Joy to instant Terror

I love to take photos.  I especially love to photograph my children and to document our adventures together.  Having a cell phone makes that incredibly ease to do and to share.  I know that some people wish we weren't taking so many photos and living solely in the moment.  I strive as best as I can do have a good balance of both.  

Today was a busy day filled with adventures.  We started out with an oil change and a bouncy house for the kiddos.  Then, on a whim, we decided to head to the Outdoor Campus for the Outdoor University 2018 event.  We have never participated in it before, because my kiddos have been so young, and there's three of them and only one parent in our family.  This year, we've experienced the freedom granted with them being slightly older, more focused, and willingness to stay together as a group most of the time.  We don't usually do big, overcrowded events by ourselves, though.  This was a first, and it was simply because I hadn't researched it more than a cursory glance, so I did not know just how big and how busy the event would be.

We could hardly find a parking space, but I had talked up the adventure and the children voted 2 over 1 to still attend.  So, we parked far away, had a talk in the van while finding the spot, and then again while waiting for the shuttle van to take us to the campus, about staying together as a group at all times, listening well, and being able to see each other at all times.  If we couldn't see each other we were supposed to call out for mom and the other names.  They all understood, and I felt fairly confident, and off we went.

And truthfully, they did great.  We spent three hours together doing various activities, taking photos, having laughs, giving each other compliments, using manners without prompting, and just having a good time. 

I took lots of photos, but I also did lots of activities with them.  We mined for treasure, we touched pelts and skulls and identified creatures.  We played with toy fishing rods and rifles and we went fishing.  What I didn't truly enjoy, I faked enjoying for the kids sake to make it the best experience possible.  Then, we excitedly hurried over to the touch tanks, which were filled with frogs, toads, salamanders, snakes, turtles, and fish.  It was a very crowded and excited area and we ALL loved it.  We held all sorts of creatures.  The kids squealed with delight.  We took photos.  We passed snakes back and forth.  We spent over half an hour in that one spot just having a great time.  We nearly came home with a pet garter snake.  It was wonderful.

After about half an hour of that, though, Collin, my second child, was ready to be done, and he politely asked me if we could head back into the main building and see the rest of the amphibians and reptiles inside there, which I had promised we would do before we left.  I told him that would be fun, but that I had to tell the other two that we were going to do that, because they were still standing in front of us all hunched over the tanks.  He said that was okay, and I told him to wait right there and I would get the other two.  

I walked about five feet away from him and tapped Spencer and Norah on the backs and told them it was time to say goodbye to the frogs and snakes because we were going inside.  It felt like five seconds that I had my back away from Collin.  It could have been thirty.  I really don't know.  It was quick, that's all I know.

Quick in a crowded space where there was a slip of mind.

The joy we were feeling turned into sudden panic when I turned around and Collin wasn't standing by the pole anymore.  I said to the other two, "Collin is gone, let's go NOW," and they followed me as we walked around that tent full of people looking for Collin, thinking maybe he went back to the frogs quick.

But he wasn't there.

I thought to myself that maybe when he saw us stand upright and turn toward him, he decided to start walking to the main building, so that's where we headed next, walking as quickly as possible with little legs.

As we walked, a security officer was in the path, smiled at us, and asked if we were enjoying our day.  I said, "Yes, but I've lost my son."

It was the craziest thing to say aloud.

He immediately walked with us, asking about him.  How old is he? What's his name?  What's he wearing?  I answered all his questions as we walked, looking around as we did.  Where did I think he was heading? Where were we?  Why did I think he was headed that way again?

Because he said he wanted to go there.  I really thought that was where he was going.  And when he's determined, he is determined.

We got into the main building and he went to one side and I went to the other with the kiddos, calling out Collin's name.  But he didn't answer.  We gathered again quickly, and walked to the main desk, where he asked the volunteer at the desk if she had seen Collin.  He pulled out his phone when she hadn't, and had me type in my number.  He called me quick to save it.  Then he got out a paper and pen and asked me the questions again.  Name? Age? Hair? Eyes? Clothing? Size?  As I answered, I pulled up his photo on my phone.  He took a picture of the photo with his and said "we have our own Amber Alert system here, I'm going to send this and my team will all be looking."  He took a photo of the description and sent it off with Collin's photo to his team, and all I could see in my mind was this photo on a MISSING Child poster.

Instantly, as I know many who read this might think, I began doubting myself a mother and protector of my children. How could I let this happen?  What was I thinking turning my back on him?  I know he's strong willed and an occasional wander.  I knew it was crowded and crazy busy.  Why did I trust my five-year-old to stand still in an exciting place?  When will I learn better?  

And then it went to things like... Why is he not in this building?  Where could he have gone?  He loves people and is too friendly... what if someone took him?  What if he fell in the little lake?  What if he's scared?  What if what if what if what if?

On the outside I was calm, but on the inside, I felt like I might crumble, and I felt like it was 100% totally my fault for being the very worst and least competent parent in the entire world.

I've never professed to be perfect at parenting.  Most of the time I wonder if I'm a good enough mom, even though my heart knows God knew I was the perfect mom for these three children, because he chose ME to bring them into this world and lead them through all our hills and valleys.

But in that moment, I was sure that I was quite literally the most wretched mom on earth because I trusted by baby boy.

The security officer said that everyone would start looking for Collin, and that he thought it would be best if we just stayed in the building in case Collin did show up and was just being pokey.  He said he would call me as soon as he was found.  He was confident he would be found safe and was just fine, and I placed my trust in that and just prayed that they would find him soon.

I told Spencer and Norah to go play in the play area and I sat there staring at my phone and looking up as they played.  It had been 15 minutes since I looked at the clock when Collin asked to go inside.  I sat there, trembling with tears in my eyes, a slew of terrible things going through my head, mostly belittling myself, if I'm being completely honest.

After 8 minutes, the phone rang. 

"Nicole?"

"Yes."

"We found him by the pond.  He's okay and wondering where you are.  We are bringing him to the front door."

"Thank you!" I squeaked and hung up.

I told his siblings he was found, and we ran to the front door to wait.

As soon as I saw him walking alongside a security officer, I began sobbing.

I was mad at myself.  I was a bit mad at him too, truthfully.  But, I was just overwhelmingly grateful that he was found and he was completely okay.

I hugged him and squeezed him and his siblings did the same.  And then, I looked him in the eye, and I told him what I have in the past, "We HAVE to stay together. ALWAYS."  I told him how I thought I had lost him forever.  I told him that I love him WAY TOO MUCH to lose him.  I told him I was scared, but I was so glad he was okay.   

"I'm so sorry mommy," he said as he teared up in front of me.  "I thought you were lost."

We had lost each other.  It was a terror.

But, God had us all under his protection.  Again.  Like he has so many times before.

The guard I first met who took the information and my number showed up and told Collin how happy he was that Collin was okay.  And then he told me that he was grateful that I had that photo of him, because in a place that busy, there's lots of red shirts, and sharing that with his team made it easy to spot him and know exactly which child they were looking for.

When we arrived home, I posted photos of our adventure online.  They showed a day full of joy.  But they didn't show how it turned into terror.

As I said before, I love taking photos of my children to document our adventures.  And tonight, I'm thankful that I did for a different reason.  I choose to believe that no matter how many minutes it could have taken to find Collin, he would have been found safe and sound today.  In a calm mind, I really believe that.  But, because I had taken a photo of him just minutes before, I had him in the outfit he was wearing, his favorite red sweatpants and his church shoes, his brown eyes and now sun-bleached hair holding a frog.  They knew him as soon as they spotted him, and we only had to wait 23 minutes to see him again.  Only.  23 minutes that felt like forever.

While we had been playing with frogs I saw another child across the way with a phone number in permanent marker written on his arm.  I thought to myself, "huh, that's pretty smart. I might have to do that next time."

Go figure.

I know that I'm capable, overall, to take my children on adventures by myself.

But, I think that for now, when it comes to these busy, overcrowded activities, I'll gladly go back to begging someone else to join us.

Tonight, while I battle the demons trying to keep me from posting this, knowing I could be ridiculed for being a terrible mom and for being unobservant or failing my son, I also know it's important to share stories like this, because it's something that I will learn from, and I know others can to.

It's so easy to make an absent-minded mistake such as turning your back for one minute, based on three hours of children doing exactly as they were asked in a crowded place.  This world is a scary place, and there's so many reports of predators out there, and it's always in the back of my mind.  But I stopped paying attention for a minute.  And then he was gone.

And it happens so quick.

And I really believe it can happen to anybody.  Or almost anybody.

I apologized to my children for letting this happen today.  They forgave me.  Collin apologized for wandering off.  I forgave him.

I still am battling the demons that are beating me up for it, though.

I pray it never happens to any of you.

But know that if it does, I will not judge you.  And I will pray alongside you if you need me to.

This morning a lifetime ago

It was barely past midnight this morning when I felt the ground give way beneath my feet and the air I tried to breathe suffocate my airways as I heaved violent sobs in the dark of the night. Up until this point, she had always been there as a pillar and a safe place.

It was so early this morning, a horrible ending to one day and the devastating beginning of another.

It was ten years ago.

It feels like this morning.

It feels like a lifetime ago.

She waited until we all left and she breathed her final breath, and in the quiet of her hospital room, my grandma passed away.

I miss her still, every single day.

The ground has given way a few times since then, and still she is gone. Her arms aren't waiting for me in a loving embrace. Her ear isn't there to listen when I cry.

But she didn't leave me completely:

The prayers she must have prayed unceasingly have come to fruition, as I have God at my side, and Godly people in my life who can help stand in where she used to be. 

I wonder though. I can't help but wonder.

Would she be proud? Would she think I'm extraordinary? Would she think I'm brave? Would she think I exhibit grace?

Somehow she's gone and her opinion still matters.

So much has happened in the 10 years since she was laid in the freezing cold ground as I crumbled in the wind. The ground is frozen again. But in a weird way, as I sit here missing her so, I feel comfort knowing she's safe inside the very ground I stand on, while residing up in the heavenlies with the Jesus she loved so much. Her love is written permanently on my wrist, her ring on my finger, her voice in my head, and her warm brown eyes staring up at me through my beautiful young daughter. 

I ache. I pine. I cry. But I find rest, I find peace, finally, ten years later, realizing she's still so close by.

The former's birthday

Today is his, the man I once shared my life with's, birthday.

Today, I miss the good things about him and the fun we shared.

Today, I miss his hugs and his voice.

Today, I miss his laughter.

Today, I miss surprising him.

Today, I miss showing him I love him.

His children don't know it's his birthday today.

I feel so conflicted about it.  I know that, for now anyway, it's best this way.  I know that the joy they find in birthdays, coupled with the lingering sting of his abandonment would confused and torment them in some way.

So we haven't talked about him.

We haven't celebrated him.

We haven't wished him a happy birthday.

I don't know where he is.  I don't know what he's doing.  I don't know if he's happy.

I hope he is, just because I'm a good person.

I know we are happy.

I am thankful that I can say that with honesty.

We are sad sometimes, the children more than I, of course, but overall, we are happy.

It doesn't mean we don't miss him, sometimes.

Somedays, we miss him more than others.

Today, the children haven't brought him up.

Today, though, I miss him.  I don't need him.  I don't want him.  I don't long for him.  But, I miss him.

It's amazing to me that it's been sixteen months since we've seen his face, heard his voice, or read any new words from him.  We live daily life completely void of his contact.  We live each day, in and out, without him.  But it still seems absolutely surreal that he has made the choice to live life this way, without us.  It sure wasn't a choice we made.  It was his.  I cannot understand it at all.

We didn't have contact with him on his birthday last year.  I didn't really miss him like this last year.  Last year, I was still so hurt and angry.  It's been two years since we saw him on his birthday.  Two years ago on his birthday, he was upset.  He was withdrawn and crabby that I not only had gotten a job, but I started it on his birthday, and he had to be a responsible person and get the children and I to and from work that day.  He had to pretend he was a loving, caring, doting father and husband, because we didn't want the world to know what was really going on between us, especially me in a brand new work environment with countless people I didn't know or know if I could trust.  It has been three years, really, since we had a birthday with him.  Our daughter wasn't even born that year.

It's amazing how slowly time moves by, but how quickly it does simultaneously.

There's so much that has happened in those three years, since our last happy his birthday together.

We've been through quite a harrowing storm.

We've made it through stronger.

I've accomplished so much without, despite, and because of him.

Today, I can see that.

Today, I can celebrate that.

Today- without him.

He took this photo of me the night after my high school graduation, in 2002.  It has such strong ties to our relationship.  I love it, though, because the emotion seems fitting for this juncture as well.

I think...

I think about that last day, a year go.  The sky was cloudy. The wind was blowing. You were in yellow.  The kids were anxiously excited. They hadn't seen you in many days. Their laughter rose over the rustling leaves as they squealed your name and ran to you, jumping into your arms.

You followed them around, playing occasionally on the park equipment.

 After 40 minutes or so, you asked briefly about your daughter's hospitalization the week before. After another twenty minutes, you declared you had stuff to do and had to leave. 

The laughter subsided and smiles faded. The kids all protested as we walked them to the van. You helped buckle them into their seat belts after giving them a hug. You told them you loved them, and you would see them soon. You promised to call your oldest son the next day, and planned to see them after the holiday weekend. 

I closed the van doors. They cried. They didn't want you to go. They missed you so deeply already. My heart ached for them as you drove away.

They never heard from you again.

I have been thinking about that day, the last times, frequently throughout this past week. I think of their joy and subsequent sadness. I think of your lies and broken promises. I wonder how much truth was in your salutations and hugs. 

I think about the days that followed. I think about how our son waited around for you to call. I think about how he asked me over and over to call you, and call you again, and you wouldn't answer. I think about the fury burning in my heart as you silenced the last calls and I told him daddy didn't want to talk today. I think about the next two days before you text me the last time. I think about how I asked you why you didn't call or answer and your response was an illegitimate non-answer, and when I pointed that out, you never corresponded with me again. 

I think about how I tried so very hard for the next few days, and weeks, and months to get answers. I tried to find meaning. I longed for even a stupid excuse. I tried to help your children find you and tried to foster a relationship between you and them.  

I think about all of the "I don't see daddy anywheres" I heard, or the "I miss my daddy" cries, or the "where'd daddy go" questions. I think about how I had to explain to our daughter who the man in the pictures was and how he had no idea what I was talking about, and decided to just call you Jake instead.

I think about all the cries at night. I think about all the prayers that we have said for you.  I think about the hours of therapy our sons have undergone trying to make sense of your absence.  I think about all the anger and sadness and frustration that they have and how they take it out on me, because I'm the constant in their lives, I'm their safe zone.

I think about how they used to say you were lost or missing, and how in the last week and a half, our oldest has realized that you're not just lost.  He has told me that his daddy ran away.  He knows it was a choice.

I think about how much I have struggled knowing you chose to leave.  I used to sit and doubt myself, my sanity, my mothering, my friendship, my love.  I used to think how much easier it would have been if your disappearance hadn't been a choice that you made, but just a circumstance of life or some other means, because a choice feels like abandonment, like being tossed into a dumpster, then crumpled and burned before buried in a landfill.  I think about how I am an adult and I can hardly wrap my mind or heart around it, and how our children are too young to comprehend as well as I do, knowing full well even I don't really comprehend.  It slays my heart to know they're going to question themselves and doubt and wonder why they weren't good enough for you to stay  or to even send a birthday card.  I pray that a miracle will prevent it, but mentally brace myself for what feels like the inevitable.

I think about how much I loved you, how I still house some love for you, and how badly I wish I could run you over with a piece of farm machinery, knowing full well that is completely an unGodly thought, and knowing it wouldn't really solve anything anyway.

I think about how I want to see your face.  I think about how I want to get answers.  I think about how your answers would probably be non-answers anyway, or lies that I would have to try to decode again, and how I know that maybe it's better that I can't ask you questions because the agony of trying to trust your answers would wring my heart dry.

I think about how I want to forgive you, and how often I feel like I have forgiven you, and other times I realize there's more I haven't dealt with that I need to deal with in order to forgive each piece.

I think about how people I know run into you, and tell me they run into you, and how you act like nothing is out of the ordinary and everything is normal.  I think about how not once in a year have we ran into you.   I think about how you were literally blocks away from our children last night and had absolutely no idea.  I think about what would have happened if you knew that or even cared about it enough to see them again.

I think about how much I wish you could see them now, but how much I do not want them to see you.

I think about all the lies you've spread about me. I think about your boyfriend and how he claims you tell him I'm a great woman, and our kids are amazing, and I think about how he was so excited to spend time with your children.  I think about people telling me you're both good guys, but how I know that can't be true if you can abandon and he can support it.  I think about the lies that have been told about me or are told about me, and the lies others believe about the situation.  I think about the webs you're still weaving and the messes you're still making.

I think about all the effort I spent trying to find you to divorce you, and all the effort I still have to spend in order to either find you again so that the state can force you to pay all the support you owe, or how I have to work my butt off to make ends meet all on my own indefinitely.

I think about all the ways, the words, the time you spent trying and often making me believe this all my fault, like I had this intense power I had no idea about while I felt crippled by weakness.

I think about how you walking away and shattering our lives and pulverizing my heart brought me closer to God, and how God brought such dear friends and supports into my life that I had never imagine I would find.  I think about all of these people who care so much for and love us all so much when for months I thought we must be completely unlovable.  I think about how your absense has given me freedom to gain mental clarity and personal strength and control.

I think about all that you've taken away, but I think about all that we have gained.

I think a lot.

I still think about you. 

Here it comes...

Father's Day is coming up so quickly. 

This year, it's going to be different than ever before. Last year, they didn't see their dad either, but they still sort of knew he was around and in their lives... 

It's been an emotional week, not only for me, but for my sons as well. While Collin, who is three, doesn't express himself as well as Spencer, I am lead to believe that he is dealing with some emotional turmoil and confusion as well.

Spencer, who is 5.5 now, is able to vocalize himself better, and is quite intelligent, and able to really pinpoint his emotions quite well.  All of the talk on TV, radio, day care, Sunday School, and among his peers about Father's Day seems to be stressing him out quite a bit.  He asked me tonight why he doesn't have a dad anymore. I told him he has one, but that his dad is still making poor choices and I do not know how to reach him.  We talked about God also being our father. While he is very smart and has great faith already, that concept is hard for him to grasp, I know. We said extra prayers for his dad tonight at bedtime.

At work (daycare) this week, a lot of time was spent working on Father's Day crafts and art all around the center. I took the lead on creating the gift from the children I work with, and helped out with the gift in the baby room. Each one brought joy for those children and parents, but also pain for my own children.

I have, admittedly, had some selfish "why me and my kids?" moments, moments where I personally felt betrayed and abandoned. But for the most part, each time something revolving around Father's Day was mentioned or done, I felt such loss for my children.

My two-year-old daughter who doesn't really understand what a daddy is, my three-year-old son who vaguely remembers having a dad, and my five-year-old son who misses his dad so much that he seems to be on his mind constantly...

I try to talk them through it. We talk about how Father's Day is for dads, but also for grandpas and uncles and men in our lives who love them. Each of my children made their art for Papa Web this year instead of me, hoping that helps them associate the day with the love of other family and close friends instead of the dad who up and walked out on them.

But my momma heart aches. It aches to know the right way to approach the tough questions, for the perfect answers, for the way to show them how fiercely I love them and others love them despite what they're missing.

I can only relate to my children somewhat. I can relate in that their dad up and left me too, left this gaping whole in my heart and life, left me wondering if he thinks of them or if they'll ever see him again on this side of eternity.

But I have my dad in my own life still. Fortunately, my children have my dad in their lives still.  I could have lost my dad this year, but by the grace of God, he survived a stroke and has been on the mend. I have a dad I can call, text, visit, hug. I have a dad who lets me cry on his couch and tells me he loves me. 

And that makes my heart hurt for my kids even more somehow.  Because I have had a dad for 32 years, and Spencer had his dad for 4, Collin had him for 2, and Norah had him for 1... And he wasn't fully there for most of that anyway.

I know as years go by it will get easier and tougher; easier for them to understand a Father's love through God, through extended family, and through friends. They will see and better that you don't NEED your biological dad to have fatherly love and influence. It will get tougher as the questions become more intense and the quest for understanding grows deeper.

If you pray, and are willing, please spare a prayer for my children this weekend. I know I am praying that they see joy, feel love, and have peace, especially Spencer, as they likely hear about Father's Day at church on Sunday. I pray the good memories and love outweigh the ache in their little hearts, and they are able to carry on and grow stronger as they see the day through.

She's still with me.

June 19, 1939.  A beautiful baby girl was brought into this world.  Her name was Leora Mae.  Through the years, she grew into a loving child, a wonderful mother of six children, a wife, a single mother, a grandmother, and a great grandmother.  She was a cake artist, a baker, a cook, a crafter, a singer, a dancer, a friend, a mentor, a chatter, a joker... and so much more.  She left this world on February 1, 2007.  It's been an emptier place since.

It's hard to believe that it's been 9 years since I last heard my grandmother's voice.  Had she not taken her place in heaven already, she would be 77 years old this weekend.

I miss her so.

But, lately, I see more and more that she's never truly left me.

I don't say this in a ghost-haunting or angel-on-earth sort of way.  I say this as a reflection of myself and of my own daughter.

My grandmother is someone I have always cherish and respected.  I look up to her, even still, knowing that she went through many struggles in her own life, and came out of them still smiling, still believing in God, still professing His love and her faith, and still believing in the good in people and the good in the world.

She had a husband she loved, but due to complex reasons, it didn't last forever... much like my marriage.  The reasons for our divorces were greatly different, but the result was similar.  We became single mothers, never in our lives imagining that would be the case.  She raised her six children on her own, and I wonder often how on earth she did that, when I struggle with only three young ones to provide for.

She was one of the biggest influences on my faith.  I loved growing up going to church with her on Sundays.  She would bake goodies for the fellowship hall, and we would attend. I sat next to her, instead of going to Sunday School, and gladly took sermon notes.  I sang my heart out to the hymns and professed my beliefs via the Apostles' Creed, and would pray the Lord's Prayer with heartfelt meaning, not just reciting it as many.  I loved our time together.  I attribute my desire to continue to go to church largely to my Grandma as my mentor and role model in my early years.

Instead of turning away from God when life got hard and messy, she turned to Him.

Now, I can't say that my Grandma was never weary or burdened, or felt worn down raising her children, because obviously, I wasn't around to see it.    But I believe she relied heavily on grace and mercy and all of the promises God makes to us to sustain her each day, through each frustration that motherhood inevitably brings.   I strive to live in that fashion.  Though, I wish she was around to help remind me on the toughest of days, I know that I have other supports who will and often do, not to replace my Grandma, but to walk alongside me as she would if she still could,.

I developed my love for baking and crafts because of my grandmother, largely, as well.  I would often come over to her house and help her bake or cook, or we would paint things, create knick-knacks, doo-dads, earrings, and Christmas decorations.  We colored, and drew, and played card games while listening to the radio, singing along.  She loved country music, but also hymns and Christian songs.  I can still see her foot tapping under the table while her black radio sat beside the window and we played Yahtzee or some other game.  We would both sing along.  I hear songs that remind me of her frequently, and I still sing along and remember her vividly.

I miss her so, Some days more than others, but always, I miss her.  I wonder if she would be proud of the choices I've made, what she would stay when I start crying with struggles, what advice she would give to me in the trenches of single-motherhood, and how much she would love going to church with me now.  I long for her to have met my children. I think she would be amazed and overjoyed that they love to pray, that they sing "Jesus Loves Me," and that they're learning other hymns that I can't help but sing sometimes.  I think she would be so excited to hear my oldest tell his siblings about the Garden of Eden or about Noah's Ark or about the Resurrection of Jesus.

I believe she would tell me I'm doing a good job out here.

As I said, though, she's never fully left.  You see, I feel her inside me, somehow.  Not in a physical way, but in a way that's influenced my spirit, my soul, my mind, and my heart.  I think that she helped me develop so much during my younger years that parts of her personality are shining outwardly through me.  I believe I'm very much like her in ways I never saw before.  I suppose trials will bring character you never expected, and that is what happened here.

I also see her in my daughter.  Norah was named after my grandmother's blood line, the name coming from her own mother's middle name, Nora.  I've loved it forever and to be able to pass it on to my own daughter was such a blessing.    But it's more than a name.

Somehow, I see my grandmother in my daughter's eyes.  Now, my daughter has brown eyes, as does her dad, but when I look at her, I don't see his eyes.  I see Leora's eyes.  I don't know how to pinpoint it exactly, but they seem so familiar, like I'm looking at my grandmother all those years ago.  My daughter looks like me, she looks like my mom, and she looks like my grandmother.  Some of her stances, her gestures, her poses, her remarks, her expressions... they all remind me of my grandmother though.   As much as I  miss my grandmother, I love that about my daughter. 

I wish I could tell my grandma happy birthday this year, to her face, in a card, over the phone... I've left her notes on her grave in years past, done commemorative photos, poetry, and blog posts.  I miss her the most on her birthday.  It's always a hard day, and I often find myself lying in bed, crying over my loss, wishing she was around, and stunned that I've made it so long without her.  I remember the night she died I sobbed hysterically to my former husband "I don't know how I'll live all these years without her with me!"

Somehow I have.

I suppose, it's because she still exists, within me.

If I Had a Pen

Grandma,

If I had a pen today, I would have sat beside you in the emerald grass, writing to you and leaving you a note. Heaven requires no postage, but the mail doesn't arrive either. Still, as you know I often find the urge I do, I would have written to you.

Instead, grief and longing overcame me to my very core and I fell, weeping like a heartbroken child, next to your beautiful name.

I have so many things I wanted to scribe, and I do not think I can sleep without doing so...

It has been a long 8 years since I said goodbye. The night you took your last breath, I sobbed inconsolably to the point of my own breathlessness. My husband wrapped his strong arms around me as I wept about how I did not know how I could possibly live the rest of my life without you. I took some comfort in his newlywed promise that it would be okay because he would be here as long as he lived, taking over your role as my confidante. 

It's during this season of life, where he has abandoned that promise and left his family without a trace that I really long to talk to you again. I have, of course, longed to do so since you left, but the urge is so strong now. I have been holding myself together for the most part, I think, but today, the floodgates opened and the reservoirs of tears flowed freely. 

This weekend was another one of the family gatherings I decided years ago we needed to get back into the habit of having, in your honor and memory. I spent my entire childhood growing up with such gatherings, and after you left, we needed to carry on. Everyone agreed and it's now a common occurrence and the times are filled with one of your favorite sounds- laughter. Just today even, I had tears of laughter flowing as my mom recalled to some of the cousins and aunts times in my childhood when my usual calm demeanor disappeared to reveal a feisty girl. You would be so proud, your son and I decided, that these gatherings continue today, often more than once a year.

The day was, overall, filled with joy, but as my rollercoaster continues, moments of sorrow. I felt your absense more than ever this year it seemed, but at the same time, it was obvious to me you were with us somehow. I mean, I look at my gorgeous daughter and her face is so familiar that she reminds me of you constantly. 

Today, out of nowhere, my nearly five year old told my mom she lost her mom, you. It was a shocking statement, to say the least. But what followed next shattered my mommy heart as he told us that his dad was also lost.

In many ways, it's completely, devastatingly accurate. While his dad lives somewhere, my son has absolutely no idea where or why he's gone, other than he's making bad choices. While he's not dead, the dad he knew, in a way, is. I longed for your comfort for him at that moment as tears trickled down my cheeks. All I could say was, "he is, Spencer, and I'm sorry."

As we hugged everyone and said our goodbyes, I knew I couldn't come home without visiting you first. My babies all fell asleep before I got to your resting place, which was a blessing as I wept so fiercely  it would have likely caused them distress. 

I laid there in the grass, sun setting behind us, wondering what you would say to me about my life now. You loved my husband too, and were so excited for us. Then there was this huge, surprising shift, and he is altogether gone. Would you be angry at me for choosing to give him chances? Would you think I was stupid for believing in him? Would you be disappointed that I allowed him to break my heart and the hearts of my children? I know that I feel that way more than I care to admit, but my memory of you and our life together leads me to believe you would tell me I am being a bit hard on myself.

So, instead, would you be proud? Would you smile at the fact that I stood up for us, and that I'm trying to mend these broken dreams and start a new life? Would you see me as a success? Am I too weak? Am I strong?  Am I crazy for believing in love and finding it impossible to truly hate?

What advice would you give me? How would you pray?

I could use your hug and your smile and your tissues. 

One thing I know, though, is that you've had a lasting impact on me, in ways I still discover. Just this week, I realized ways that you have shaped who I am in times like these, and I thank God for your influence on my life. I know all happens for a reason and you aren't really gone "too soon," but it feels like it on these kind of days. 

Thank you, Grandma, for accepting my tears once again. 

I love you. Until next time,

Nicole Marie

the birthday card I can't send

Dear Leora Mae,

For the past few days, I've been counting down the time until your birthday. Every year, I do the same. Just yesterday, I was informing my sister "Grandma's birthday is tomorrow!" We decided we would celebrate with slushies and that I was super you would approve.

Remember how we went to Dairy Queen so many times just for slushies or Blizzards? So many great treats we enjoyed together...

I miss you like crazy. I have songs on my phone I swear you would LOVE and I wish I could share them with you. Instead, I share them with my children and husband and say "my grandma wpd LOVE this."

I wish you could hold my babies. They're so beautiful. You would laugh as you watch them play and your heart would be full. You were right, Gma, I was meant to be a mom. And you were right, God wouldn't keep me from being one. I have three children now, Gma. I just welcomed home a baby girl 8 weeks ago. 

As I said, I miss you. I miss you every single day, but I see this photo of us and I remember that, while you left "too soon" by world standards, I am incredibly blessed by over twenty years a of movies and love that grew from our relationship. I see countless ways you've influenced my life, and I know so much about you. Unfortunately, so many of my cousins and siblings cannot say the same. I'm a very lucky lady, and I hope I can help you live on down here.

Happy birthday, Gma. Dance with Jesus.

Things I need to tell myself...

No creative title today. Today, I bring you a personal list of sorts, of things I need to tell myself. I need a few reminders, or perspective alterations, to help me improve my mothering on a day I'm not really ready to get up out of bed.

---

1.) Spencer loves the mess out of you. 

Sure, he's started this new thing recently where every 17.58941 seconds he asks for a hug, and then asks for a kiss, and then turns around to move and asks for a hug, and often asks for another kiss...

Yeah, approximately half the time it is being used as either a stalling technique (you really do need a diaper, Spenk...) or a way to butter me up instead of being frustrated, but, if he didn't love me, he wouldn't be doing it, because he doesn't just hug everybody he meets.  It may be exhausting at times and keep you from accomplishing much of anything in the three spare minutes you have between feeding three mouths and changing three diapers (unless someone goes again in their new, fresh diaper... again), but he's showing he loves you all day long, and he's excited and loves doing it. You best not forget it!

Someday, he won't want hugs and kisses as much, and maybe not at all, so, cherish them now, mommy.

---

2.) Collin is hilarious.

Yes, the way he is short tempered (probably because he refuses to sleep as much as he should) lately and is perfecting the art of half-hour tantrums is enough to drive a mom to buying noise-canceling headphones and hiding in the garage some days, but at the same time, it also is amusing. 

The way he flops his short little body into the floor (or couch, or yard, or playground sand....) so suddenly looks like it could hurt, but he's so graceful about it, and let's face it- it looks ridiculously funny. He makes you laugh 80% of the day at least, so why not up it to 90% of the day and just be used by his upset over a leaf falling on his head, and move on instead of feeling agitated?

Someday, he will be even worse when he's upset, possibly swearing or throwing things and slamming doors like many teenagers do, and you're going to wish it was as simple as belly flopping into sand.

---

3.) The boys are best friends. 

Sure, they spend 3 hours of nap/quiet-time laughing and yelling the words to "Green Eggs & Ham" instead of laying in their beds sleeping, but they love to be together. Heck, half the time you find them sharing a bed. They may get into mischief together, be loud and wild when you're on the phone, or create a scene as they laugh hysterically at one another doing... nothing but shaking their heads in a restaurant, but they love each other.

Someday, they may not get along at all. That really does happen to brothers in some cases. Smile, breathe, and know they're perfect together.

---

4.) Norah needs you. 

She loves you. She wants to be on your chest all the time, feeling your heartbeat. Sure, it seems like she's hungry every nine minutes and nurses for three hours at a time, but she needs you, and you chose to help her grow and thrive by giving yourself to her. She may have been "unplanned" and an incredible surprise, but you you love her no less and from the moment you saw her, you knew she was a perfect addition to your life.  

Someday, she will not need you so intensely, and you will ache and long for those moments where the only thing that could make the world right were the sounds of your heartbeat and the warmth of your skin (just like you did with her brothers). You will miss the image of her tiny fingers searching for and clutching yours as you continue to give her the gift of sustained life. You will miss the way she looks up at you grins her huge, toothless grin, as she fills her tummy at 2am, 3am, and again at 5am. So hold onto those moments now. You'll be free to be busy enough with everything else way too soon.

---

5.) The house is chaos. 

It's messy and loud here during the day, and kids are crying and laughing and hugging and fighting and jumping and sleeping and everything in between. The dishes aren't completely done and you might not have swept yesterday, who knows. It wi get clean enough to keep you safe and hopefully sane, and the craziness will die down around 10 (or maybe 11:30) tonight, you will have a snack and some milk, and watch a little tv before going to bed and hopefully getting at least a nap before doing it all again. 

Someday, your children will all be gone, living elsewhere and maybe starting families of their own. You will be lonely, missing their laughter and their cries. So take it all in and remember these years fly by too quickly. 

---

Okay, momma. Time to face the day. You got this.

Seventy-Four

On June 19, seventy-four years ago, the world welcomed one of the most beautiful souls that I have ever known.

On this date, Leora Mae was born.

Now, I didn't meet this amazing person until 1983, nearly thirty years ago, that is, and I was only fortunate to have her in my life for 23 years, though that is longer than any of her other 18 grandchildren were able to spend with her. For that, I blessed. 

On days like today, her birthday, I miss her a little bit extra. I think about how I should be calling her or stopping by, but, of course, I cannot do that. I settle for hearing her in my mind, rewinding the countless memories I have collected like they are short films. 

There are tons of big things I miss- her hugs, her laughter, visiting her on an almost daily basis for most of my youth. 

I almost wrote that there are countless tiny things that I miss, also, but caught myself, thinking when you are missing a person from your life, not one thing about that person is a tiny thing.

Leora Mae was my first best friend. She was a confidante and a role model. Sometimes, I think of myself as her sidekick. I feel like we were somewhat inseperable. 

We still are, really. I carry parts of her with me every day. She formed who I am, not only by giving life to my own mother and shaping who my mom is, which then trickles down to my mom shaping who I am, but in direct ways.

Like my love of cooking and baking. I cannot tell you how many cakes I helped my grandma decorate for people who purchased them from her.

Or there's my interest in crocheting, which she taught me. I honestly was only ever taught the single and double stitch, but I have absolutely no interest in knowing more than that, because that's what she taught me.

There is also my love for "older" country music- by older I mean from the 1990s mostly, but even older than that also. Every single time I listen to "Tennessee Flat Top Box" for example, I hear her singing with me as she tapped her foot along to the beat.

I could go on for hours about the things we did, places we went, and memories I have, but I will save them for another day, another time (perhaps for my sisters who didn't know her as well, or my sons she never got to meet).

For now, I think I'm going to walk down the stairs (I've been snuggling with Spencer) and see her smiling face next to mine, hanging on the wall so I can see it multiple times a day, say a little thank you prayer to God, and imagine her laughing, and singing, and dancing with her Jesus.

Happy Birthday, Gma!

Dear Sprout,

Dear Sprout,

Today was the day that your father, your brother, and I were "due" to meet you, see your face, hold you in our arms. April 18, 2012 was the predicted date that you'd enter this world.

I can barely wrap my mind around the fact that it's been 32 weeks since your heart stopped beating. It's been 31 weeks since we found out you were gone. It sounds so recent, and somehow, it seems like forever ago. I sit here, tears falling softly down my face, as I remember how beautiful my life was with you in it, and how devastated I was when you left.

Somehow, though, I feel strong. I wonder how long that strength will last.

My goal for today, while I celebrate your Auntie Allie's 13th birthday, while also observing the life you barely began to live is simply to smile. I hope to fight back tears and carry on with the day. I want to embrace the joy you brought us, as I embrace your father and also your brother. We have gotten through the loss so far, and I know that we can continue onward.

While I am sad that your'e gone, I know you're in a better place. I know that you never suffered the cruelty that this world can bring upon a person. You lived, so briefly, in a serene, calm place, and then ever so quietly went to meet our Maker.

I know that He has held you in his arms, even though I was unable to hold you in my own.

I know that there's a purpose in all of this- in your short life inside of me and the eternal life you began living, what I deem to be "too soon," and while I often sit and wonder what it is, I have decided to let it go. Someday, I will know. Until then, I will just embrace the fact that you happened to me- to us, and that it was a perfect and beautiful gift.

In a way, I suppose I should thank you, too, for giving your father and I the chance to become parents once more- for giving Spencer the opportunity to be a big brother to your little brother or sister, who we currently call Bo. It breaks my heart that there is no way that the two of you could exist in this household, on this earth, living this life together, but again, I know that someday, we all will be reunited as a family. I know I will live my earthly life imagining, from time to time, the day that the reunion comes true.

Baby, sweet baby, I miss you. I love you. I thank you for giving us the opportunity to know you exist and to love you forever. I carry you with me always.

Someday, Sprout, I will hold you.

Love, Your Mommy

five years ago, she left us.

I wrote this journal entry on a website I used as a teenager. The journal is private now so I couldn't link the original, so I copy and will paste it, here.



Sip #574 : Worst week of my life. I miss her so much.


02/09/07 4:39 am

Sorry for my absence, I hope you all understand.

This past week has been the hardest, longest week of my life, I believe.

Last Tuesday, I was attending a meeting/training session for the tax clinic. Afterward, I returned to my desk, and the receptionist came with a note. "Nicole, call ###-#### ASAP." It was my dad's number. My heart sank. I had a feeling I knew what was happening.

I couldn't call long distance on my desk phone, so my boss gave me her cell phone. I called. And I was right.

"Gramma isn't going to make it."

As soon as I got off the phone with my dad, I called Jake's partner. I couldn't get ahold of Jake on my own, and he didn't answer, so I left a message half in tears, saying, "Rick, it's Nicole. I can't get ahold of Jake, so if you can find a way to, or find someone who can, tell him my Grandma isn't going to make it, and I have to go to her."

I told my supervisor what was happening and gave her her phone back. She took the Crisis phone that I was supposed to have for the week and said "I'll take care of this." I ran out the door to my car.

I couldn't even stop home to feed Wendell, so I stopped at Matt's and gave him my keys, I said, "she's dying, feed Wendell, ok?" and he said he would.

The drive to the hospital, 45 minutes, was an eternity. I almost had to stop numerous times because I was breaking down.

And I didn't know how to get ahold of Jake. It was so hard to think about having to go through this all without him.

When I got there, I couldn't even go into her room. About 9 of my family were already there, and she had tubes hooked up to her, and she wasn't awake anyway. I looked in and saw her, and broke down and ran away from the room. My dad followed me. I found a small waiting area and just sat there sobbing while he held me. Then he told me I needed to eat (typical dad thing, right?) so he took me and all of my cousins out for supper.

When we got back from supper, I saw the Schwan's truck parked outside of the hospital. I came in, and he was standing there with his arms wide open, and I sobbed for so long.

She woke up for a little while, and mumbled softly, though it was so hard to understand. We decided that she was asking for "big sloppy kisses." She was only awake for a very short while. That was the last time she'd be awake. I went in the room though, but I needed to be alone.

I kissed her cheek, and I said, "You've always been my best friend. You saved me." Her eyes fluttered. I KNOW she heard me and tried to respond. But I know what she would have said anyway.

My siblings and I sat there for a while, Bryan, Sammi, Allie, and I, sobbing. I held Bryan for a long time. It was so hard to be there, especially without Dustin. That broke my heart.

Jake, my dad, my aunt Linda, and I were the last ones in the room that night. Linda stayed overnight. But I sat there and sobbed for so long, just Linda and I in the room.

When I was leaving, I said, "I'll see you later, G-ma. Sweet dreams, ok?"

When I would spend the night at her house, she always let me sleep on the right side of her huge bed. I was her special one. I really was. She wasn't supposed to have favorites, but I was hers. I think because I spent so much of my life under her wings. I feel like everyone knew it. Sometimes, I feel bad feeling that way. Especially if it was all in my head.

Jake made me spend the night with him in Morton (a few miles away) at the hotel. Tuesdays are his overnight, and he wasn't supposed to be coming home. So I did. I didn't sleep at all.











On Wednesday, we got to the hospital around 8:45am. My uncle had finally arrived from Texas, where he's been working for months. My aunt Sara and her daughters were on their way from the cities. Their flight from Seattle came in at 6am.




Wednesday was the longest day of my life. We watched her slowly fade away. She didn't wake up once that day. Every hour they'd come and take her blood sugar and her blood pressure. Her pressure went from 70s/40s to 50s/20s to 40s/10s, to unmeasurable. The last time they checked her blood sugar, it was at 34. We asked them not to take it anymore, and to take the needles out.

At that moment, we knew she'd never have to deal with needles again.

The pastor arrived at 3:00pm, and did a prayer service with us all. By this time, her 6 children, 5 children-in laws, 15 of her 17 living grandchildren, 1 grandson in-law, 4 significant others, and 3 of her 4 great-grandchildren were at the hospital. Her sister and brother-in-law were there too. Her room was filled. And there were 10 chairs in the hallway outside her room where those not in the room could sit. We couldn't all fit.

Her sister left in the afternoon. She said, "I'll see you tomorrow, sister. I love you."

Just after 1:00 in the morning, on Thursday, February 1, my grandmother left us.

When Jake and I got home that night, Wendell had destroyed the place, but Matt had cleaned it up for us.

I sobbed harder than I had ever sobbed in my life. I couldn't breathe. I just kept thinking, "I'm only 23. I have so many years without her." I realized I'd never get another letter, another phone call, another hug or kiss, and she'd never say 'I love you, Nikkie.' again. And it hurt more than any broken bone I've ever had. My heart hurt. Literally.

I barely slept, but Jake held me all night.







Thursday we went to Lamberton to my dad's. My grandma raised her children in the house my parents have been raising my family in since 1994. It only felt right to be there. We planned her funeral. The day was a big blur. I spent the night there, sleeping in my dad's bed with Allie. She didn't fully understand what was going on.






I don't much remember Friday, but Allison didn't want me to cry anymore, so she decided she needed to spend the night with me. Jake had to go to work to make up the two days he took off, and had an overnight, so I decided it was a good idea. She's one person who can help me feel better in almost any circumstance. So she spent the night, two nights, and we took her home Sunday.







On Monday, I went back to Lamberton, and we went through Grandma's things. I didn't need anything. I didn't really want anything, but her daughers and son decided that I would be the one to receive my grandmother's engagement ring. I was the firstborn grandchild. My cousin Tarah, the next oldest daughter, second engaged, received her wedding band. Her accordian went to Jacob.

They sent an afghan with for him, too, and a baby one for my future children. She made gorgeous afghans.

The one he received was always at the head of her bed. It still smells like her, faintly. I've been sleeping with it every night. It's starting to lose her scent, and it kills me to know that soon it'll be gone.

Monday was also my six month wedding anniversary.







Yesterday, Tuesday, was her funeral. It was so hard. I couldn't look in her casket at first. I just couldn't. I didn't want to see her not breathing. The last I had seen her, was two weeks prior, with my aunt Sara (read the last January entry, I think it's there) and she was still my Gma, laughing, telling jokes, stories, full of life and love. This wasn't her anymore. It hadn't been for a week. Eventually I looked, with my brother Bryan and Jake at my side. I held their hands and consoled Bryan. He was taking it so hard.

15 minutes before the funeral service, the pastor had a family time with us, once more. As he was wrapping up, Dustin, my brother in jail, walked in. I knew then that I could cry. I ran to him, in the middle of the pastor's message to us, and hugged him, and he bawled harder than he ever had before.

The funeral service was a bit of a blur. Her family took up the first 8 pews in the church. I remember in the message, the pastor, who was crying (he loved her too), made a reference to the Wednesday before she died. He had walked into the hospital and saw us flooding the corridor, and knew how much she was loved, and how much she loved all of us. She waited until we had all said our goodbyes to go. That's how she was. Always.




We buried her outside of Walnut Grove, next to her former husband (they never stopped loving each other, but he suffered from Schizophrenia, so they couldnt' stay together), so she wouldn't be alone. We knew she'd like that.


She was buried under a fresh coat of snow. She loved the snow.

I could barely leave. I had to be escorted away from her with my uncle, my husband, and my dad. I didn't want to leave her. The thought of leaving her there in that casket, in the ground, was SO final, and I didn't want her to be alone. I always hated leaving her. This was the worst. She couldn't even give me a hug goodbye.

The rest of the day was a blur. We went back to my dad's and spent the day. We laughed, we cried.




Jake and I came home, and he held me as I cuddled with that blanket and sobbed my heart out. It still hurts so much. It's too final. It's going to be too long.






I'm not doing well. I went to my internship, and don't remember the day at all. But I'm still breathing, and I'm trying.






Her favorite color was green. There were so many green plants from people who couldn't come gracing the church. It was amazing to see green.


And I'm sorry that was so long. If you read it all, her name was Leora Mae. Include that somewhere, so I know that you took the time to read it. It would really mean a lot to me.

I'm not Betty Crocker. I'm the Cake Lady's granddaughter.

The other day, I was telling Jake that I wanted to bake, and I have been having that urge pretty frequently lately. I've been making a lot of soups and such in our crock pot, and not baked much, but I've really had a strong urge to. So, on Saturday, I finally did.

I made soup and some delicious White Chocolate Cranberry Blondies with Almonds.

Generally, I'd say my cooking and baking skills are pretty decent. They're not superb, I'm certain, but on 98% of the time, what I make is edible, and at least somewhat enjoyable. And, for the most part, I've always loved working in the kitchen.

I blame my Grandma. But, I blame her in a great way, of course. As in, I appreciate what she instilled in me oh-so-many years ago. I used to help her bake cakes, cookies, bars, etc. I helped her create suppers and dinners, and even breakfasts. I loved working in the kitchen with her. I thought (and still do) she was the most amazing cook. In a way, I think I idolized her on some levels.

Since my grandma passed in 2007, I haven't been in the mood to bake or cook nearly as frequently. I don't know that it really has anything to do with her death, or more so the fact that on most days and nights, I'm home alone, and it's just not as fun for me to cook or bake for myself. So, I don't do it often.

But, as I mentioned, lately, it's such a strong desire.

I think I miss her more than I let myself believe. Her picture with me from our wedding day overlooks our couch, so I see her daily, but I guess I haven't let myself really miss her and revisit our memories much in a while.

I had a great time creating the bars I mentioned (and linked) above. I love watching all of the ingredients come together before my eyes. I love the smell of things in the oven. I love how when you put a bake-able in the oven, it comes out a different consistency, texture, and even size, sometimes.

I don't love waiting for things to cool so I can sample them. I deal.

When I was done with my creation, and it was cool, and I had it frosted and beautiful, I took a sample, and fell in love with it. I was so excited that I posted it on my blog right away and on Facebook, and text my mom to tell her how good they were.

My mom, my aunt (her sister), and my uncle showed up not long after, and they sampled them too (well, my mom did a while later), and they LOVED them. Jake loved them. My aunt and uncle each had seconds because they loved them so much. And Kat (my aunt), text me on the way home to tell me how much they loved them. And she posted on Facebook, more than once, how amazing and delicious they were.

I'd say they were a hit.

I won't lie, I love hearing that my creations are tasty. But for some reason, when my mom and my aunt and my uncle and my husband were telling me how great these bars were, I was really filled with a sense of pride. Why? I didn't create the recipe or anything. I just followed the instructions, and served.

But, still, I was filled with pride.

I sat and mulled it over for a bit, and I realized why I felt that way.

I felt like their compliments, especially my mom and my aunt, meant more than compliments usually do.

Because they shared my grandma's baked goods too. They grew up with them, too. They enjoyed them for years.

And, I felt that, somewhere deep down, they were probably thinking and reflecting on my grandmother's baked goods.

To me, it felt like they were, in an unspoken and maybe unconscious way, comparing me to the "master" of the kitchen, Grandma Leora. They were saying that I did a great job. And through them, I felt like Gma was telling me "good girl. Great work!"

I might be imagining it, but that's how I felt.

And it felt good.

Ever since Saturday, I've been thinking about those compliments, and my grandma, a lot more than usual. I just can't get her, the memories, and the joy of baking out of my mind.

Goodbye, Sprout.

This is one blog post I had never imagined having to make. I knew there was always the possibility that this situation would occur, but of course, I had hoped and prayed it would be avoidable.

Alas, what do I really know?

Seeing as how the Oxycodone I took two and a half hours ago did not make me fall asleep like I was told it probably would, and I cannot turn off my mind, I decided maybe I would share what was on it, and hope to find some peace... or at least wear myself out enough to fall asleep. Heck, at this point, I'd give for falling asleep in our computer chair....

On Monday evening, I started spotting. It was light, and when I called the doctor the next morning, they said it was normal and okay. So, I tried not to think about it.

Tuesday afternoon, though, it became suddenly heavy, and I started with light cramping. I called the doctor back on the way home from work, and she was more concerned. I was told to go home, rest, put my feet up, and do as little as possible. If it got worse, go to the ER.

Well, it got gradually a little worse, but come bedtime, it was starting to get better. Jake and I had been enlisting prayers all night, and I thought that perhaps, they were working.

Right before our scheduled ultrasound appointment on Wednesday morning, the spotting started returning again. I looked out the bathroom door at Jake, and simply said, "It's back." Right then, in the pit of my stomach, I felt like I knew what it meant, but I tried to remain positive, anyway.

One of the worst moments of my life came at about 10:40 on Wednesday morning. As soon as the ultrasound images showed up on the television screen, I knew. Before the ultrasound technician said anything about it, or even "looked" at Sprout, I knew. There was no movement at all. There was no pulsating little heartbeat. Just stillness.

And Jake knew it too, I think.

After she looked around at other things, she zoomed in. After a few moments, she uttered, "I'm sorry guys." Tears flowed freely from my eyes. I was right. Sprout was gone.

She asked if we wanted a printout of the image, and I said yes. Now, I have no idea why I did. I can still, very clearly, see the most haunting image in my mind. It's burned there. I don't need or want a photo of it to commemorate that saddest moment.

We cried in the room for a while before moving to the next, where they explained that at about 7 weeks, 6 days, Sprout's heart stopped beating and he/she stopped growing. There was nothing they could have done to prevent it, and it was most likely because there was something "wrong" with the fetus, chromosomes and the like. It was nature's way of protecting us and the baby, basically.

They explained options, and sent us on our way. I bawled all the way to my chiropractic appointment, and then somehow made it through, but on the way home, I broke down again. I laid in the bed, sobbing. Our baby died. The heart stopped beating. I thought I was going to throw up all over myself.

Then, I realized I was lying there with our dead child inside of me. They told me they wanted me to try to "pass it on my own" over the next week, but if I hadn't, they'd do the D&C surgery to remove the tissues. I decided, after talking with Jake, that I didn't know if I could go a week with the constant reminder of what was going on, and then maybe still carrying around our child, no longer living or growing, inside of me. And what if I didn't pass the tissues and have to have the surgery in a week anyway?

Emotionally, I just didn't think I could handle it. So, we called, and scheduled the D&C surgery.

I spent the majority of the day on Wednesday crying uncontrollably. I kept apologizing to Jake. I KNOW it's not my fault, and I was not in any way blaming myself (though, sometimes I feel it would be easier if it were my fault and I had someone to blame), but I was apologizing because I was genuinely sorry for him that his child was no longer growing inside of me, either. Sprout was not just my baby, after all.

I did have a few moments of happiness, of course, where I was not sobbing. Undoubtedly the best part of my day was when I was sitting in the chair by the window, crying so hard, and Spencer was on my lap eating a snack. He peeked his head around to face me, smiled, and shoved a puff snack straight into my mouth, then laughed. I couldn't help but laugh. And then, he kept doing it. It was the first time he willingly shared and allowed me to keep something without taking it back to be funny. It was the sweetest moment.

By the end of the night, I was terrified for today to come. I knew that Wednesday was hard, perhaps the hardest day of my life to date, but the next day was to be the procedure that really finalized our loss.

And to make matters worse, while at first, Jake thought he could/would be there for the procedure, by the end of the night, that wasn't the case. He couldn't switch his route days, and he didn't think he could wait until the middle of the afternoon to get going. So, we settled for him being there until I went in for the procedure.

I hugged him goodnight, and cried some more, letting him know how sorry I was that he lost a child. I couldn't stop crying, I didn't know how. Thankfully, he held me in bed so I was not alone.

This morning, I had a hard time getting out of bed. I prayed it could still be night. I didn't want to wake up, because I knew that in waking up, the nightmare would still be my living reality and there was really no escaping it. To make matters worse, I knew that I would be going through the procedure alone.

Not totally alone, of course. I had God with me. And my mother-in-law, Angela, was also there, as Jake asked her to come to be my support. And while I appreciate it greatly, of course, it wasn't the same as having my husband with me.

Angela and I left for the hospital, as I fought back feelings of being abandoned and alone, and Jake took Spencer to stay with some dear friends, because post surgery, I would not be able to care for him.

The ultrasound I had this morning to confirm wasn't as hard as I thought it would be, initially. But, tonight, I can see it again in my mind. I laid there, eyes transfixed on the screen, seeing the image of Sprout, even more lifeless looking than the day before. And no one was there to hold my hand. Following, the doctors and nurses went through the procedures with me, then I went to the lab for a blood draw, and then it was off to surgery.

Around noon, they took me through the freezing cold hallways into the even colder operating room, where, after a few agonizing and terrifying minutes, they finally put me to sleep.

The worst part of my day was what happened next. I woke up, cold, in pain, and alone, in a sterile, noisy, hospital recovery room with a bunch of medical personnel I did not know. I couldnt' even ask for my husband, because he was not there. I was there. No Jake. No Spencer. No Sprout. I began crying somewhat hysterically as the situation hit me. The nurse gave me oxygen and wiped away my tears as I tried to deal with the fact that indeed, I was no longer pregnant, and Sprout had gone to meet our Maker, instead of waiting to meet us in April of next year.

I don't know that I'd ever felt so lonely. It was truly overwhelming.

When I finally calmed down, they had me recover before meeting Angela back in my personal recovery room.

Seeing her helped me regain my calm. I was able to talk, to smile, to laugh again. We talked about our loss and the heartbreak, but we talked about the good things too. She reassured me that it wasn't my fault, and that these things, as sad as they are, happen.

When I was finally released, we came home, to find the door was locked. I had forgotten my key, so we ended up having to drive to meet Jake to get his. The car ride was a challenge. I felt very sick to my stomach and was fighting back emotions that I just did not want to deal with at the time. Angela was very helpful company then, too.

It wasn't until after she left for home that it started to hit me. I had been relatively numb for the majority of the day. But, I sat down on the couch, next to Wendell, and looked at the toys across the room. Spencer wasn't here, and he wouldn't be having a little brother or sister any time in the next 7 months, after all. I cried.

To cope, I went online and chatted with our friend who he is staying with, so I could hear how he was doing. That helped subside the tears a while. It was a nice break.

At 9pm I took the Oxycodone that they said would most likely make me dizzy and drowsy, and I went to lay in bed. I called Jake. He didn't answer. I waited and called again. No answer. Eventually, he called me back, but it's his busiest night on the route, so he didn't really have time to talk.

Needless to say, I felt abandoned and lonely again. I know, of course, that wasn't his intention, but with the huge loss of the day, the terrifying procedure, and all of the emotions I have been trying to deal with, I just felt... dejected.

I sobbed even harder than I had since finding out about our loss. I tried to call my dad a few times, to no avail.

I know that sometimes, it's easier for some people to cope or to deal by removing or distancing themselves from a situation. Unfortunately, it's really hard for someone who needs the person closest to them to be with them to deal with their own emotions. It's a huge conflict, really.

I can't sleep. When I close my eyes, I see the haunting image of Sprout's lifeless body on the screen. When I open my eyes, my husband and my son are gone. It's just me. When I wake up tomorrow morning, it'll be just me.

I just hope it's not just me for long. I don't know how to handle that.

I will admit though, that the countless prayers, the condolences, the kind words and sweet messages, on Facebook, in my email, and on my phone, truly are immeasurable in worth. I cherish every single one of them, even if I haven't the words or the energy to respond right away. I have never had to deal with something like this, and I'm just living moment by moment as I go along.

I know that it's not the same as losing a child you've given birth to, held in your arms, and watched grow. But, we loved Sprout from the very moment we knew of his or her existence. We were already planning for the future, shaping hopes and dreams. Sprout was definitely a part of us, and a part of our family. And while we did not get to hold Sprout in our arms, he or she definitely took up strong residence in our hearts. In that way, we very much lost our child.

And, I can't say that it'd be easier or harder to go through a miscarriage after struggling with infertility and the invasive and ruthless battle that it takes to conceive a child. I wouldn't know. I have been trying not to think about it. But, when it does cross my mind, I do feel like it is a double heartbreak for me. The rounds of assistance where you get a negative result are harder than I can describe. But then to have that positive result taken away from you... I just don't know how to deal.

I wish it made it "so much easier" to know that I'm not alone in this, and that many of the women I know have miscarried a child also. But, it doesn't. Well, it does, but it also breaks my heart. No one should ever have to lose a child, before or after they are born. It's a heartbreak I never would wish upon anyone.

I wish I knew a way to find closure in all of this. There's no funeral for a child lost before birth, really. It feels absolutely surreal at times. Did this all really happen? Surely it did, as I have the physical evidence and hospital discharge paper to prove it.

But don't worry. I am not angry with God. I refuse to lose my faith. God's what will really pull us through this. God, and the support we find in each other and in our friends and family. And of course, this doesn't mean that I do not appreciate the miracle child that I already have. Of course I do. I may even love him more now.

I am sorry that this was so long and disjointed. But, if you've read all the way through, I thank you, sincerely, from the bottom of my broken heart.