He was my dream come true.

 On August 15, 2006, the sweetest little pup was born alongside a handful of siblings. A few weeks later, I met him, and called him my very own. 

When I was a younger girl, I dreamt of one day having a beagle of my own. I knew that if and when that day would come, I would name him Wendell. 

Wendell Rupert was a belated wedding (he was born ten days after my marriage began) and early birthday gift (he came home shortly before my birthday that year. From the moment I saw him alongside his momma, he had my heart. 

I remember the night I drove him home, as he snuggled up in a blanket, crying softly on occasion, but otherwise sleepy and content. When he came home to our apartment, he was less than thrilled with kennel life, but adjusted nonetheless. 

It wasn't long before Wendell started blessing me with memories. He ate a phone book, and chewed off and ate the corner of my "Complete Works of Shakespeare" one day. 

Another night, when he was still a puppy, I had set a pizza on the counter in the kitchen to cool. Somehow, this little puppy made his way onto the counter and ate half of it.  We learned quickly that Wendell had a vertical jump like none other, and by the time he was full grown, he could reach a treat approximately six feet in the air.  I'm his later years, he once jumped on the kitchen counter while I was at work, opened the cupboard doors, chewed open a bag of sugar, are a bunch of it and spilled the rest. Then, while I was still working, the sugar made him sick, and I came home to regurgitated sugar "pancakes" all over the floor.

Wendell, like many dogs, loved the snow. He would run through snow that was higher than he was and never seemed to grow tired of it. 

He also loved cuddles. His favorite place was in the bend behind my knees if I was laying on my side. He would read his head over my legs and snore away soundly. We spent countless hours like that, and he kept me the most dear company on nights when my former husband was away for work. 

He loved riding in the car, specifically the back window. I always wondered why he preferred that spot. I wonder if it's because he could see so much more from up there.  Occasionally, I would brake, and he would roll down into the seat, come say hello with his tail wagging excitedly, and then hop right back into the window. 

He, as a beagle generally is, was a bit mischievous and also so very smart. He knew the difference between right and left and would high five the correct hand that you would call out. He would sit and shake, jump and even crawl. He would try to fake us out and turn his head really fast when we asked him to roll over, but he couldn't fool us, and eventually would give in and do the trick  He couldn't make up his mind whether he wanted to be inside or outside some days, and I would have to go back and forth and back again trying to help him decide.  One time, I had him hooked up outside in the backyard a while, and then realized he had gotten free. A while later, I received a phone call from someone across town who had found him. "He obeyed the traffic laws and waited to cross the street until it was clear! He even used the cross walk!" The gentleman on the other end of the line, who was keeping him safe in his truck at the hardware store, explained as he called the number on Wendell's tag. 

Wendell was my constant companion, and after a while, we brought home a girl before, Vivian, that we rescued from someone who had not cared for her well. She was super skittish for a long, long time, but Wendell loved her, as did we. Before our children entered our lives, Wendell and Vivian had become parents two separate times. Wendell did good with all of his busy kids, just like he always did with human children in his life when he lived with me.  He really just loved everyone he met. He loved our kitten that lived on the farm with us, too!

Unfortunately, Vivian needed more freedom than we could give her after she had her babies, so she found another family that could provide that for her, and we let her go on and love them. It was one of the hardest decisions I had to make. 

Wendell stayed by my side though. He continued to love me fiercely and well through my first pregnancy. In fact, he loved me so much, he once peed on my leg to mark his territory when we were with a group of family and other dogs. It was so gross, but equally hilarious. 

Wendell was there when we brought home our first son, and loved him instantly. He spent many hours curled up beside the baby, especially if the baby wasn't feeling well. He wouldn't leave his side. As our son grew, they became playmates and partners in mischief. Our son would laugh hysterically as he would hold a piece of his food in his high chair and Wendell would jump up and get it, or he would feed Wendell dog food, piece by piece, and giggle like crazy.  They were best friends. 

My heart broke when we couldn't bring him with us, after having him at my side for six years, as we moved into a larger rental to prepare for the arrival of our second baby. I tried everything I could to find a place that would allow him to come with us. I was eternally grateful that my dad was able to foster Wendell for a while, and I could continue to love having him a part of my family. When my dad also needed to move, a friend of my cousin brought Wendell and his daughter home, and she was able to foster him a while. I was so fortunate to be able to see him still while he lived with them. Because of this friend, my youngest baby, my daughter, was also able to meet Wendell in her lifetime. 

My heart continued to break when life took another turn and the friend could no longer keep Wendell in her home, and without other options, he was surrendered to the humane society. 

My heart began to mend when I learned that a family in the area had found him and brought him home. That would be his final home, where he spent his final seven years. The most wonderful part about his new home, the haven he was blessed with, was that they shared photos and stories of his later years online, so even though I had to let him go, I was still able to see him.  I have been grateful for this family every day since they brought him home. 

One of my life's biggest regrets, although not entirely in my control, was that I was never able to have him come back home to me. It was always my hope and my goal to bring him back home. My own world was falling apart before he was in the humane society, and struggling as a single mom to three kiddos at the time and trying to provide for us just proved to be a little too much and kept me from fulfilling that dream. I have spent countless days and nights crying out in sorrow knowing I failed to see that dream through, still able to feel his presence behind my knees while I laid awake in bed at night. I've spent hours wondering if I broke his heart as much as I broke my own, and wondering if he missed me as much as I missed him. The guilt and remorse was in unbearable for quite some time. 

I have loved Wendell every day since he was born, even when he wasn't at my side. 

The portion of my heart that held him closest shattered this morning when I read that his time on earth had come to and end. He lived a long and beautiful life at nearly sixteen years old. I hadn't been able to hold him in my arms for years, but I have carried him with me always.  I find comfort knowing he lived a long life and provided me with countless memories, but I know I will still shed a few more tears in his honor. 

Rest in Peace, Wendell Rupert. You were my dream come true. 

I know it's time...

Tonight, my slightly dramatic Momma heart is aching.  Tonight, I sit in quiet living room, my mind whirling as I prepare for bed, exhausted and tired, but not quite wanting to go to sleep.  I would like to postpone the hours of the day just a little big longer in hopes to prevent tomorrow from coming too soon.

Tomorrow is another milestone in our little family.  Tomorrow is the end of a chapter in our lives, one that's been almost five years in the making, that's somehow arrived at a close way too soon.

Tomorrow is my little girl's last day of full-time daycare before she goes off to elementary school.

It's funny to me that I'm so emotional about this.  Both of her older brothers have come and gone from the daycare rooms already.  Her oldest brother has been gone for almost as many years as she has been there.  I don't know if it's harder just because she's the youngest, or more likely, harder because she's been there longest.

Daycare has been a huge part of my life story with this beautiful girl.  

Her first day of daycare

She, the boys, and I all started daycare together on December 8, 2014.  She was 8 months old, and the other two were a toddler and a preschooler.  We ended up at our daycare by a sheer act of God, where I was able to be employed and there was room for all three of them to be there with me in the building while I worked.   It was a huge blessing in a very dark and chaotic time in our lives.  

Nearly every single day since, Norah and I have gone to daycare together.  The boys were with us too, for a while, but they both eventually left us behind, and the last two years, it was just the two of us.  My baby girl has spent the majority of her life at this daycare, with many of the same staff throughout the years, and a lot of the same children growing up alongside her.  It's been a huge constant in our lives.  It's so familiar.  She radiates joy throughout the halls, and I love bringing her with me every day to stop in and say hello to her "best friend," a momma-like figure in her life, her first daycare teacher, and my dear friend.  Every day she comes in for a hug, gets the lowdown on the lunch for the day, and bounces out the door calling out "I love you!" before we make our way to her classroom.

Tomorrow is the last day for that daily tradition (except for school breaks, which seem so far away right now).  Soon, I'll just be coming through that door all alone.  As I write this, it seems like an echoing memory that hasn't even had a chance to actually develop yet.

I've loved the security of having a job and also knowing my babies were safe within the same walls with people I've trusted and known were loving them all day.  It's been so hard to let each of the boys go.  This one just feels a little harder.  My dramatic side already worries that the halls will seem a little colder and the days a little lonelier knowing that all of my children will be down the street for most of their days from here on out.

Yet, I know it's time.

It's time to let go.

It's time to see her grow.

A few weekends ago at church, we were asked to take a moment to listen and hear what we thought God was wanting to tell us, and write it down.

The only thing I heard was, "You are raising light."

It made sense.  "We are the lights" is a lyric to one of our favorite songs (by Cade Thompson), our wi-fi network is "Be a light," and I get "light" songs stuck in my head frequently.  But this was a little different, which I didn't really grasp until tonight as I kissed them all to sleep and left the room.

Photo Credit: Seize the Day Photography and Video

I am raising light.  I have been doing the best I can to raise them to be bright, positive influences on the world, before I let them all go out on their own.  The boys have already entered the school.  Now, she will.  Now it's her turn to bring light, sunshine, joy, and love to the world outside the walls who already know her for those exact reasons.  She's ready to join her big brothers, and I pray that together, they're able to spread joy, love, laughter, kindness, and Jesus to those around them in their personalities, words, and actions.

I know it's time...

Even if I don't want to let her go.

A Life in few Words

Along with countless others I know, and probably even more people that I don't know, this week engulfed my heart in sorrow and challenged my emotions like no week has in recent past.

The world lost an incredible man.  I've known for years just how incredible this man was.  He had been around my entire memorable life.  I was in his wedding as a toddler, when he joined as one with my dear aunt.

I've known.

Or at least, I thought I knew.

But it turns out, it takes someone being gone forever to realize that what you know isn't all there is to know.  What you know is only the surface, and the depths of what you don't know reach further than you'll ever begin to uncover.

It's overwhelming, really.

As family and friends gathered today to bid our earthly farewell to this incredible man, I realized just how small our words are when it comes to the life of an individual.

Obituaries and eulogies are beautiful, significant, and often poetic, but they too just scratch the surface.

On my return home, I began to dwell on this fact.  It seemed to me, in a way, that obituaries trivialize and marginalize a person's entire existence into a few key facts that are out there for others, so they can get the highlights, if you will, of someone who many held dearly.

They're important.

They're inadequate.

Listening to people talk about my uncle, Gregg Edward DeSmith, born June 12, 1964, to his parents, Dorothy and Edward, who passed away on Saturday, September 9, 2017, it became all to clear to me that the man I knew and loved for my entire life was even more incredible than my small mind could comprehend.   Gregg, the devoted husband of Linda, and beloved father to Sasha (and Kyle), Carissa, who left this earth at age 2, and Hannah (and Dylan), wonderful grandfather to Kalesia, Elijah, and Miles, dear brother to many, uncle to even more, and friend to countless others, was a man of Jesus.  It was evident today, as I heard about his life and saw numerous people whose lives he touched.

It overwhelmed me, as I longed to be able to tell him that I admired that in him.

He and I spoke occasionally on aspects of God.  I never really pressed in, knowing he believed in God and was raised in a Catholic church, the one in which he was baptized, married, and said goodbye to today in the Mass of Christian Burial.  He knew more about my faith journey than I did his, and today, I felt selfish for not knowing more about what he believed to be true.

But, at the same time, I could see in the way he lived.

Gregg had a servant's heart.  He spent countless hours with those in need, in both small and large ways.  He devoted time, energy, love, and so much more to those around him.  He did so with a willing heart. He did so, expecting nothing in return, and often wouldn't accept anything in return.  It wasn't all that long ago that he saved me in a small way, where my van window wouldn't go all the way up, and it was about to rain for my two hour drive home.  He was on it in a flash and had a temporary solution that still enabled me to see, and I made it home safe and dry, so relieved and thankful for the small gift he was delighted to give me.

He went out of his way to take you aside and tell you that he was proud of you.  No matter what you had done, no matter where you had come from, no matter where you were going, or what you had been through, he saw you as you were, a human, full of giving and receiving love, and he let it be known that you were worthy.  He built you up in spirit and mind.  I cannot personally recall an instance I heard him tear someone down.

He loved and served the least of these, just like Jesus did.

His love for his family was unconditional and overwhelming.  He stood faithfully at my aunt's side for 32 glorious years that were no stranger to stress and sorrow, trials and tribulations, but also great joy and blessing.  They were one.  You could see it and you could feel it when you were with them.

Gregg loved spending time with people.  He had a jolly laugh and a great wit.  He wore a smile often.  He loved to tell a joke and hear the laughter of others as well.   Some of my best memories of him were at his farm, where my large family would gather for days on end.  He would go all out to ensure each gathering was phenomenal.  He had such great humble pride in welcoming us all and allowing us to create everlasting, joyful memories.

He was a delightful mix of manly man and teddy bear, who loved fixing things, classic cars (both real and miniature), go carts and his Harley.  He collected countless unique and older things and loved to share them with people around him.  He loved the outdoors and having a great time with family and friends.

He was adored by so many.  Children and adults alike could call him a friend.  My oldest son, who is not quite seven, sobbed this weekend, as he realized just how great a buddy Gregg was to him, and how devastating it was to know that they would not be making memories together anymore.   He told me about how Gregg helped him to be brave, and how cool it was when he finally rode go cart for the first time, and how Gregg told him he was a little man now. Gregg knew when to encourage my kids and when to be silly, and each of the three of them loved him deeply for that reason.

He was a great buddy to most everyone he met, I feel.  I heard so many claim that over the past two days.

He is going to be missed daily, wholly, intensely, by countless people who knew and loved him, who he loved in return.  Knowing that his all-encompassing bear hugs will never be given again leaves my shoulders feeling vulnerable and cold.  I know I'll receive hugs for the rest of my life, but not one will be quite like his.

Gregg loved the phrase "No Regrets." I smiled as I heard that, because long ago, I had coined that phrase for myself.  I didn't live it like he did though, as I sit here tonight, regretting that I hadn't told him one more time that I loved him, thanked him for all he did for us, and for the endless encouragement and support he never ceased to provide for me and my children.  I regret not taking more photos of him with the people he loved and not having photographic proof of the hardest working hands I remember seeing.  Even with life gone from his body, when you saw him this week, you saw the proof that he worked endlessly to provide for his family and his friends, the stain left behind on his fingerprints as a reminder of how much he gave of himself.

I know with all of my heart that he is with our Jesus now, and my children have reminded me multiple times, through tear-riddled eyes, that his soul is in heaven.  I stand firm in my faith and thankful for everlasting life and salvation through Christ, but at the same time, my human heart and limited mind is having a most difficult time envisioning our lives without him.  I see the farm, and it feels emptier knowing he will never be pulling down the driveway in one of his vehicles, never racing around on a go-kart or hauling with a tractor.  He won't be building or bringing new and exciting fun to us all, or helping the children feed the birds.  His spirit will never leave, but his body and his voice will never be with us as we sit in the summer sun.  That realization takes the wind out of my lungs for a moment and burns my eyes with tears.  I know I'm not alone in this space, missing him so much already, being devastated for us left behind, and overjoyed for he who will never again know sadness.

His body is gone, but his light can shine on.  I hope that his loss will encourage others to live a life like his, showing Jesus inside us to others.

I sit here, exhausted and weary, writing away, knowing that although my words are more in number than an obituary or even some eulogies, they do not suffice.  They will also never begin to scratch the surface of the life that Gregg lived. 

No words really will.

The silence resumes.

I wish I wasn't writing this.  I contemplated not writing this.  But, I felt like not writing it was harder than writing it now.

I gave it a month, even though, I was pretty sure, one month ago today, almost exactly to the minute, I felt I knew what was coming.  I prayed against what felt like the inevitable at this point, but I prayed knowing that prayer does work, not always, but sometimes.  I know it worked once in this situation.  I guess, in my heart of hearts, I know God is a God of miracles, and prayer could bring radical change again.  Yet, at the same time, I'm being practical, and releasing my breath and realizing that for now, this is reality.

You see, for some reason that I fail to understand, one month ago tonight, my children's father disappeared from them, again.  He came back to them on December 26, 2017.  He walked out on them again, almost six months later, to the date.

I wasn't in town, but he had plans to see them with someone I trust dearly.  Up until a few hours beforehand, he was still planning on seeing them.  And then.. he just didn't show.  I reached out to him to find out if he was okay (the bitterness inside me, truthfully, swelled up and I asked him if he was dead), or what had happened.  A few days later, feeling it was the case, I asked if this meant he was done and walking on out again.  No reply to either.  I tried two more times, the most recently, last night.  I pointed out that today marks a month.  There is still dead silence.

I know he is out there.  I know he's active online, and while I can't be certain his phone works or he hasn't changed his number, I know he knows my name, and my phone number hasn't changed in years.

There's silence.

He's abandoned them again.

I find myself quite emotional this week.  I have known all along this was a distinct possibility, but I threw it all in and allowed him back in the children's lives, with the mentality that no matter what happened, whether he was here for good or gone again, we would get through it.  We already walked through hell in regard to this, and we made it through, because of God and his blessings of support.  I knew it would be "easier" this time, as "easy" as something like this could be for four hearts that aren't jaded and cold.   

But that doesn't seem to make it better.  

I'm currently at a point of both thankfulness and despair, pride and humiliation, hope and hopeless.  The part of me that has Christ dwelling inside has a positive spin on it, but my more practical, emotional, momma bear side is angry and negative.  It's a battle.  Yes, I'm going through a battle.  

But, I'm a warrior. I have to remind myself of that even though I feel like laying in my bed and throwing a toddler inspired tantrum.

As I said, I knew it could all fall apart.  But, truthfully, I thought it would be either right away, or years down the road.  

I didn't think he would get bored with his children this soon.

Is he bored with them?  I don't know.

I wish I could understand how someone I "knew" so well for so many years could be this way.  I wish I understood what, in a matter of hours, changed his entire plan.  I wish I could decide if he was incapable of making good decisions, or just chooses not to. I wish there wasn't silence.  The silence, again, makes it even worse.

People have started noticing and asking me about his involvement in their lives and our lack of discussion on the matter.  I am hoping that these questions continue to be directed solely to me, not in the presence of my children.

My children, heaven bless them, are starting to notice his absence.  I don't know if they noticed or felt it right away, because they've been very normal, happy, and truthfully haven't asked about him or mentioned him until this week.  Actually, so far, our three-year-old daughter is the only one who has.  But, I feel it's coming with the birthdays and milestones up ahead.  I am at a crux, wondering if I should confront the issue head on and prepare them, or wait and see when they're ready to talk about it.  I don't really want to assault them with the realization if they haven't come to it on their own yet.  

Also, this probably goes without saying, but... please do not speak ill or negatively of their father in their presence at any time.  Whatever their opinions are to be of him, those need to be formed by their own minds, through their own experiences.

I am so torn, right now, emotionally and faithfully. I want to find comfort, knowing that God will get us through, provide, restore and heal our hearts, minds, and souls.  But I'm a bit angry.  I'm not angry at God, because I know their father has free will, and is choosing his own path away from his children and away from God.  I know this.  I know in my heart that I did do the right thing letting him back into their lives, even though it hurts to be where we are now. I know God wanted me to forgive him.  I know God wanted my children to know their father again, for our daughter to create happy memories with him, because up until now, she had no recollection of her own and relied solely on her brothers or word of mouth from other people who knew her dad.  I know God wanted to show my oldest son that He does in fact listen and answer prayers.  I truly believe that his reappearance in our lives last year was God ordained, and for good and not harm.

I try not to blame myself for the fallout.  In the past, I've been so good at taking the blame, from their father, for things like this.  I KNOW I didn't cause the heartbreak that's to come by allowing them the opportunity to have their dad for a while.  I KNOW that is on their father.  But that's something I have to remind myself every time he crosses my mind, because I also know the enemy wants me to take it all back on myself.  I did open the door, but I did not cause him to walk back out.

I know that my children will know I tried.

But it doesn't mean this doesn't hurt.  It hurts my heart for my kids. 

It hurts so much. It feels like I'm being crushed again, admitting this all "aloud."

I pray that my children's minds and hearts will be protected from severe trauma if their dad really is gone for good this time.  I pray that they'll still believe in God, in his miracles, in the power of prayer and that this does not negatively affect their faith and relationship with Jesus.  I pray they'll still feel overwhelming love and know that they're surrounded by it even if their dad walked out on them again.  I pray that someday, God will truly, wholly restore their father.  I pray that I will be able to forgive him again.   

If you pray, please do.

I found myself, tonight, as I sifted through my thoughts, trying to find scripture to calm my heart.  This is the one that spoke to me the most.  I'm trying to just do what I am often (but not always) able to do, and find peace and solace in my Father's words and promises.

But, I'm not perfect, and it's hard.

I know we will be okay.  And I know I need to give it all to God.  But, I think I also know that my imperfect, human side may still need to cry about it, talk about it, and maybe need a hug or a shoulder at some point. Maybe.  Or maybe not.  Guess we will see.  But, I think that's okay, too.

One Day

One day. One fine day. One fine day, someday.

Just one. Just one to start.

The past few days, I have been revisiting memories. This time a year ago, things were so rocky and unstable. I was still fighting the fight for my children to have a decent, loving father in their lives. I was still attempting to rebuild trust. 

I know that God calls us not to dwell on the past, but, as I am human as all of you, from time to time, it sneaks back up on me.  Knowing that we aren't supposed to be focusing our emotions and effort on the things we can't change, I make a conscious effort to stop and turn to God and pray when these times arise, but sometimes I don't even notice I'm doing it right away.

That said, the past few days have been emotionally taxing.  I have spent quite a few moments confiding in a few friends and praying, and reminding myself just how much better my life really is this year.  I keep telling myself that it is better to have stability in my children's lives than to have their father sneaking in and out, unreliable, inconsistent, and sneaking his boyfriend around them and sneaking the children around his boyfriend's family.  

But almost every year around this time, for many years anyway, I have had a break.  I have had a few hours to a couple days where I was child free, carefree, and spending time with a friend I see roughly once a year now that we are done with college.  

This year is different, because their dad isn't around.  While I am delighted and excited that our yearly visit is coming up, it brings the trauma back into my mind, remembering how it felt to find out what was happening while my children were away, and the repercussions that followed leading up to their dad being completely absent from their lives in pretty much every way nowadays.

But one day... hopefully... at least one day... someday...

He won't cross my mind at all.  Not once.  Not in a single memory.  Not in any shape or form.  Not a happy memory. Not a sad memory.  Nothing.  Just one day of peace.  

I pray that, anyway.

I know that I will always be bound to him in some regard, because together we created three wonderful children.  I see him in their appearances and their personalities and temperaments sometimes.  And I miss him.   Or I miss parts of him, the idea of the him I thought I knew, and what it was like to have someone around keeping me company in this crazy world of toddlers and preschoolers.

Even the happy memories make my heart ache just like the less happy memories.  They leave me aching for myself and for my children.

One day, I hope that ache doesn't arise even for a second.  

I don't want to forget him.  I don't want to really forget the trauma that lead us to where we are, because it's a part of our testimonies and God has done miraculous and glorious things.  

But, just one day, I would like a break.  

Just one day. 

20 years

There are events in nearly each person's life that burn themselves into memory. These events can be major happenings like a first born child, or small things like winning a school-wide handwriting contest in the third grade (yes, I remember both). They can be happy or sad. They can be uplifting or traumatic. It's just how life works.

Dates are sometimes triggers for memories. Songs can be too. I know there are many others, but these are two strong ones for my mind.

Twenty years ago today, I returned home from school just like I did most every other day. But something was off. I had no idea what really, but something was off. A few hours went by until I was given an answer.

"Carissa is missing."

The words still echo.

The news came on at six and verified the nightmare. My two-year-old cousin, who was very much like a baby sister to me, as my cousins and I grew up together as close friends and siblings, disappeared at her family farm. 

I still have my journal entry from that night written in my very first journal. It was mostly a prayer to God that she would be found safe. For years, I would look at the entry, upset about the prayer that had gone neglected. Now, with matured faith, I know He answered, just not in the way I wanted, but she was found, and by then, she was safe in His arms.

The next two days were torture as my 10 year-old mind comprehended the gravity of the situation. Family, friends of family, and strangers gathered on the farm to help find our little girl. After days of searching, her body was retrieved from the river where it was determined she had snuck out the door from the house, silently, followed the dog down the hill, and slipped in, losing her breath and earthly life. It was such a horrible, unexpected accident. I still see the event so clearly, but I will spare exact details from my memory.

It was extremely traumatic. I had visions and nightmares for years. Her older sister who is a few years younger than I, and I, attended a grief/loss support group for children once to help heal. It probably helped some.

As time went on, the nightmares subsided. It wasn't until I took a college writing course at school in the 10th grade, and I wrote a descriptive essay about the event (which garnered tears from multiple teachers and professors as well as an A+ grade) that I think I really healed.

It still makes me sad, but it's much easier to cope with. Sometimes, I still feel like that little girl who was so upset she couldn't even stomach Pepto Bismol to quell the nausea (I still cannot to this day drink that stuff) or the 10 year-old with a 2 year-old, blonde-haired giggly baby attached to her hip spinning in the front yard. I can see Carissa dancing to "Cecilia" by Simon and Garfunkle and remember laughing at her thinking it was the cutest thing. I listen to that song still and that's where my mind goes.

More often than not, now, I feel the loss like a mother. I felt so horrible as a child for the loss and trauma my aunt and uncle had to endure, but now, with two toddlers of my own and a baby on the way, I embrace it more strongly. I put myself in their shoes. It breaks my heart in a new way, and truthfully, causes terror at the thought that my own children could be gone in the blink of an eye. 

It's affected my parenting, too, I'm sure. There was a long time where bath time terrified me or my kids getting water in their faces at bath or pools freaked me out. I still find myself nervous while someone else bathes them and they become quiet, even though I know it's sheer terrorized paranoia. I worry about them opening doors, or being so quiet playing outside that they've disappeared. I worry about losing them so young and never seeing them grow up. I hate the idea of losing another beautiful young toddler in our family and spending the rest of our lives wondering who they would have become.

I admire my aunt, my uncle, and my cousin, for overcoming the loss. They are each a beacon of strength and hope.  Today, as I do each year, I pray for their continued healing and send them all my love.

Conflicted

 

It is absolutely heart-wrenching to suffer with infertility. To try, to battle, to lose month after month, while friends and family around you bring new life into their families. It's crushing to hear people say "we weren't even trying!" or "we got pregnant the first try!" when you live, day in and day out, in the agony and turmoil that infertility brings.

I know. I've been there.

It's so incredibly hard to lose a baby. It takes your breath away. It makes your uterus ache with emptiness, and your arms ache with loneliness. The hot if a positive pregnancy test shattered and stomped on with the absence of the heartbeat that was once in your womb. The constant ticking of the clock that no longer brings you closer to the joyous birth of your miracle. 

I know. I've been there.

When I went through those dark journeys, I did so openly, not caring that there would be (and there were) judgements and ridicule, shame and condemnation, for choosing the level of openness that I did. I knew that if I held it inside, seemingly to hold it all together, my hope and my spirit would crumble quickly. (You can read about my journeys here on this blog.) 

I've been blessed now with four pregnancies, and the births of two sons.

And in this fourth pregnancy, I find myself on the opposite side of the some of the darkest of journeys motherhood, or the pursuit of motherhood, can bring.

This time, I've been the one to openly confess that, despite years of infertility battles, we conceived without trying. 

I feel like I should be over the top overwhelmed with pure joy in this miracle that we never imagined would come naturally. And yet... 

I've been conflicted, openly, from the beginning, mostly regarding the timing of this new miracle.

However, there's more to it.

This time, I'm the one with the baby growing inside of me, while multiple friends that I love so dearly, struggle through the darkness of infertility, miscarriage, or the sheer longing to be a mother but the inability to be one due to various other life circumstances.

When I was going through the battles and the loss, as I said, the pregnancy announcements and births were quite a paradox. There was the incredible joy I felt for those I care for, but also the sharp stabbing pain in my own heart and hope. Jealousy, anger, despair- they are miserable and lonely emotions. You feel ashamed beyond description to feel the negative side while also the joy for them. You find yourself either distancing or trying to overcompensate by being extra interested. Not always, but sometimes. I've done both to various extremes. 

You try so hard to discount your negative feelings, because you think they shouldn't be there.

I say, embrace them. Explore them enough so you can understand them. Then, pick up the pieces of your broken heart, and try to heal. Somehow.

I don't have the magic answer. For me, it was being surrounded by support. Love. Empathy and encouragement. Understanding. Compassion. Prayer. Blogging.

It may take years, but I believe you can heal.

But, I digress.

I'm learning about the other side, as I said. I'm now the one who, God willing, will be delivering a baby in April. I have multiple friends due to welcome new life into their families around the same time.

But, I also have a few friends who were supposed to join. That's what their pregnancy tests confirmed. That's the joy they've embraced so fully, dreamed about, and maybe even shared with the world. And suddenly, as happened to me, the dream was shattered. They've empty wombs and broken hearts. And, no matter how much I portray I understand, I'm now a living, breathing reminder that they lost their child.

I am sure it was so with the previous pregnancies, though I cannot say with the certainty that I can this time around.

And, while I'm reveling in my miracle, my heart breaks for my beloved friends. Perhaps they need to distance themselves from me because just the sound of my name brings them to tears. Or, perhaps they've reached out for my comforting ear and empathy.

Either way, I cry. When I cannot sleep, and I feel the early flutters of this life I side me, I often find myself praying for these amazing women. Tears well up in my eyes, and my throat constricts with intense sorrow. 

I feel ashamed. I feel embarrassed. I want to withhold my joy and be private about this miracle. I want to take back my pregnancy announcement so we can be as we once were.

But I can't.

 It kills me inside every time I want to share, but feel incredibly rude in doing so. But, I know also that it's no good for friendships to deny my joy either. It seems the unselfish thing to do, but it doesn't necessarily mean its the right approach. 

It isn't my "fault" that I am pregnant, just as it isn't their "fault" that they no longer are. One of my dear friends said that to me recently, while we discussed how her loss and my sustained (this far) pregnancy affected us. 

But then, what can I do? I don't want to be the salt in the wounds that have not healed. 

I pray for them, knowing that I cannot heal them on my own, but that my God can. And, I pray it happens sooner than later. I pray they can embrace their sorrow, and hope for the joy that will come again someday.

And I miss them. 

I'm not sure I've made a concise point, but I'm hoping that my thoughts, which help me process, reach those out there that need it.

Love to you all.

Note: while I cherish all blog comments, I understand sometimes it is scary to put your feelings out there. You are able to respond anonymously, but if you are wanting someone to talk to, feel free to send me an email at Nicole.m.worthley[at]gmail[dot]com

She's on the hunt.

I've been putting off writing this blog for at least a week now, knowing that when I did, the finality of the situation would feel even more real.

Alas, Collin woke at 4 and I have been unable to fall back asleep since, my mind racing. It's now nearly 5:30 and I'm laying in bed with tears.

The time has come in which I need to find a "real" job. A job that pays not in hugs and kisses, but rather money.

Out financial woes are just too much for my husband to quell on his own. 

Now, I'm nearly certain that at he beginning of my stat-at-home-mom journey, I wrote about how blessed I would feel to have the opportunity to stay home for even just a few days, or something similar.

While, in my mind, I know that is true, my heart is hurting. Yes- I was blessed to stay home for one year and five-ish months. 

But, I grew to love the job if raising my children so much more than I imagined I would that the thought if having to give up the one job I have had that I can't imagine ever leaving honestly makes me sick to my stomach. It makes my chest ache and tears stream down my face.

My sons are my passion. My sons are my calling.

And soon enough, I will have to walk out that door, knowing, honestly, I will likely never have that job back. The past year and five months have been some of the most trying times of my life, but also the most rewarding, and they have passed by me quicker than a breath. The next three years will pass even quicker as I leave my heart at home and go exchange my time for a paycheck, and before we realize it, Spencer will be in school. Soon after, Collin will join. And, if I'm completely honest, I am now reconsidering my dream of 3 to 4 children, because I hate the thought of bearing another child I feel I rarely see, and a third or fourth child I would have even less time with than the two miracles I already have. I'm undecided of course, but it has definitely been on my mind.

Their most impressionable years will now be spent, the majority of the time, with someone else. Someone who could never love them like I do. Someone who could never fill my shoes. I hate that idea.

I try to be okay with it, but it's a farce. I'm not.

 I know I shouldn't feel entitled to the position of primary care giver and teacher, but I've been spoiled in being that person, and so, I do. I'm sorry, I don't want to feel that way, and I'm trying to work through it.

It makes me so sad to know that there's a very strong chance I won't experience all of Collin's "firsts" like I did with Spencer. His first steps, for example, will likely be witnessed by my sister, who so graciously agreed to nanny for my miracles a while until I can afford to put them in daycare.

You would think, as a former daycare provider, I would be less anxious to put my children in daycare. I know that they won't likely hate it, and I know there are excellent care providers out there. Yet, I am very anxious to allow someone else to fulfill my role.

I've always had compassion for mothers that have to say goodbye to their children and enter the workforce, but I definitely have a new understanding for the pain many feel. 

I know that countless moms do it, but how they carry on without their heart breaking is beyond me. 

I know realistically, I am exchanging my staying home with my sons to make money for them and for all four of us, so that we don't have to live in a financial crisis for eternity, and that makes it feel more... okay. It is the responsible thing to do really. They deserve a home and food and clothing and all that, so the sacrifice of my time with them isn't for naught. But it's still filling me with emotional turmoil. 

I hope it feels better with time.

There goes my breath.

My heart is very heavy today.

Staying at home with my sons is a luxury worth more than I can give value to. Some days, time drags on while others it flies by. Daily, I thank God and my husband for the opportunity to have so much with my sons, our treasures.

With time feeling so lucid, I honestly lose track of dates.

As was the case yesterday, until about 6:30pm.

Shortly after six, I read a news article in which a young boy was saved from drowning at Falls Park here in town. But, his heroes were missing.

My heart felt like it hit the floor. I became lightheaded and tearful.

Shortly after, I realized the date.

On March 14, 1994, my beautiful young cousin, only two-years old, Carissa, went missing. After what seemed like weeks, but really wasn't, she was found in the river on her family farm. She had followed their dog out the door quietly, quickly, and to the river, where she fell in and lost her life. I remember sitting, watching, waiting, praying, hoping, terrified... Until I saw a sight I will never forget.

Last night, when the date and tragic coincidence hit me, it toon my breath away. Literally. The room began spinning.

Partially out of my own sorrow and scars. But also, largely, for the overwhelming empathy I felt for the families of these two heroes. I felt their weighted, heavy hearts. Their world crumbling. Their shiny and restlessness. Their helplessness.

It hit home. I don't know them, but I felt I was there with them.

Two families lost lived ones who gave up their breath so a little boy could have his back. So selfless.

I've been spending a great deal of time over the last 21 hours praying. Praying for peace, for comfort, for strength. I've prayed for the rescue and recovery workers. I've prayed for the lost lives. I've prayed for their families. I've prayed endlessly for this young boy who will live the remainder of his life knowing that his sister and a complete stranger lost their lives for him.

It truly angers me that there are so many inconsiderate people that, instead if offering compassion, consideration, and condolences instead find it appropriate and necessary to offer condescend and blame. Hostility toward the mother. Angry critiques of parenting skills. And all while these heroes are still being searched for (though they may have just been found). It makes me sick to my stomach.

I'll just continue to pray.

Update: They have recovered the body of the little boy's older sister.

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.

The Power of a Song.

First, let me say that I made it through today, a week exactly since learning of Sprout's birth into Heaven, with less tears than I anticipated that I would have shed. Granted, it started out pretty rough, from 1:30am until about 4:15am, but the majority of the day, I was pretty calm and collected.

I did have an emotional time at Bible Study, which I was "brave" enough to go to, despite some hesitation and barely having any homework done, but having a wonderful table leader and friend in Kyla, who has been a big support during all of this, definitely helps. But, I made it through that with less hardship than I anticipated, too. God is good.

Today, I was driving to Barnes and Noble in search of God and in search of courage (that's where I did what little Bible study homework I finished), and I realized that for the past four or five days, I have been listening mainly to one song on repeat in the car. Jake had left his Sanctus Real CD in the car last week, and there was one song in particular that really caught my heart.

Here are the lyrics:

I wanna know why pain makes me stronger
I wanna know why good men die
Why am I so afraid of the dark but I stray from the light?

I wanna know why You gave me eyes when faith is how I see.
Tell me, is it easier to doubt or harder to believe?
Oh so many questions stiring in me.

[Chorus]
And I'm wondering why.
Sometimes the truth ain't easy to find.
I want to know all the answers, but I'm learning that;
These things take time, yeah
These things take time.

How can success make us feel like failures?
And the harder we fall the harder we try
The more I have the more I need just to feel like I'm getting by.
Oh so many questions in one short life.

And we spend so much time
Chasing our tails
Hopin' to find
Every last answer
To everything in life.
So many questions
Not enough time...


We all want to understand why;
Evil lives and good men die
On the way to Heaven the truth unwinds.
These things take time
These things take time
Yeah, these things take time.

I got to thinking about how I seem to have a pattern of finding a certain song or two for big events in my life, and they end up being played on repeat as I cope with hardships or exalt in joy. A few of the songs on the "soundtrack of my life" as I decided I would refer to it as, are "Martyrs and Thieves" by Jennifer Knapp, from my camp days, "If I Am" by Nine Days, from high school. "Name" by the Goo Goo Dolls, from my high school days. "Crash Into Me" by Dave Matthews, from falling in love with Jake. Those are just a few. I could go on and on, but I won't.

But this song, "These Things Take Time," that's the one I'm playing now. I, being human, want to know WHY this has happened to Jake and I. I want to be able to be done grieving and to be healed NOW. But, I won't know why, and I have to accept the fact that I can't just instantly be okay with it all. That's a short bit on why the song is so meaningful to me.

I feel like I'm starting on the upward climb toward healing. I feel moreso now than over the past week that I will get through this, with God and with Jake both beside me. I need them both, and I am not ashamed to say it.

At Bible study tonight, we were discussing how Satan attacks those who are strong in their faith and who are standing for the Lord. Part of me wonders if that might be part of what happened here. Jake and I conceived Sprout after joining a church, finding a faith family, and after I, personally, feel stronger in my faith than I may ever have in the past, that I can recall, anyway. And then, this tragedy strikes. But, instead of blaming God or being angry at God, or blaming myself, I decide to pray to God and take up at his side to help me get through it. In many other struggles I've gone through in my life, that wasn't the case, and I found myself trapped in powerlessness and sadness, numb to God and numb to myself, for quite an extended period of time. Reflecting tonight at Bible study really gave me hope that I am going to get through this, more easily than other traumas and tragedies and rough times in my life, even though, by far, I think this the saddest, darkest season I have had to face thus far.

That's reassuring.

And I know I've said it before, but I will say it again. I am so blessed by the support, encouragement, and prayers of my family, my faith family, and my friends.

Yes, tonight, I am still sad. I will probably shed more tears over our lost child. But, they aren't tears of hopelessness. And when I wake up in the morning and drive to work, I will hear the current track of my life soundtrack, and be reminded that it's okay to be where I am, to grieve how I grieve, and that I WILL be okay.

Sorry if this was mumbled and jumbled. I am exhausted.

Back-and-forth and to-and-fro, around-and-around I go.

Today was a back-and-forth kind of day. I didn't cry on the way to work, though I was close. I didn't even cry for a while at work. Though occasional thoughts and lines of conversation had me in tears, I did a pretty good job stifling them.

Some difficult conversations were had along the course of the day, however. There was one in which I was reliving one of my personal worst experiences within the entire thing, in that I went through the day of the D&C procedure, as well as the day after, without my husband anywhere near my side, or even in this town. I am not mad at him for that, but the pain and heartache are definitely still there. It's one of those things that the only person I really wanted or needed to be there with me was very clearly... not at all. It kind of kills a person, a little bit. But, I do not hold a grudge against him, I just pray I can sort through the feelings and hurt that his absence caused me.

Another conversation was about the entire mess of infertility coupled with the miscarriage. It can be very exciting to find out at 3 weeks, 5 days pregnant, but it's also a very nerve-wracking time, in that you have about 9 full weeks of first trimester fear to endure, where you're most likely to miscarry. This time, I thought we were "safe" like we seemed to be with Spencer, because at 7 weeks we saw the heartbeat. Little did I know that six days later (two weeks from today) that heart would stop beating. And it's hard to feel like it wasn't a child of mine, because for six full weeks (give or a take a few days), we were overjoyed at the possibility and then reassurance of this brand new life, this child we created... and then it felt like it was all ripped away.

I know it's not "as bad" as carrying a baby to term and then having it pass away, or have it pass away closer to term, but it's not "any better" either. It's still a lost child, deep down. That's how I feel anyway. It doesn't make me correct, it's just how I feel, so if you are reading, please do not be offended.

I know that many people name their unborn children, even as early as being lost in the first trimester. Some people have suggested that to me. I thought about it, but I don't feel like giving our baby a "proper" human name would bring any more closure to the situation. To me, Sprout is perfect. And someday, in Heaven, I will know if Sprout was a boy or a girl. Until that day, it doesn't much matter, I guess, because I refuse to dwell on that. Sprout is perfect as he or she is right now.

Anyway, even, amidst the tears, at one point, I had a hood laugh as Jillian reminded me of our hug on Sunday where I cried and shook in her arms, and squashed Spencer between us as he flailed to get free.

Fortunately, there were some very wonderful moments to help balance out the sorrow... like when Spencer and Grayson started playing with pans under the stove.

Or when Spencer, on his first ever attempt, climbed all the way up Jillian's stairs.

The drive home was on of the most difficult parts of the day, as instinctively, almost, I delayed last Tuesday in my mind, where I had started spotting heavily at work, and just felt panic and terror and completely broken as I called my doctor on the drive home, where the tone of her voice made me realize how serious my situation was becoming. When she said, "that worries me a bit more" after I told her I was cramping, I felt my heart sink into the pit of my stomach and became incredibly nauseated and overcome.

I tried to call my husband but he didn't answer, so I pulled over on the road and sobbed until I could focus to drive. Spencer patiently sat in the backseat watching passersby and playing with his toy hammer. What a sweetheart.

Thankfully, Spencer was able to bring me back to the present at bath time. I was sitting there, recalling how I was barely even able to put him in the tub last Tuesday, when he decided it was the perfect time to stand up in the tub, and almost instantly, start peeing. He watched himself going pee in his bathwater, saying "uh-oh" over and over, until after he was finished. I laughed so hard. Then, he was kind enough to dump a cup of water down my front. Needless to say, he brought me out of my funk and misery of the past week and into the present moment, where I have a beautiful, charming, and somewhat hilarious (in my opinion) miracle living with us.

Now that he is back in his crib, I can't help but picture myself last week, as I lay on the couch, weeping with my entire body, as I plead aloud to God, "Lord Almighty, please don't take this baby from us." I wept it over and over and over again. Am I mad at God for not answering my plea? No. Little did I know, Sprout was already with Him.

I have a stinging feeling that I will have a hard time falling asleep tonight, but hopefully, Jake will soon be here to hold me as I likely cry myself to sleep. Or maybe, I will find the peace I need beforehand, and I will drift off soundly. I pray that is the case, but if it isn't I won't be angry.

I know I still have a long road of recovery and healing before me, but at least, tonight, I'm going to take some relief knowing that I can still laugh and smile, and that with Spencer's help especially, I have done so more than once in the last two days. As small as he is, he is a big part of the strength I find that is carrying me through my sorrow. Even if I am sobbing uncontrollably, he finds a way to make me smile through my tears. It's incredible. Someday, when he's older, though I have been telling him now, I will tell him about how he helped me get through some of the darkest days of my life.

I am nervous for tomorrow, because I know that with the excellent memory God has given me, I will undoubtedly be having flashbacks to last Wednesday. But, instead of dwelling on that fear and anxiety, I am going to relish the fact that I made it through today, and pray that I make it through tonight. I will fight my battle and trudge through my mucky road and what lies before me tomorrow... tomorrow.

Thank you to everyone who has been reading my blog, following my story, inviting yourself into my sorrows, and befriending and praying for me along this journey.

Oh, hey, Monday.

Today, I went "back to work."

I cried pretty much the entire way there. I was having quite a rough time the night before, knowing I am not fully mentally prepared to be out and about on my regular routine. But, I suppose admitting it to myself is a step, at least. I prefer not to live in denial telling people I am perfectly fine, when, chances are, I'll burst into tears shortly after and they'd think I was a basket case anyway.

I made it through the half day, only crying a couple times. Perhaps the roughest part was watching my son play with his friend who is about 22 months older than he, and realizing that could have been what it would be like for Spencer had Sprout been born in April, and lived to be Spencer's age. Yup, that was a rough segment of time. Really rough.

Sunshine was brought to my day after work, when I had both Spencer and Grayson with me, and I had to stop at Walgreens to pick up something. I had contemplated not taking a 16 month-old and 10 month-old with me at the same time and just returning later, but I knew when I would arrive at home I would most likely not want to leave my sanctuary, so I was ballsy and took them both in.

They were a riot. They were both standing in the cart (yes, that can be considered unsafe, but I moved super slow and paranoid that they'd jump out, watched them like a hawk), waving and telling people "hi!" (Grayson) and "go!" (Spencer). They made quite a few "friends." And, they were quite the little musicians too, as one shook a noisy box and the other jingled my car keys. They were laughing at each other. It brought me quite a few smiles.

I came home and was able to catch a short nap with Spencer before I woke up from a day-time 'night mare' and decided to wash some dishes.

I looked around and was overwhelmed with the amount of things I have yet again, fallen behind on, housework wise. But this time, it was more overwhelming than usual, because I just didn't know what to do. Like, my feet were stuck underneath me and I just didn't know how to proceed. It was almost hard to breathe.

This evening, Spencer wanted me to play on the floor with him. Or anywhere with him, so long as he was basically on top of me, or touching me, and I did not make one small flinch that he would perceive as moving away from him. Considering I am still having cramping (which they say is normal) and my back still hurts from the back injury.. or whatever it was, a week ago, it was pretty hard on me to sit there. And, Jake called, so I was talking to him, and had to get up so that Spencer would stop pulling on the phone. Spencer lost it, and I lost it.

I feel like it's impossible for me to be a "good mom" to Spencer when I feel like I'm not even doing a good job just being Nicole. I don't know if that makes sense to anyone but me, but it's how I feel.

Now, I'm not doing a "bad job" at being a mom, I know. But, I'm not doing as good a job as I would like to think that I could do right now. That kills me a little inside.

And I'm sure if he was able to articulate his thoughts, they wouldn't be anything like "you're a bad mom" or "you don't love me enough" but rather, "Mom, I know something's wrong and it makes me sad too," or "I just want to be with you right now." And those things are okay.

But, it's still hard.

I called the doctor today and talked about my intense lack of sleep that I've been having for almost an entire week now. It's not that I can't sleep at all, it's just that I wake up in the middle of the night, after finally falling asleep, usually after an intense cry, to a nightmare or something, and can't fall back asleep. Or, I just wake up, for apparently no reason that I can recall, and cannot relax enough to fall asleep. I thought the oxycodone/Percocet would help with that, as did the doctor, but apparently not so much.

She asked if I thought I was depressed. I mulled the question over a bit, and decided that I do not think that by a clinical definition, I am "depressed." But, I am sad. I'm heartbroken currently. I'm devastated. My baby died inside of me. I don't feel like that's the same. We discussed that, and she agreed that she didn't think I needed to consider myself "clinically depressed," and suggested I try a sleep aid for a week or so, and then if that didn't help at all, we'd discuss "other medication options."

I don't want to take anti-depressants right now. Okay, I might have a little "post-partum-death-of-baby-blues" going on, but I don't think that is the same thing. Not for me, anyway. I don't know, you may think different after reading my blog. But, I felt good knowing that she didn't think I really needed that kind of medication either.

Though, I have been contemplating seeing a counselor. At least for a little while. But, I'm torn on that, too. I know that I am perfectly able to pen my thoughts here, or to my husband, or a few good friends, without putting up a wall. But, would doing it to an anonymous professional help? Would it make me "heal faster?" I don't know. I was a psychology major for a while and a social work major after. I respect the profession. I'm just undecided if I need to arrive there yet.

I feel like maybe, I should just give myself a little more time. It's not even been a full week. Maybe, I need to just let myself cry if I need to cry, without wondering if people will think I'm nuts or think that I'm perfectly incapable of functioning on any level. I know I can trust myself with my child alone, though it's hard and I do cry, but I'm not worried for his health or safety. Even in the midst of my deepest sobs, my mother instincts kick in. I've seen it happen many times over already.

I feel like my mind actually stopped... thinking... for a while. Just now. I'm going to savor that.