Fears after Child Loss

From the moment of hearing that our precious James Isaac no longer had a heartbeat, I have had two fears: 

1. that he would be forgotten
2. that he would be remembered

Let me explain the second fear first since I'm sure that seems strange to you. After the loss of a loved one, especially a child, hearing the loved one's name brings a feeling that is super difficult to explain. Those who have experienced it will know what I'm talking about. It's kind of like having butterflies in your stomach when you're nervous before a test or recital or the like, but yet it's MORE. 

My heart flutters, my stomach drops down into my toes, the butterflies fly en masse, my heart stops beating, my face goes red, my face blanches, I feel faint, I feel like running [away]. The feeling is even worse when someone I don't know or who never knew my James Isaac (or Panya Ruth or Anna Rose) says his name (or their names). Or when someone I'm not too terribly fond of says his (their) name.

It is difficult to hear the name of my beloved son and those of his sisters spoken out loud. In my grieving, I have found it super difficult to say their names myself. I went a long time not even being able to write their names. I still hesitate and have to remind myself to breathe when I say their names. 

Why? You may ask and it is a valid question--especially if you haven't experienced such loss. Because their names bring the memories to the forefront--again--flooding back to the surface like a tsunami, ready to drown me in sorrow once again. The pain of my losses is ALWAYS just below the surface as it is; it's always ready to explode at the slightest provocation, especially when someone speaks their name. Most of the time, I can smile and laugh and LIVE and function in as normal a manner as possible--living in the full JOY of the Lord. But it only takes one tiny thing, saying his name, to open the floodgates.

But I NEED to hear his name--their names. I NEED to know that they are remembered. I mean, come on. I carried James Isaac to term. I was at 38 weeks when we discovered his heart was no longer beating. And while Panya Ruth and Anna Rose were both gone by my 11th week, my heart had already fallen in love with them the same way it had for the one I carried full term. My babies LIVED. Just because the state of North Carolina never gave me a birth certificate doesn't mean that they didn't live. My heart, my body, and my very soul know that each one was just as alive and whole as the one son I have here with me, Samuel. (Samuel is my rainbow baby just recently turned 16!)

So when I received the following note just a few weeks ago, the emotions that ran through me are next to impossible to describe:

My heart.

Ben's mom, Leslie, and I worked together at the same school and we were both pregnant at the same time. I was about two months further along than she was, but we were close enough that we developed a quick, easy, and strong relationship in our shared joy of pregnancy. We are close in age and have many similar interests and personality traits. It was a JOY to be pregnant together. (This picture is of us at Miami Beach when we took our Seniors on their Senior trip. That's Ben in her very pregnant belly.)

We often talked about the play dates our boys would have and how they would grow up together as the closest of friends, just like their moms. It is a treasured time in my life.

But then James Isaac was stillborn, born still, born silent.

Leslie was there to hold my hand, to comfort, to pray with me, and to just BE with me. She was a true FRIEND in my hour of need and I will NEVER forget that she felt as if she had lost her child, too. It meant so much to me that she loved my Precious so very much. I was able to visit and hold and love on Ben soon after he was born and Leslie came to see us two years later when my Samuel was born.

But over the years, we both moved on to other jobs and we simply have not been able to hang out and do things together. We have managed to stay connected via Facebook, which has been wonderful!! We haven't actually seen each other in 16 years.

And then Ben's note arrived in the mail. 

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Watson,

            For as far back as I can remember, my Mom has told me about the sweet teacher friend she had when she worked at TCCS. I grew up hearing about how you and she were carrying babies at the same time and that your boy and I were supposed to be playmates and close friends. Every time something big or realy [sic] special happened in my life, my Mom and I would take a little time to remember him and your family.

A few weeks before his 18^th birthday you wrote a blog about all the things you and he wouldn’t be doing. My Mom read that blog to me, and I knew right away something I wanted to do. I want you to know that you are special to me even though we don’t realy [sic] know each other. And even though James Isaac and I didn’t get to physically grow up together I still knew him. I have carried him with me my whole life.

And if it would be okay with you, I would like to write his name inside my Mortar Board along with my name so that we can across that stage together on June 9^th. I would love to see you there if that wouldn’t be too difficult. If you can’t I will understand. I just want you to know that he’s always been with me.

Love,

Benjamin Heath Benson”

Distance doesn't matter in the slightest when a friend is real and true. Time doesn't matter in the slightest when a friend is real and true. Leslie is both. And to learn that she remembered my James Isaac to such a degree that she told her son Ben all about him and about our dreams for our boys made my heart do all kinds of crazy wonderful things. My heart was truly full to bursting. I messaged Leslie and told her that I would be at Ben's graduation--as would my husband James and my Samuel.

There are no words for the JOYFUL SORROW I have experienced over the past several weeks and especially as we watched Ben cross the stage last night at his high school graduation. All I can do is tell my precious friend, Leslie, and her wonderful son, Ben--THANK YOU. Thank you. Thank you.

I love you dearly and I always will.

 

And I can't help including a picture of Leslie and me with our students at their Senior Formal.

My Beloved Little One, Panya Ruth

When I first learned that I was pregnant, six months after James Isaac's stillbirth, I already had names picked out. Even so, from the very first, I began calling him/her "Little One." I wrote in my journal every day of my short pregnancy, always referring to him/her as my Little One. I had found the name "Panya" in a baby name book. I loved that it was so close to panda and then when I read that it meant "little," the name was sealed--at least if we were having a girl, that was. After losing James Isaac, I was almost desperate for my Little One to be safe.

Seventeen years ago today, I spent the day bleeding--knowing in my heart-of-hearts what that meant. I remember using the bathroom late Sunday evening and noticing some blood, but convincing myself that it was just hemorrhoids. Then on Wednesday, November 10, just before school started, there was more blood. We had chapel that day; I sat in the back as far away from everyone that I could get but still be in the actual chapel with my students and cried as I begged and pleaded and bargained with God to make what I feared NOT true. 

By the end of my school day, I knew that I was in the process of miscarrying. I had no idea what to do. No one ever prepares us for THIS. None of the baby books, tv shows, or conversations had told me what the protocol was when bleeding so early in a pregnancy. I was unprepared and scared out of my mind.

When my husband and I were both home from school later that afternoon, I told him what was going on. Since it was a Wednesday, he was focused on church--he's a pastor, you know. We agreed that it would be better for me to stay home. We had attempted to call my doctor's office but had not been given any definitive answer concerning what we should do. 

The bleeding had grown steadily worse throughout the day and into the evening. I was bleeding through pads almost faster than I could change them. I called my husband at church and told him that I needed him to come home; he sent one of our church folks over with some heavy-duty pads.

We ended up at the emergency room where it was confirmed that I was miscarrying. It was determined that a D&C was the best option. 

I remember waking up crying--sobbing--shaking all over with every fiber of my being. I couldn't stop. In spite of being still drugged, my body and my brain knew what I had been through and it was just too much.

Such details are as real to me in this very moment as they were seventeen years ago. It's as if time has not passed. Yet there are other details about that day and evening and into the following days that I couldn't recall if you tortured me in an attempt to get me to give more details. 

My Little One--my Panya Ruth--was gone. Praying hadn't worked. Begging hadn't worked. Crying hadn't worked. Wanting desperately with every fiber of my being hadn't worked. NOTHING had worked to keep from happening what clearly was inevitable. 

I currently should have a son in his senior year of high school; a daughter as a junior; Samuel a sophomore; and an eleven-year old in 5th grade. 

Days like today have gotten easier to get through over the years, but time has not lessened my desperate desire to have ALL my children here with me. I imagine that my "Little One" would be short and stocky, like her mom, with a shy, yet friendly personality--opposite of her mom. I imagine that her favorite color would be pink, but she would hang out with her dad and older brother at any and every opportunity--even if it meant fishing or hunting. So yes, she would wear pink camo--and look absolutely adorably gorgeous! She would have dark hair and brown eyes. She would love to read; she and I would constantly be reading books together and discussing them. 

Don't think that I am falling back into depression again. I'm not. Praise the Lord. It is a simple truth that having lost a very much wanted baby has left a hole in my heart--3 holes when I include James Isaac and Anna Rose, as well. These holes heal, but have left painful scar tissue that is irritated most on anniversaries/birthdays and holidays.

So don't worry about, but please do pray for me. The enemy likes to

attack me more during days like today than usual. I am finally learning how to combat him, though. With the power of the Holy Spirit and the armor of God that I put on daily, I am able to STAND FIRM against him. The battle has already been won. My Little One is in heaven, safe in the loving arms of Jesus Himself, ready and waiting for the wonderful day when I will join her and be able to hold her myself.

In the meantime, God has anointed me with His oil of Joy and I hope and pray that I live a life worthy of His anointing.

Anniversaries are always difficult

Tomorrow is November 10, 2014.  Fifteen years ago tomorrow, my sweet Panya Ruth miscarried.  I have no idea, honestly, if this baby was a girl or not; all I know is what was in my heart.  I had read that it is important to name our beloveds regardless of how long they live.  I had already had a name picked out.  I had found the name Panya in a baby book; it means "little."  I had thought of that baby as "Little One" from the moment I'd found out I was pregnant, so it fit.  Besides, it sounded an awful lot like Panda and since I love pandas, it was a natural choice!  Ruth was my Grandma Kinsey's name (my paternal grandma).

I want to take off from work tomorrow and do something in honor of my Precious.  She would have been fifteen years old this year.  Wow.  I'm old enough to have a fifteen year old.  I have some friends who are my age who are already grandparents and have been grandparents for years, but since my only living son is 13-and a half, I still find it difficult to believe that I'm old enough to have a fifteen year old.

I try to imagine too much what she would be like at this age because it hurts too much, but my imagination--my mind--goes there when I least expect it.  Would she have been a girly-girl and wanted to be involved in cheerleading?  Or volleyball?  Or any sport, for that matter?  Maybe even wrestling, like Samuel?  Would she have been a tomboy?  What would be her favorite color?  Her favorite book?  Her favorite tv show?  Would she have a boyfriend?  Would she follow in her mama's footsteps and be overweight or would she be my inspiration to get healthy?  Would she and Samuel get along?  How would I feel knowing that she would be getting ready to drive?  Would she like to draw?  Write?  What would she be thinking about becoming when she grows up?  

She would be in 9th grade, right?  Would she have gone to Challenger?  

Would she like to shop--with her mom?  Would she like to go to the movies--with her mom?  Would we be close?  Would I be her mom rather than her friend?

I will never know any of the answers to my questions while here on this earth.  I may be sad over the next few days, but this is when my Lord promised to carry me--promised me that I will not have to walk this journey alone.  I will rest in Him and let Him send His comforter.  One day, I will spend eternity with ALL my babies and that is something worth being Joyful about!