healing

She’d been feeling tired. Older and more tired than she should feel at the ripe old age of twenty-four.

One day her synapses sparked and it occurred to her that she could be pregnant. She asked a doctor friend to write an order for the test and, when it came back positive, she and her husband looked at each other confusedly, “Pregnant? But when . . .?” and then shyly as a memory came back to each of them. “Oh. Now I remember.”

It wasn’t exactly good news. She was working full-time and he was going to college and working part-time. They got by. Barely.

The timing was all wrong. They hadn’t planned to get pregnant for at least another year. How would they manage during her maternity leave? How would they pay for child-care for two children? How could this be happening right now?

And so, she cried. For a couple of weeks, she cried. She cried right up until the night when she and her husband lay side by side in bed and recounted the memories of the birth and babyhood of their three-year old son. She remembered the slight weight of him in her arms in the hospital. She remembered his first smiles and coos. She remembered how cute his pudgy little feet and legs looked when he was taking his first steps.

She stopped crying.

A few days later, there was some spotting. Nothing to be too concerned about since she’d experienced the same symptom during her otherwise healthy first pregnancy. But she and her husband went to the hospital in the interest of caution. The ultrasound showed the baby wiggling around and there was the steady reassuring blink-blink on screen as their baby’s heart beat.

It seemed like things would be okay.

But the doctor told them, “You are probably going to miscarry. I can prescribe progesterone injections and it might improve your chances of keeping the baby. But it is unlikely.”

Of course, she chose the injections. The heartbeat on the screen had been strong.

She gave herself twenty-one progesterone injections over the next three weeks. The hormone was mixed in a thick, oily solution. The needle had to be big, she had to use the z-track method, and she had to inject a big muscle. As a result, the injections were painful and she always whimpered a little before twisting around slightly to swab her hip with alcohol and ease the needle into the muscle.

For each day it seemed to work, she said a prayer of thanks.

On the 21st day, there was more spotting. She wasn’t too worried. It seemed a familiar and harmless part of pregnancy by now. But she called her doctor, just in case.

She knew. Before looking at the screen. Before hearing the words. She knew from the way the ultrasound tech’s face fell. Moments before, the tech had been scowling a little because she was called in from her weekend plans to perform this STAT ultrasound. One look at the screen and her face softened and her eyes filled with concern.

She forced herself into her professional nurse mode as she spoke to the doctor on the phone. He said, “Heather, make yourself NPO. You’ll need a dilatation and curettage. Call the house supervisor for instructions on when to present to 7 Central.”

She called her husband but he didn’t answer. Another nurse took report on her patients and a nurses’ aid drove her home despite her protestations that she could drive.

She walked into the house and straight to the back porch that her husband was enclosing and converting into a family room–since the family was growing. He hadn’t heard the phone because he was working with saws and drills and hammers and the like.

He smiled at first. Then it seemed to register that his wife wouldn’t be home in the middle of the day for any good reason. She cried, “I lost the baby.” He reached her in two long steps and they sank to the floor together, her crying in loud, wracking sobs and him crying silent tears that dripped down his face and soaked her hair.

Family members were called. Arrangements were made for the three-year old. They spent the time before going to the hospital lying together on their bed, rarely speaking.

As they drove to the hospital, she felt cramps ripple across her lower abdomen. She embraced that pain as a gift. For, up until then, she couldn’t help but wonder if the sonographer was mistaken. The pain seemed confirmation that yes, the baby was dead. Her body was beginning to understand that the baby was dead.

For, you see, the ultrasound showed that the baby had died three weeks ago. Probably on the very night of the first progesterone injection; the same night when the heartbeat had seemed so strong.

She checked into the hospital, had the D&C, and woke up from the anesthesia to find she had been crying before she even woke. The recovery room nurse stood over her, patting her hand and wiping away tears. When she groaned in pain, the nurse decreased the rate on the culprit — the pitocin drip.

The floor nurse told her, You have to eat, drink, and pee. If you do that, you can go home when the pitocin drip is complete.

She gave her sandwich to a hungry family member. She couldn’t eat and didn’t like sandwiches anyway. She reached over and opened up the pitocin drip all the way and gritted her teeth against the cramping as her uterus clamped down.

Then she called the nurse, signed her discharge papers, and went home. That’s all she wanted: her own home, her own bed, her husband’s arms around her.

A week later, at the follow-up appointment, the doctor asked how she was doing. She nodded her head, said, Fine, and burst into tears. He reminded her of the story of David and Bathsheba — how David fasted and lay on the ground and would accept no comfort when their baby was born ill. But when he received news that his baby died, he washed himself and ate food saying,

“While the child was still alive, I fasted and wept; For I said, ‘Who knows, the Lord may be gracious to me, that the child may live.’

“But now he has died; why should I fast? Can I bring him back again? I will go to him but he will not return to me.” (2 Samuel 12:22-23)

So there was healing, after a time. She found comfort in the hope that she will hold her child, someday. She accepted that her experience was not unique; many other women have experienced the same hurt and there are many who’ve experienced far worse.

Now, many years later, she can look back and be grateful for the family who surrounded her as she grieved and for the medical professionals who took time out of their weekend to care for her. She is able to accept that things happen for reasons that are outside of our comprehension and that we may be lucky in the end to have a limited understanding of the grand scheme.

But every year, on this date, she honors the life of the child she carried for a short time. She prays and begs the angels to love the child as much as she would have, had he been born.

And then she gets back to the business of loving the children she was able to carry and deliver safely.

And she is thankful.

Tinkerbell

I haven’t posted anything of substance for a while because all I wanted to write about was our beloved puppy and how sad I have been since she was killed. I knew that someone who meant well would eventually tell me to stop writing about it and get on with my life. Well, the problem with that is that I need to write about it in order to move on with my life

Several of you have asked what happened. One of the boys left the door from the utility room to the garage open. Tinkerbell loved to sneak into the laundry room where it is warm and quiet and take naps. On the night she was killed, she had been playing with the boys and my friend’s little girl all night. She was exhausted and went into the laundry room to sleep. I am sure she saw the open door and decided to run outside to play with the cat or look for the children. It just so happens that our neighbors across the street, who she loved, pulled up in their driveway. She ran across the street to greet them and was hit by a car before she made it across.

It was a horrible and traumatic event for our family. We loved our dog like she was a member of the family. For her to have been lying in my lap one moment and lying dead on a piece of cardboard in the driveway as we keened in the next moment seems to me to be one of the most unfair and unacceptable events of my life so far.

We buried her in her pink fuzzy blanket. A kind neighbor helped Brad with the grim task of digging the grave. When the neighbor left, the four of us stood clutching each other and sobbing as we stared at the patch of ground and tried desperately to wrap our minds around the fact that we would never again hear the clicking of Tinkerbell’s toenails on the wood floor or watch her slide around as she chased after her rubber ball.

I asked if anyone wanted to say a prayer but the guys were all too choked up. Brad tried to speak but, in the end, could only shake his head. So, I pulled my family to me and prayed:

“God, thank you for placing Tinkerbell in our lives for a short time. She taught us to love better and more tenderly and to laugh easily and often. Please take Tinkerbell in your arms and love her until we can see her again. Please make sure she knows joy and happiness, for that is what she brought to our lives.”

And then we walked slowly back into the house. We sat on the couch feeling stunned. The five year old asked to look at some pictures of Tinkerbell so we sat and smiled at all of the pictures where we had insisted that Tinkerbell be part of the photo, just because.We eventually went to bed. I slept little and woke to realize that I had started crying even before opening my eyes. I called Sharon at a very early hour and, while I cried, she sketched the beautiful drawing of Tinkerbell being held in the arms of an angel. I couldn’t believe how comforting it was to me to look at the drawing. I shall forever be grateful.

I’ve been so touched by the outpouring of love from friends and family. I was the recipient of so much kindness from the blogging community and I wish to thank everyone who commented or e-mailed.

We loved Tinkerbell and I am sure I will still write about her, especially in the next few weeks and months. As a tribute to her and to help fill the huge hole in our hearts left by her death, we recently bought not one, but TWO puppies. They will never replace Tinkerbell and we never hope to replace her. But we love them and they love us and I know that Tinkerbell would want the boys to have puppies to love them.

So, in the past week, I have learned that there are few things in life that can’t be made easier when holding an armful of puppies and I have thanked God countless times for placing soft and cuddly puppies on the Earth.

Breath of Heaven

Breath of Heaven is one of my favorite songs. I listen to it year round even though it is really a Christmas song. It’s surprising that I love it so well because Amy Grant is definitely not one of my favorite singers.

The part of the song that hits me right in the most vulnerable and hidden place inside my heart is when she sings, Help me be strong . . . Help me be . . .Help me. It’s timed so beautifully and it always comforts me because it serves as a reminder that I don’t always have to know what to pray for. All I have to ask is, “help me.”

I am notorious for trying to do things all by myself. I ask for no help and rarely accept it when it is offered. It pains me to admit that my tendency to present myself to the world as being bulletproof may be the one major dysfunction that I have not had the courage to tackle head on. It really causes me so much pain. I should do something about it. The problem with acting bulletproof is that everyone believes I really am bulletproof. And the sad reality is that I am just as fragile as anyone else and, in all reality, probably more fragile than most.

I’m grieving for the loss of our poor, sweet, little puppy and, at the same time, trying to be here for my children as they grieve. I am so sad and confused and angry and bewildered and frightened. I am expending so much energy simply to remain upright that I have none left for maintaining the emotional armor that I wear so diligently. Every disappointment, every slight, every sadness is piercing straight to my heart. I feel so naked. I feel so desperate for comfort and love. I need something so badly but I can’t put my finger on what it is, exactly.

Since I don’t know what to pray for, I am simply praying: “Help me.”

Breath of Heaven

I am waiting in a silent prayer
I am frightened by the load I bear
In a world as cold as stone,
Must I walk this path alone?
Be with me now
Be with me now

Do you wonder as you watch my face
If a wiser one one should have had my place
But I offer all I am
For the mercy of your plan
Help me be strong
Help me be
Help me

Breath of heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of heaven

Breath of heaven
Light up my darkness
Pour over me your holiness
For you are holy

Breath of heaven

Thank You

Thank you to Sharon for this beautiful drawing which has comforted me and my family very much while mourning the loss of our beloved puppy.

Where To Bury A Dog

There are various places within which a dog may be buried. We are thinking now of a setter, whose coat was flame in the sunshine, and who, so far as we are aware, never entertained a mean or an unworthy thought. This setter is buried beneath a cherry tree, under four feet of garden loam, and at its proper season the cherry strews petals on the green lawn of his grave. Beneath a cherry tree, or an apple, or any flowering shrub of the garden, is an excellent place to bury a good dog. Beneath such trees, such shrubs, he slept in the drowsy summer, or gnawed at a flavorous bone, or lifted head to challenge some strange intruder. These are good places, in life or in death. Yet it is a small matter, and it touches sentiment more than anything else.

For if the dog be well remembered, if sometimes he leaps through your dreams actual as in life, eyes kindling, questing, asking, laughing, begging, it matters not at all where that dog sleeps at long and at last. On a hill where the wind is unrebuked and the trees are roaring, or beside a stream he knew in puppyhood, or somewhere in the flatness of a pasture land, where most exhilarating cattle graze. It is all one to the dog, and all one to you, and nothing is gained, and nothing lost — if memory lives. But there is one best place to bury a dog. One place that is best of all.

If you bury him in this spot, the secret of which you must already have, he will come to you when you call — come to you over the grim, dim frontiers of death, and down the well-remembered path, and to your side again. And though you call a dozen living dogs to heel they should not growl at him, nor resent his coming, for he is yours and he belongs there.

People may scoff at you, who see no lightest blade of grass bent by his footfall, who hear no whimper pitched too fine for mere audition, people who may never really have had a dog. Smile at them then, for you shall know something that is hidden from them, and which is well worth the knowing.

The one best place to bury a good dog is in the heart of his master.

by Ben Hur Lampman

We loved you, Tinkerbell.

thoughts after watching The Prince of Tides

Note from Heather: I am feeling better, but Crash was awake most of the night with an earache. My sleep deprivation has apparently caused me to let my guard down and write about heavier subject matter than I usually care to discuss in this forum.

---

When I was home sick Thursday, I learned that a person can only sleep so much even if that person’s favorite hobby is sleeping. Most of our movies are still packed up in a storage shed as a result of our almost move so it was slim pickins for entertainment. I did find two movies that had somehow avoided being packed and they happened to be two of my favorites.First I watched The Prince of Tides. Most of you know that I am a huge Barbra Streisand fan. Shaddup. I think I was a gay man in another life. I love Barbra Streisand, Dolly Parton, feather boas, vintage clothing and costume jewelry. But I digress. The Prince of Tides has always been one of my favorite movies. More than anything, I am mesmerized by the cinematography. I live in a very barren place and I am always captivated by the beauty that is South Carolina. I’ve also always been struck by the raw emotion the actors portray.

On Thursday, however, I felt like I was watching The Prince of Tides through a new set of eyes. I still love the movie, but I felt like I had been beat up by the time the credits rolled across the screen. During the scene when the three children jumped into the water and held hands to escape the reality of their world, I found myself wanting to shout, “Stay under as long as you can! Only pain is waiting for you at the surface.” I watched the little girl’s hair floating above her head like a halo and wanted to scoop her into my arms and run away with her. I’ve often experienced that impulse since I became a mother. In my grandest delusions, I am the protector and comforter of all children. In real life, I rarely know what to say to children who’ve been hurt. I am much better with adults. But still, I wish I could protect and comfort.

As I’ve grown older, I have also grown so much less naive. I know that is usual and expected. But sometimes I long for the days when a movie about a boy’s fractured childhood was only a movie. I wish I could still believe that children are never subjected to such horrors. I wish I could say that I knew for a fact that mothers and fathers never hurt their children. I wish I could say that I know why some children are subjected to abuse at the hands of authority figures who should inspire trust. I wish I could say that such horrible, horrible acts can be left in the past and not influence those who survive every single day of their lives. I wish, I wish, I wish.

Even though The Prince of Tides was a totally different experience for me this time, it wasn’t an altogether negative one. Really, I can’t say it was negative at all. A lot of healing took place for the characters in the movie and that is a very positive thing. Because he confronted the demons from his childhood, the main character was able to love and be loved in return. He was able to return to his family and effectively step back into his role as husband and father.

I feel like I am making such a mess of explaining how I felt as the TV screen went blank. I sat and stared at the dark screen until the tape reached it’s end and a high-pitched hum broke my reverie. And, now that I think about it, I think the movie achieved it’s purpose. It made me think.

My final thoughts (for now) on the subject are that I still hate it that human beings can wound each other so deeply. I hate it that, long after wounds to the flesh have healed, the soul still bears deep scars.

But I am so very, very grateful for the healing that can take place. The human spirit is so strong. The will to keep moving through the pain, through the bad days, day after day is strong. I am grateful that, when one keeps putting one foot in front of another, sooner or later there will be as many good days as bad. And hopefully, there is a time when the good days out number the bad. I am grateful for those survivors who can acknowledge their pain and yet also acknowledge that the horrors of their past do not have to define them. I am grateful for those who still love deeply and generously despite the many times they have opened their hearts only to be hurt again.

My life has been blessed by so many lovely people who have survived things that I can’t even imagine. Many, many of my friends were hurt as children. I was a witness to much of the pain inflicted on some of them. All of them are wise beyond their years as a result. All of them are remarkable human beings. All of them are blessings in my life.

Lucky

As I mentally composed today’s blog entry in my head this morning, I planned on telling you how bad I have it. I am sick with a stomach virus and I had to go to work anyway because there was a very important meeting that couldn’t be missed and a twenty-four page error report on my desk that has to be fixed today. Brad is out of town until this evening, so I had no one to help me get the kids ready for school despite feeling so poorly. Woe is me and all that jazz.

Then, I got a phone call from my friend Rhonda. Now, I am writing to tell you that I am blessed. So are you. If your children are alive and well, you are doing better than many unfortunate parents out in the world.

Rhonda’s good friend, Evelyn, is burying one daughter tomorrow and marrying another daughter on Saturday. Evelyn’s daughter was killed in a car wreck between Portales and Lubbock a couple of days ago. She was letting a friend drive her car. They accidentally ran through a highway stop sign and were hit by two cars. Evelyn’s daughter was the only person killed. An elderly couple is in the hospital with injuries and the driver of Evelyn’s daughter’s car broke her arm.

I’ve only met Evelyn once. She is a woman of great strength and faith. But, can even the strongest and most faithful of women bear to lose a child? I honestly can’t imagine such a thing. It used to scare Brad because I told him I would kill myself if I lost my child because I couldn’t bear the pain. I think now that, even were I to go on breathing, I would still be dead. Who can keep living when their baby is gone?

I am also grieving for the bride who will be married Saturday. Her wedding will certainly still be a celebration of love, but also a painful reminder that her sister is not there to be a bridesmaid.

My wedding shower was held in a church. Moments before my shower began, there was a funeral held for a 3 year old little boy who had been ran over by a car . Nearly all of my guests walked in the door with tears rolling down their face. I felt so guilty celebrating my impending wedding when someone I knew was looking upon their baby’s face for the last time until Heaven. I remember one of the guests saying that the mother of that child had run into the street when she saw her child struck by the car. The baby was badly mangled and nearly unrecognizable, but the mother said all she could see was her beautiful child’s face. All she could do was hang on to him and cry.

When I was pregnant with Crash, I was taking care of a male patient who was in his 40’s. He had suffered cardiac arrest and had not regained consciousness since his rescuscitation. He had very little brain activity and his family decided to withdraw life support. His mother was in the room when we removed his breathing tube. The doctor told the family that it was only a matter of time until he stopped breathing on his own and his mother fainted. As I fell to my knees and worked over his mother, asking everyone to step away and give her room to breathe, I thought of Bump at home and the baby I was carrying in my body at that very moment. It was very difficult not to break down as I realized, This could happen to me. It could happen to anyone.

So, despite being sick and lonely today, I am here to tell you that I feel like the luckiest woman on Earth. I have a husband who loves me and two beautiful children who are happy and healthy. I am going to go home and kiss them and let them know how much they mean to me.

I wish I was different

Bump came in the house after playing outside the other evening and said, “Dillon can’t play because his dad is dying.” I asked him to repeat himself and he said it again. I was immediately struck by a profound sadness that was laced with regret.

You see, I am not a very social person. Do not confuse me for an unpleasant person. I am a very kind-hearted, generous person. Any of my friends will tell you that they don’t come any more loyal, giving and honest than me. I love to give. I give gifts when my friends are stressed out or feeling blue. I send cards and letters to my old friends from high school. I made a quilt for my best friend when she married and another when she had her daughter. I attend weddings and showers. I took Phenergan to my friend Brenda when she was half-dead from the flu. I took painkillers to my friend Carolyn when she was in terrible pain from a minor surgery. I am always available to talk when someone needs me. I still keep up with all of my close friends from high school. That is just the way I am.

But I am not very good at being a neighbor or an acquaintance. I have never figured out how to be friendly without being a close friend. It is difficult for me to chat with the neighbors about trivial things that have happened in the neighborhood or about the weather. It just seems like a waste of time to me. And my neighbors have figured that out. I am friendly with many of the other wives on our street, but you almost never see me joining the gossip sessions in the front yards. In fact, when I see the wives congregating, I usually flee into my house. Brad is gifted with social grace and the housewives are far more likely to gossip with him than with me. He would make a fabulous housewife.

Dillon’s family lives down the street from us. They are lovely people. Dillon and his sister are well-behaved, respectful children. We always purchase items from their school fundraisers and they return the favor when our kids have to sell things. But we never really talk any other time. That’s why I was so saddened to hear that Dillon’s dad was so very ill. I asked another neighbor and she said he has lung cancer with metastasis to the brain and has been sick for a while. I couldn’t stop wondering if we could have been an emotional support for them had we known earlier. I regretted my agoraphobic tendencies and wished I had made friends with them from the beginning.

So yesterday, when I was grocery shopping, I bought several muffin mixes. I am going to bake them up a basket of muffins, buy a bouquet of flowers and take them down the street along with an offer to help in any way I can.

Despite my feelings of regret, I will probably continue to shy away from the neighbor ladies. I am wired to always feel awkward in such circumstances. And I hate that about myself. I wish I was different. However, I think that my compassionate nature will serve me well in ministering to this family whose hearts are breaking every minute of every day. I hope they will let me help them. I hope they will take advantage of my kindness. I hope I can make up for being an elusive neighbor.

Katrina

I have been reading about the damage inflicted by Katrina. Somehow, a flippant, happy blog entry would seem so backward today. Instead, I will be praying for the families who have loved ones to lay to rest and homes to rebuild in the wake of the hurricane.