of life, dancing in heaven with Jesus, with your other siblings and family members.  You are such a blessed little girl to never endure this broken world, to go straight to the arms of your Savior.  I cannot wait until the day when I can see you again, when I can dance right along side of you, when I can embrace you with you hugging me back.  Oh, the joy.

It is hard to celebrate a birthday when the birthday princess is missing.  But we are doing our best.  Today, we weren't able to go up to the mountains as we would have loved, as your baby sister should be joining us any day.  But we did enjoy this brisk fall morning and took your crazy brothers up to the park.  We had a picnic by the water, with the leaves changing color all around us.  It was beautiful.  And we sent you some balloons - this time we got 2 lighter purple ones that W&D picked out.  I made you a strawberry cake (it's really good) that we'll get to enjoy after dinner.  And we'll do your birthday cards tonight and add them to your memory box.  Dean asked that his be purple and specifically requested to have stickers he could put on them.  Let's see if we can find some that are not Halloween related :)  I hate that you are not here to celebrate with us, but I trust you are having quite a celebration in Heaven.  And I pray that you are able to see a glimpse of what we are doing here, and that you always know you are cherished and loved on earth as well.

With immeasurable love,

Mommy

3 years later

Three years ago, nearly to the minute, I got the news that rocked my world.  My daughter had passed away.  As I stared at her profile on the ultrasound, she still looked just perfect.  Perfect upturned nose, little chin.  But she was still.  Her chest was empty; no flicker where we had just seen one the week before.  That image, forever burned into my mind.  The doctor glanced away and murmured "I'm so sorry" before stepping out to let me call Andrew.  How do you even begin to say the words, to communicate to my unsuspecting husband that the appointment we thought nothing of would change our lives forever?  To wait for him to rush down so we can hold each other.  As I am sitting here, I feel my heart being ripped out all over again.  Surely there must be some mistake.  I still just want there to be some mistake.  To go back in time and fix it all so my baby girl can be here playing right alongside her brothers.  I want them to know her, to know her laugh and her little blonde curls and her smile.  To not just know of her.  As the years are moving on, it doesn't get any easier.  The grief is still there, breaking me.  I sometimes feel like I'm a shell of who I used to be, a piece of me is always missing and it's so hard to live life like that. 

I am so thankful she was not born on the same day, that we have a separate day when we can celebrate her birth, her brief life, and all she means to us.  I'm glad for these quiet moments, when my children are sleeping and I can just sit here and allow myself to feel again, to let myself go back to that moment, to let the tears come and not hide from them, to not have to be strong for anybody and just let myself miss my daughter with my whole being.  It does nothing to bring her back, but it helps me to celebrate her with more joy tomorrow.  Today is my sad day, tomorrow we're having a birthday party with the boys for their big sister. 

October 15

My heart is heavy today.  The whole month of October is a challenge for me, a reminder of last moments and saying goodbye.  For the entire month, I am reminded of Reagan as I anticipate her upcoming birthday.  Today, well, today the whole country seems to remember.  Today is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day.  Today, candles are lit and balloons are released in memory of all our babies gone too soon.  It's a beautiful picture as we grieve together, to know we are not alone in this journey.  And ultimately, that's what it is.  A journey.  Not a moment, not an event, but something we continue to still walk through on a daily basis.  Nothing is forgotten, the pain is not erased as time moves forward.  And the struggle of feeling like the rest of the world has moved on while I am stuck here is very real.  I find myself throughout this month having to remind myself of truth over and over: Reagan is loved, she is cared for now, she is not longing for anything, and I will see her again.  And while all of that is true, and it helps to know, it does not change the fact that she is no longer here with me.  And that continues to cut me right to the core.  I miss my first baby girl so so much.  Always.  And most of the time, I feel this need to hide that, to be strong for my boys, to not be swallowed by the emotions of it all.  But today?  Today I get to remember her.  I get to remember Reagan and celebrate her life.  And, more than that, I get to remember her twin, who I never met.  I get to think about him and how he's playing with his sister.  I get to smile as I picture them running hand in hand.  And I get to do all that with thousands of other families who KNOW.  We all get to celebrate our babies together today.

One in Four.  Those statistics are bleak, so let me say it again: 1 in 4.  I know there are so many others who are hurting today, who are longing for their babies.  There are so many who saw those 2 lines and fell in love, only to say goodbye a few days to weeks later.  There are those who saw the heart beating, got their due date, made a plan...only to have that plan change so suddenly.  There are so many we've met along our own journey and through Reagan's Garden who have passed into the "safety zone," halfway there, found out gender, started decorating the nursery, bought all the things, and prepared for baby's arrival...only to deliver into a silent room, to know the face of their child but not the sound of her cry.   And 1 in 4 of us have been one of these.  It's so hard.  And I have no answers, no magic words.  Know that my heart is with you today as we all remember together.

21.5 weeks

Today is the day.  The day that marks the point in pregnancy when we learned Reagan was gone.  The point in the pregnancy when I was given the news that my cervix was shortened and they couldn't guarantee labor could be stopped so I should prepare for the worst with Warren and Dean.  In one instance, God proved bigger than what the doctors could see and He saved my precious boys.  In the other, He took our daughter home too early.  In both, we were stripped of all our comforts and forced to rely on Him completely.

I'm at that point again.  And I'm terrified.  This child doesn't like to move much at all, she's calm.  Later in life, that will be an immeasurable blessing.  But right now?  It's terrifying.  I haven't felt her in the last 24 hours.  Nothing.  And I dropped weight while on vacation, which doesn't seem normal at all.  It's feeling all too familiar.  And I'm feeling like I'm on the verge of breaking down and retreating into my little hole.  Except for these two boys...and for reading them books, singing songs together, and watching them cook in their new little kitchen.  I've got some music playing softly in the background, and every minute or two one of them will start dancing.  I love seeing their innocence, the complete blissful ignorance toward the heart wrenching pain their mommy is feeling this morning.  I will hate the day when the world takes that from them.

We're heading out to an appointment in another hour, waiting to see our second little girl on the ultrasound screen.  And praying that all is well, that it's simply the stress of the day causing my symptoms (or lack of them).  Trying to trust in the Lord's plan for our life and in His goodness when it is just so hard and when our life looks nothing like what we pictured or planned.  It's all a bit overwhelming.