First birthday

Waking up today, I could scarcely believe that it has been one year since I lost a child.
     One year since one of the worst nightmares for a mother came true in my life.
          One year since I had to say goodbye to my second daughter, Abigaile Grace, far too soon after I said hello. I was sad and a little angry throughout the morning, that I was preparing to go scatter my daughter's ashes, instead of picking up first birthday cake that would soon be smeared all over her adorable little face, and blowing up balloons that would entertain and delight her. I couldn't help but remember back to the mornings of Isabel's and Josiah's first birthdays, and think how there were really no similarities between those experiences and this one.

Shock and disbelief still reign some of the time in my life, that I am in the position of being a mother who has experienced the death of an infant, but I can only keep putting one foot in front of the other each day, and continue to live my life in a way that will help others to remember hers, and to draw closer to the One who created each of us in the palm of His hand with a unique purpose in this life.

I wanted to do something special to commemorate Abbie, so we planned a mini family vacation this to honor and remember her.

The North Shore of Lake Superior in Minnesota has been a special place to Luke and me since before we were married. We have been up there about a half dozen or more times over the years, always staying in a different location, but always at some point during the trip, finding our way to the town of Grand Marais.

We chose to have Abbie cremated last year, and so far her cremains have lived in a wooden box on our dresser, that plays the song "Amazing Grace" when wound. But all along, I have known that I wanted to scatter her ashes in a few places that are special to our family, and Grand Marais is the first obvious choice.

Luke is the travel guru in our family, so he spent days researching the best cabin for us to stay in this particular trip, booked it, and made all the arrangements. Love having an organization nut in our family!

We arrived on Saturday in the afternoon, and the cabin was perfect for our needs. Luke and the kids enjoyed exploring on the rocky (and somewhat icy!) shoreline near our cabin. The first two nights, we experienced windstorms on Lake Superior that even the locals said were very strong. The massive waves crashing on the large boulders along the shore sounded like a constant thunderstorm rolling all night long. I found this an interesting parallel to the journey of grief I have been on this past year. Sometimes I feel as if the waves beating against me are relentless, and other times they abate long enough for me to take a breath, look out past the waves, and even see the beautiful sky and sunset off in the distance.

A song has really been speaking to me these past few months during worship at church:

"Oceans (Where Feet May Fail)" (Hillsong United)

You call me out upon the waters
The great unknown where feet may fail
And there I find You in the mystery
In oceans deep
My faith will stand

And I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

Your grace abounds in deepest waters
Your sovereign hand
Will be my guide
Where feet may fail and fear surrounds me
You've never failed and You won't start now

So I will call upon Your name
And keep my eyes above the waves
When oceans rise
My soul will rest in Your embrace
For I am Yours and You are mine

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior

 
This could not be more true in my life, in the past and especially now. In the deepest waters of my life, where I am close to drowning, is where I have experienced the real presence of Jesus the most. So I will continue to look to Him.

This morning, to close out our time at the North Shore, we took half of Abbie's ashes and went out to Artist's Point in Grand Marais, where there are large flat rocks to walk on to get closer to the water. Due to the windstorm causing waves to crash over these rocks the past few days, and the temperature hovering right around 15 degrees (VERY cold!) they were too icy to get very far out, but we managed to get out far enough to scatter her ashes into the water, in a place where we will visit many more times in the future. We now have one more reason to call Grand Marais a special place.

Abbie, I hope you are dancing and laughing today as the princess birthday girl in heaven. We miss you terribly and can't wait to see you again someday.
P.S. Isabel is insisting on being the first one to hug you when we get there. I hope that's OK - it will warm my heart to see my two daughters embracing. And mama can wait her turn, because once I get you in my arms again, I may not let go for a very long time! I love you, little girl. ~Mommy

Sounds of life, sounds of death

As I sit here on my computer, browsing through pages and pages of baby loss blogs (these mothers and fathers help me through this journey, in ways I cannot even come close to describing), I hear my 3 1/2 year-old son crying from his bed upstairs (it is 11pm). I throw off the blanket and set aside the laptop, and rush upstairs. I know it is probably a bad dream, or he is too hit, or can't find his paci (he does this around this time of night, about 50% of the time).

I enter his bedroom quietly, but making a shushing sound so he knows it is me. He almost instantly stops crying but is still upset. I remove some of his blanket layers, because he does feel hot, and I grope around for his paci in the dark and hand it back to him, where he sleepily inserts it back into his mouth, all without opening his eyes.

On a normal night, I would now quietly exit the bedroom, because we have always been firm believers in teaching our children to soothe themselves back to sleep. But on this night, I pause. I kneel down beside his bed, take his hand in mine, lean my head on the edge of his bed, and watch him....listen to him.

He cries at night, which is sometimes tiring, because he is a little old to be doing this as much as he does. But I am more tolerant of it these past 8 months, because I will never hear her cry. I never once heard her cry.

He breathes, deeply, in and out. His lungs are working perfectly. Hers were barely formed, never working on their own, and at the end they were punctured and damaged from the wonderful doctors and nurses trying to save her life.

His heart beats, steadily, in his chest. Hers was so erratic when we heard it on the monitors in the hour or so before she was born by C-section. Her baseline was 190 and then when I would have a contraction, it would drop into the 50's. That sound, more than any I have ever heard, haunts me to this day and I can hear it, as clearly as if it was yesterday. It was the sound of doom, the sound of terror, the sound of a mother's worst nightmare coming. She was coming, and it was far too soon. We tried everything to stop it, but my labor was too far gone, my body that likes to pop babies out fast, was already progressed too far and she was under too much distress.

Our son has a major medical condition, not one that would be obvious to anyone around him, but a serious condition nonetheless. I have not lived in fear about this, for the most part. But tonight, as I knelt by his bed, watching him for many minutes, I prayed, in the very depths of my mama's soul, "Please, dear Lord, keep him safe and healthy. Please do not take another child from me. I am begging you. Please do not take another child from me."

I do not know where my breaking point would be, but I am hoping and praying I am never tested by the loss of another child.

Every moment, with every child, is absolutely precious.

Differences

This week has been hard. Abbie was born eight months ago today. We got some disappointing news recently and are navigating life ahead and how that will change as a result of the news. I feel like I have been fighting back tears nearly constantly this week, like I am in some sort of setback in my grieving process. But I know that is probably not the case, as the grieving process ebbs and flows and will likely continue to do so for many years to come. This is what I am being told by baby loss mothers who are further past their loss and share their wisdom born of tragedy.

Differences in my life are becoming so noticeable now, as I move ahead and attempt to find my "new normal." whatever that might be after the gut-wrenching and heart-altering experience of losing an infant.

We had a garage sale earlier this summer, and all the baby/kid clothes from Newborn on up, that our kids have outgrown, were included in the sale. So much of it was purchased that I have nearly empty bins remaining of the few items we are keeping in hopes for a rainbow baby. Oh, how I wish that the baby girl clothes had been kept out of the sale, waiting for Abbie to grow into them.

We are redecorating Josiah's room, taking down much of the "babyish" Noah's Ark décor and replacing it with "big boy" sports décor. Oh, how I wish Josiah and Isabel were bunking up in the bigger bedroom while Abbie sleeps peacefully in the Noah's Ark nursery that has seen each of our children through their first years.

I took Isabel shopping today for back-to-school, and was tickled to see how she prances and flounces around the Mall of America, delighted at so many of the sights, smells, and sounds. She helped me carry the shopping bags, such a big girl! Trips to the mall are so much easier with children who can walk on their own. Oh, how I wish we had a child with us who needs to be carried.

Luke and I are running in a baby loss 5K in the beginning of September. Abbie will have a memorial photo collage there, and she is my motivation to run. Oh, how I wish I were an exhausted mother of a fairly new infant, too tired and busy to even think about putting on running shoes.

Life is different. I wouldn't call it better. But my attitude and perspective have changed. I cherish the moments with my children more than I used to. Fear has crept in a bit, when it had been at bay for so long. Thoughts are scattered and sometimes feel random. I don't know what the future holds, and feel out of control. I know I have never really been in control, and I am thankful I know the One who is in control. Knowing Him does not make me perfect, but it allows me the fortitude to be able to get through each day, one day at a time.

I miss my daughter.

Abigaile - on the Seashore of Remembrance

At 8:00 this morning, I saw an email come through, a special one that I have been anticipating for many weeks. I was so anxious to see the photo attached to the email, but due to my busy day and some technology challenges, I could not actually view the photo until I was home and able to get onto my personal computer.

 

So at 11:00 tonight, I was finally able to open the email and view the breathtaking photo that one baby loss mama (CarlyMarie on her Seashore of Remembrance) used her incredible talents to make for another.  When it opened, I was not expecting the rush of emotion that filled me, making itself evident in the hot burning tears that immediately overflowed from my eyes and ran in rivers down my cheeks

Her name, Abigaile, beautifully drawn in the sand. Under a breathtaking sunset made up of hues of purple and pink (colors I would have dressed her in as a little girl, for as long as possible until she insisted that I let her choose her own clothes). I believe that God was thinking of us as He painted this particular sunset, knowing that her name would be drawn in the sand on this specific evening.

 

Her name, Abigaile, that I will never see written in childish scrawl as she learns to pen her letters.

 

Her name, Abigaile, which came to my heart so quickly after I learned, just hours before her arrival, that she was a girl.

 

Her name, Abigaile, which means The Father's Joy.

 

Her name, Abigaile, that I will never hear her spell in an adorable little girl's voice, 

A-B-I-G-A-I-L-E.

 

Her name, Abigaile, that I want to say so many more times per day than I do.

 

Her name, Abigaile, that I want to hear from the voices of those I love.

 

Her name, Abigaile, which will always be sacred to me.

 

Her name, Abigaile, forever imprinted in this breathtaking scene, by a fellow baby loss mama and a beautiful artist. Thank you, CarlyMarie, for this indescribable gift, from the bottom of my grieving mama's heart. You have given me a gift that truly can never be duplicated or replaced. I am humbled with gratitude to you. May your precious son Christian's legacy continue to live on in these beautiful names and drawings in the sand. This gift will be cherished for the rest of my life, until I meet my baby girl and hold her in my arms once more.

 

Abigaile.

Honoring Abbie today - 06/07/2013

Sometimes it's the little things...

I have taken lately to reading stories to each child individually before bed, in order to get some decent one-on-one time with each of them instead of spending the time refereeing disputes between them. So tonight, after Josiah was all tucked in, I went into Isabel's ready for the normal routine of one story, a Bible story/devotion, and tucking in.

I quietly enter her room and she is engrossed in American Girl doll play, mostly getting the doll (McKenna) ready for bed, choosing what she will wear, how she will lay in the bunk bed, etc. And it causes me to realize how much Isabel and Abbie would have loved playing with dolls together someday. And as I watch Isabel be a "big sister" to McKenna (she rarely plays mommy to her dolls but always announces that I am the mommy to both of them and she is the big sister), I also think how much she would have enjoyed being a real big sister to Abbie. So, as I watch my first daughter and ache for my second, I once again experience opposing emotions simultaneously. Joy and sadness, fullness and emptiness, celebration and grief.

So, Abbie, how did I honor your life today? By sitting down on the floor with your big sister, and playing with her and her dolls. We embraced the moment, broke from the routine, and I could feel you there with us. I read something wise recently about how your children are only this age for a moment. In an hour, they will be an hour older, and tomorrow, they will be a day older. Our time with you was too short, precious girl, and so until we meet again, I am going to cherish as many moments with my children here on earth as possible. At one point during our play, Isabel looked up at me and said, "I love you, mama. The most." Oh how I wish I had been able to hear you say those word someday. So because you can't say it to me, I will say it to you. I love you, Abigaile Grace. And I will make sure you are not forgotten.

Honoring Abbie today - 05-27-2013

Blogging has been hard. I have been working on healing in other ways, but blogging sometimes rips opens wounds in a way I am not always prepared for. And I have to be careful when the children are around, because sometimes the sobs are so wrenching when these wounds are opened, that it would alarm them. We are very open and honest in our family about the birth and loss of Abbie, but I also don't want to cause worry and trauma in Isabel and Josiah's lives that will cause them harm in the years to come (this mostly affects Isabel as she is older and more sensitive in general).

So I am starting a shorter way to occasionally blog when I am not up to a full-fledged post. I will briefly post an entry that talks about how I deliberately honored Abbie's life on that particular day.

So today, May 27, 2013 (Abbie was born six months ago yesterday which is mind-boggling to me), I ordered a beautiful urn to place Abbie's tiny amount of ashes in. For as beautiful as she was, she deserves a sacred place in which to keep her remains that stay with us here on Earth. Until we can meet again in heaven and see her in all her wholeness and beauty.

The urn is a cherry wooden music box that plays, fittingly, Amazing Grace. It will read:

Abigaile Grace Christenson
November 26, 2012
Too Beautiful for Earth

Missing her always

It has been over a week since I have cried. Maybe even two. That makes me feel...guilty somehow. Like I am getting over losing her? But I know, deep down, I am not. I still think about her nearly ever hour. She is, and will always be, a vital part of my existence. I have three children.

Why am I crying less now? I am not sure, but it does feel like the pain is less raw, less violent each day that passes. Our God is truly a God of healing.

I have had a lot of opportunity recently to reflect on the amazing blessing of family and friends in my life. I do not know how I would get through this journey without them.

Soon I think I will be ready to share the entire medical journey that led up to our loss of Abbie. I have been reviewing text message chains from the month of November, with close friends who were walking with me on the journey, and praying for me and for Abbie each step of the way. I still struggle with feelings of incredible anger toward my body for not nurturing this life the way that it should have. I still wonder if we had done this differently, or that differently, would the outcome have been better? Would I be sitting her with her snuggled up against my neck, being a personal body heater the way newborn babies do, instead of having both hands free to type this blog post? I don't know, and I may never know, but I still struggle with those questions. I know, as a result, I will be overcautious, overprotective, and maybe even extreme in my next pregnancy. For those of you who know me in real life, I ask for your grace when that journey begins. I will be focusing on one job, and one job only, growing the baby and keeping it inside for as many weeks as possible. This means I will back away from most other activities for the duration of the pregnancy, and relax and rest as much as possible. I know many women who have gone on strict bedrest and have been able to achieve this goal.

I visited the Body Worlds exhibit yesterday with my husband, brother Luke, and my brother's girlfriend Ellie. I wasn't quite prepared for the emotion I would experience when we walked through the Conception To Birth part of the exhibit, which was very early on. They had genuine babies, at very stages of gestation (everything from 2 weeks all the way up to 28 weeks), who had passed away and were preserved through the incredible process of plastination. The babies at 22 and 24 weeks gestation affected me the most. It was like looking at Abbie all over again, although they were chubbier than she was, confirming again for us that she was truly growth restricted those last few weeks in my womb. Again increasing my anger at my body.

Over the next months, I will get prayer for my body. I only want one thing from it. The ability to bring another baby far enough along in a pregnancy so that the baby can survive on the outside, and we can complete our family. This will be my fervent prayer from now until I see that baby's face.

Always missing her,
Kristy