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All In

October 23, 2017 | C+C Guest Writer

My son was born weighing one pound and was seven inches long. He spent six hours outside of me. He will never get any bigger. What’s left of his physical being is sitting in my closet. I just can’t bring myself to put his ashes into the urn I spent days looking for and customizing on Etsy. It feels too final.

I’m a bereaved mom.

I’m also a toddler mom.

Most days, it feels like trying to sprint while wearing cement shoes.

I met my daughter in 2014 after a very long induction. I was admitted to the the hospital on a Friday morning, and by the time she was born I no longer knew what day it was. It didn’t matter. She was here and we had a lifetime of moments to share together. Her birth was loud; I was screaming, thanks to an unintended med-free delivery, and she came out screaming. My girl has been living in full color with the volume on high ever since. She’s a talker, great sleeper (hallelujah!), loves sunglasses, and today she wants to be a teacher/pony/bus driver when she grows up. She’s an extroverted firstborn who is highly opinionated and drinks ranch dressing out of the little containers at Chick-fil-A.

I met my son in 2017 after a long induction. He was born still and lifeless. Quiet. It was just after 10 a.m., on a Saturday. The sun had finally broken through the clouds after raining for three days. I dreaded the ticking of the clock, because it meant our time together on earth was ending. I counted every moment knowing we were running out of time. The silence of his birth was both peaceful and deafening. It was the absence of life and a painful reminder of how much we will never know. I’ll never know the sound of his voice, his favorite things, or what his favorite Chick-fil-A condiment would have been. I’ll never see the color of his eyes or know what he wants to be when he grows up.

Because he won’t.

Mothering a two-year-old requires all of me, all the time. Running, playing, cleaning, talking, thinking. ”Mama, let’s do the puzzle!” she calls from the living room, wanting to examine, discuss, and place each puzzle piece together. When my girl is awake, she is moving constantly and is a lover of shared experiences. Always wanting me to look, watch, listen and play with her. She’s deeply alive.

Mothering a baby I’ll never know requires all of me, too, just in a different way. Grief has changed me. It changed our family. Grieving him is how I can dignify his life and how I can still mother him, but it’s so hard. The physical work it takes to live and grieve at once is exhausting. My bones hurt on bad days. I can feel them aching as I walk upstairs to put my daughter to bed in the room we had planned they’d share.

The mental fatigue of grief leaves me drained and forgetful. I feel hungover waking up after a difficult day. I bought under eye cream for those mornings. Watching the mother-son dance at a wedding left me gasping for air in the bathroom. I hadn’t thought about that moment I’d never get until I sat at a table watching, trying my best not to scream. I cancel social engagements on days that answering “so, how are you doing?” feels like it may crack me wide open. My capacity at work has been stunted. I have to ask coworkers to email me any action items or things I committed to do; otherwise I won’t remember our conversation. The ebb and flow of good and bad days make each week unpredictable. It is hard to plan and difficult to know what I am actually capable of accomplishing. Most days, I feel as though I’m trying to anticipate each possible grief bomb as I wade through a minefield. Baby shower invitations, questions about our family, death in (literally every) Disney movie, people not knowing what to say when they see me. I told my therapist that I feel like the elephant in every room. My circumstances aren’t the elephant—I am. My toddler cries and gets angry; she asks when God will give us another baby and if it will get to live at our house.

I don’t know. I tell her, “I hope we get to have a baby at our house someday! You’re such a good big sister.” But I don’t know.

I don’t know when I’ll be ready to do it again. It’s terrifying. I’ve survived one significant loss but now my naiveté is gone. Can I survive another? Endure the wait and parent within the dynamics of adoption? Or manage the anxiety of a normal pregnancy? The answer is no. Or, not right now. Pregnancy was once the most difficult, yet wonderful experience of my life. It has shifted to the place that holds my deepest pain. My journey of motherhood is one of contrast. A dichotomy. One child bursting with life and the other was only known in his death.

My daughter is smart and strong; clever and funny. She has taken to using a faux English accent and calling me “my lady” after overhearing an episode of Downton Abbey.

“This is the best day of my life ever!” she shouts from the Disneyland carousel. Friends watch my Instagram stories for a workday pick-me-up. People don’t ask to see pictures of my son. I struggle to look at them too. His disease marred his body; it made it difficult to see just him and not the disease that killed him.

Has grief done the same to me? I worry about my friends growing weary of loving me, which is a hard and complicated job right now. I feel awkward and uncomfortable whenever I’m not at home. My cocoon. My husband is grieving, too, but we are mourning and feeling different things. I cry for how this has affected my daughter and how she understands the missing piece in her little world. But also? I am proud of the work I’m doing with the help of my therapist, finally stopping to learn myself for the first time in a decade. My body is becoming strong thanks to the yoga membership I’ve got on auto-pay. My bones ache but they are learning to carry me—all of me. My resolve to live—to drink deeply and run lightly and play and laugh on our living room rug—to truly live, it has deepened.

I am realizing that my grief, and a willingness to embrace it, is allowing me to be more human and less a robot. In the process of working towards healing from the loss of my son, I’m finding healing for the wounds I once ignored. The walls I had once built around my heart have crumbled, making it easier to give and receive the love I desperately need. The parts of my heart that were once stone are becoming flesh again.

My son’s life is bearing fruit in my own, and I am grateful, but it’s not a good trade off. The scale will never balance out in my favor. Him being physically here is what I want and it’s exactly what I won’t get. Personal growth in exchange for my child will always be a loss.

But that’s all I’ve got. And I have his sister. His sister who needs the mama who goes to “loga” and sees a doctor for her hurting heart.

I am a bereaved mother.

I am a toddler mother.

I live in both places at once, but I am all in.


Guest post written by Shannon Baker. Shannon lives in Orange County, California, with her husband and daughter. They miss their boy, Matthias Peace every day. She works as the children’s ministry director at her local church where a dixie cup of Goldfish can cure almost anything. She looks forward to one day having hobbies beyond relishing every second of nap time. You can find her on Instagram.

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In The Hard Stuff Tags losing a child, stillborn baby, grief
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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
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I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
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Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
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// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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I leaned towards the window to get a better look at a plaid pair of ankle pants. I studied the pattern and wondered if they’d look cute with an Irish cable-knit fishermen’s sweater Jesse gave me for Christmas years ago. I didn’t get a chance to wear it that often when we were in the DC area, and the weather never got as cold as it does in the Midwest. I shook my foot rapidly while Cara read, and I stared at those ankle pants. I should get rid of that sweater, I thought. After all, minimalist wardrobes are all the rage: only keep what you love. If you haven’t worn it in several years, toss it.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
I hadn’t worn that sweater in years, this is true, but thinking about throwing it out made me sad. I could remember the morning Jesse gave it to me. We were living in South Bend, and he was a graduate student at the University of Notre Dame.  He told me the story behind the sweater—that each pattern is unique to the fisherman so that if he drowns at sea, he can be identified. I thought about a wife sitting by a fire, knitting a sweater for her husband, a pattern designed for him so if she stands next to his lifeless body one day, she can point out the cable and twist stitches down the center, the rib stitch she decided on at the last moment for the sleeves. “This is mine,” she would say, running her fingers over the yarn that was once a pile on her kitchen floor while her husband sat nearby humming “The Night Visiting Song.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
Maybe I’d wear that sweater again someday. It would look cute with those ankle pants. I began to imagine reading my Erasmus paper in that outfit at a writing conference, perhaps the Festival of Faith and Writing in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I would look fantastic, and I would express something about The Praise of Folly that nobody had thought of before.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
// From "Lessons in Folly (an excerpt from Twirl)" by @calliefeyen, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
The plan for the weekend was to worship, listen to speakers, and be together as a community. The only problem: child care was no longer available. After spending two full mornings tucked away in a separate room for the kids to be loud in, I break down into tears. I feel alone. I long for a physical second body. One to share responsibilities with. Mentally and physically I am drained.
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I walk outside to get some fresh air. The only place to sit is a cold metal bench facing a dreary pond. I look to my left and see two canoes. Not one person has dared take them into the green water while we’ve been here. Built to hold people while floating on water, instead they sit upside down on a piece of wood. I feel like the canoes: unnoticed and not living to my potential. Tears fall down my face.
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I don’t understand why I’m still single, I think to myself. I know I am being the best mama to my daughter that I can be, but I also feel I am missing out on something beautiful: a complete family. I long to be loved.
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A couple weeks later, I sprint around the house early one morning. My daughter is sleeping and I am already late for work. Again. With only one shoe on, running around like a madwoman, I  look for my lunch box. It is nowhere to be found.
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My daughter wakes up just in time.
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“What are you looking for, Momma?”
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“My lunch box.” I reply.
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“Oh! Hold on,” she says with utter excitement.
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She crawls out of bed, stumbles into the living room and comes back with my lunch box.
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“Here you go Momma, I made your lunch for you last night!”
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I peek inside the lunchbox to see all of her plastic play food in there. My heart bursts with pure joy.
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We head our way to the car to repeat another day.
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Turns out there is love for me after having a baby. I was just looking in all the wrong places. She was right in front of me the entire time.
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// #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member @woodyface #loveafterbabies
Now, I have breastfed all three of my babies. I am a supporter, even an advocate, for breastfeeding, and I certainly don’t adhere to the notion that a mother must hide herself in a private back room, missing out on sunshine, conversation, or dinner in order to feed her baby. I have nursed my children in all sorts of unusual places—Chick-fil-A, church pews, formal New Year’s Eve parties, and an Eli Young Band concert. More often than not, it is my personal preference to use a cover up, but desperate times called for desperate boob-exposing measures. I wasn’t about to go sit in my hot van for 30 minutes to nurse a baby. This mama ain’t got time for that.
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I proceeded to shop as the suckle, suckle, swallow sound drowned out the cart’s squeaky wheels. I casually scanned produce and peeked inside an egg carton, acting as if this was my norm. I’m just the kind of mom who goes on about life with a baby attached to her nipple for all to see. No big deal. At first I avoided eye contact with other shoppers, particularly with the middle aged man who happened to need the same tub of Greek yogurt at the exact moment I bent over to grab mine. When I saw him lingering near the sweet potatoes and sneaking glances, I pulled down on my son’s chin, attempting to widen his latch and hide more of my breast. His mouth slipped off for a moment, and I’m pretty sure the man saw my boob. Welcome to motherhood.
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But a funny thing happened by the time I reached aisle four; I felt confident, almost proud. I felt like a mom. As it turns out, the past five years have produced a mom who knows what she’s doing every now and then.
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// From "The Man in Aldi Saw My Boob" by guest writer @joybellsbecker, new on C+C today. Link in profile
Birth exposes you in ways you’re not expecting, and I don’t just mean the most private areas of your body, which are exposed to a room full of medical professionals. It exposes your heart, too. Never before have I been so incapable of hiding my innermost feelings; the love for my newborn son, the fear for my ruined body, the awareness of the fragility of life. My husband saw me at my weakest, in every possible way. Now, six weeks later, I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Naked. What if this experience has completely changed how he feels about me?
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My doctor gave me the green light to resume normal activity. I’m healed, she says. But here I am, sitting at a green light, frozen in place. Green light means go, but I’m scared to move forward.
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I take a step closer to the mirror, then shimmy out of my yoga pants and tank top, slipping on the black lace lingerie. Maybe he doesn’t see me the same way. But it’s possible that what he says is true, and after all this, he loves me even more. I want so desperately to trust him and let his reassurances drown out the self-deprecating voice in my head.
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God had to literally knock me off my feet for me to finally let someone see me completely. All I want to do right now is build my walls back up, but I won’t. Isn’t this the whole idea of marriage? Truly seeing someone and loving them anyway? And truly letting yourself be seen and letting yourself be loved?
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Our bedroom door quietly creaks open. I turn toward my husband, my heart racing with fear and anticipation and everything in between. Within seconds, he’s crossed the room, filling the space between us.
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His kiss tells me more than words possibly could.
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// From "Green Light Means Go" by an anonymous guest writer, new on C+C today. Link in profile.
A stack of puzzles sits atop our office desk. Each puzzle has at least one missing piece. We’ve searched couch cushions, rearranged furniture, and moved tables and dressers. We don’t give up, at least not yet; the stack of puzzles attests to that fact. Their presence reminding us to keep looking, to keep hoping to find what is lost.
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I want to tell my husband that our marriage, or our love more aptly, is like those missing puzzle pieces.
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Not necessarily lost for all time, but buried underneath something else.
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I try to remember the excitement and tingle of first love and the joy of being together on long car rides. Those feelings are still there, yet most days I fear they’re buried beneath the rigors and busyness of our day-to-day lives.
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Some days I’ll go to bed without saying goodnight or giving a good night kiss - not because I don’t feel anything, but because I just can’t do one more thing.
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My love lies hidden with the puzzle pieces under the couch.
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The other day, our daughter came running to us both. Cheering and exclaiming, “This, this, this!” as she shows us a puzzle piece. She places it in the missing hole. The puzzle is complete once again.
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She’s cheering, we’re cheering.
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The piece wasn’t lost, just waiting for us to find it. Waiting for us to be surprised by its presence once again.
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There are moments when my feelings of love come bursting forth. I want to cheer, too, like my daughter. “This, this, this. This is the love I know and felt.” I want to jump for joy again and fall into your arms.
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I hope we’ll keep unearthing this love, keep searching for it, for years to come. Leaving pieces of ourselves and this love wherever we go.
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We fit together, you and I.
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We belong together like the one missing piece that can’t be found until you’ve stopped looking for it, and find it suddenly right where you left it.
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// #loveafterbabies #ccfreewrite by #exhalecreativity member Kimberly Knowle-Zeller
"We’ll figure it out." They seem like rote, meaningless words, don’t they? If there’s a continuum from the solid confidence of “A Plan” to the futility of “Grasping at Straws,” “figuring it out” feels like it falls closer to the latter. In the face of fear and uncertainty about things as big and weighty as health and financial stability, it’s a solution so nebulous and ambiguous that it should fall flat upon delivery. Instead it has provided courage, absolution, and comfort by turn.
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Why?
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I can’t be sure, but I think it’s the “we” that makes the difference. My fear and shame is Jon’s. His worry and anxiety is mine. It’s not just my stuff to work through or his to deal with. It’s ours, and I’m learning that it’s just as much an act of love to allow someone else to carry your burdens as it is to be the one who offers to help. We’ll figure it out has become our shorthand for “I’m going to help you carry this and you’re going to let me because of the love between us.”
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It took six months of the tightest budget imaginable, but we figured out quitting my job.
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It took a few extra writing gigs and moving some money from savings, but we figured out the credit card bill.
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And it took two weeks of tests, but I was sitting in the doctor’s office with Jon when we found out that his heart is fine—the irregularities are harmless and nothing to worry about.
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After 10 years of marriage, we’ve learned there are times for plans and research and arguments and spreadsheets. And then there are times to close the computer, stop debating, and make the call. There are my battles, his battles, and the ones we fight together, guarding each other’s weak side. There are nights when we stay up for hours, talking through options. And there are nights when the only words we need are "I know." "I understand." "We’ll figure it out."
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// From "We'll Figure It Out" by @jennbatchelor, new on C+C today. Link in profile.

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