A year ago today.... Happy Birthday, Delaney.

A year ago today I met my little girl. The biggest blessing I never knew I wanted or needed.

Delaney's pregnancy was physically beautiful and easy. I wasn't in maternity clothes until the sixth month, very little weight gain, perfect blood pressure throughout ... healthy and happy in every way.  She always measured on track and the pregnancy was progressing picture perfect.

Emotionally I was a wreck most of the time. The circumstances were difficult.  But, more so, the fear was paralyzing many days. 

Every morning when I woke I would lay still and wait to feel her move.  I would sigh out the breath I didn't know I was holding when she'd begin to stir inside my womb.  Every day that I was blessed to feel her was another day closer to - hopefully - meeting her.  I lost count of how many batteries I went through with the at-home Doppler that was always by my side.  I was paranoid and scared every day. Would this be my last day with her?  I had no warning with Colton.  One day he was just ... gone.  Would that happen again?

My baby shower was June 1.  I was a little leery to have a shower. Two weeks after Colton's shower, he was gone.  But my dear friends insisted, and we kept it small, and it was beautiful.  A few hours after I got home, though, I started contracting. And throwing up.  Something wasn't right and I knew it. 

D took me to the hospital where they monitored me for a bit. There was no dilation, and no regular contracting pattern.  Delaney's heartbeat, though, was upward of 210, back down to 160, up to 190, back down.... They released me, but I knew something wasn't okay.

I rested all day Sunday. I just felt off and laid down all day.  My OB appointment was Monday morning, so I just laid low all day... 

Monday morning, June 3rd, 8 a.m., D and I went to the doctor for my weekly check up.  Because of Colton's passing we were super vigilant and also doing weekly biophysical profiles.  As soon as we started the ultrasound I knew something was off.  During the BPP ultrasound the tech measures the fluid, measures the heart rate, and measures movement. If the baby fails any area then its on to intervention.

Delaney wasn't moving.  At all. We had just had a big sugary breakfast but she wasn't moving around. I made the tech check her heart beat at least three times, the last time asking her to just let me watch it for a few minutes.  Her heart was beating. I had to focus on that. 

They give the baby 30 minutes to "perform".  If after that time they still haven't met all the requirements they move to further monitoring.  Delaney failed.

Dr. Clare met us in the exam room immediately after and was pretty direct.  He said "baby is coming today".  Whoa. Okay.  We discussed briefly that at 37 weeks she had a 15% chance of needing a short NICU visit.  Okay. I can handle that.  Then shit got real. Like really real.  Dr. Clare said "go straight across the street to the hospital... I'm going to monitor you for no more than an hour.... if I don't like how she looks on the monitor we're taking her by c-section immediately...if she looks okay we'll attempt a vbac with strict monitoring....first sign of an issue and she's out... "

It flowed into my mind like that ... fragmented ... discombobulated. All I heard, in my head, was "Oh my God, I may lose her". 

She did well in the hour monitoring, so we proceeded with induction. Things moved slowly, which was a good thing in the end. 

At about 9 p.m. I was dilated to an 8 and I sat up to help move Delaney down and deliver. As I sat at the end of the bed I began to weep.  I knew her delivery was very near.  And I felt this heaviness.  This fear. This anticipation. This longing.  This sadness.  This worry.

D looked at me and simply said "Colton?".  He held me as I wept more. And he stood me up and ...

I said "push", the only word I could get out in the intensity of the wave of pressure and nausea. It was time.  D said "push what"?! and the nurse and doctor had already sprinted into the room and pieces of the bed were flying, the nurse was stern in saying "Lay her back down NOW" and Dr. Clare, always a pillar of calm, sternly said "It's time now". 

One big push and her head was out and I felt the need to push again.  My eyes were closed and my body was pushing when I heard Dr. Clare very sternly say "Jenn I need you to stop the pushing NOW".  I looked down and Delaney was blue. And silent. 

Half a cord wrap removed.... one full cord wrap removed... second full cord wrap removed....

Another push and she was out. And it was probably seconds but felt like hours when she screamed.  It was singularly the most beautiful, powerful, amazing moment of my life.  She made it.  SHE MADE IT. She was crying. She was alive.

Later Dr. Clare talked to me about what happened. Apparently when I stood up her heart beat shot up then plummeted.  She was suffocating.  He told me that he ran in because one way or another we needed her out immediately. I could have lost her.  I don't know what I would have done, if I would have survived, if I'd had to bury a second baby. 

I cannot help but think her angel, her big brother, was looking over us that weekend. I believe he protected her when the doctors didn't.  We are sure she was wrapped all weekend and that's why I was sick Saturday night and hear heart rate was all over the place.  I fully believe Colton protected her until we could get her out on Monday. 

Her story is so much more complicated and this first year has been a whirlwind.  (You can read through the blog for more details, if needed).  Finding out that D wasn't her father, but indeed B was, really rocked all of our worlds.  There have been lowest of lows and highest of highs.  I'm at a point of complete acceptance and peace.  B and I will probably only ever be co-parents at best.  I would love a friendship for our daughter, but - at least right now - that doesn't seem possible.  D still loves her, and she loves him, and his bravery and his love humbles me and makes me so appreciative of the man he is to both of us. I feel at peace with where life is, and where it's going, and know that all things are beyond our understanding or control.  But they are perfectly orchestrated as only God understands. 

Today is such a joyous, bittersweet, emotional day.  This last year has held a lot of pain for all the adults involved.  A lot of struggle, a lot of broken hearts ... a lot of victory and healing as well.

Most importantly, it's been a beautiful journey with the most wonderful gift I never knew I wanted or needed.

Delaney is truly a blessing and a radiant light in all of our lives.  She is happy and healthy and perfect in every way.  Her spirit is contagious, her smile melts every one's hearts, and her joy brightens every single day.

I look at her and I know everything will be okay.  She brings my soul such joy and I couldn't be more humbled and proud to be her mom.

I miss Colton every single moment of every single day.  I look in Delaney and I see him and it's bittersweet to wonder who he would be, too.  I feel, though, that Heaven shines on her and she's a little gift.  A gift of peace and love and joy and a gift of a piece of her brother in heaven here on earth. 

I remember a year ago like it was an hour ago....

Happy, happy birthday to my sweet Delaney.  My heart feels overflowing with love, pride, and joy to be her mommy!

 

A simple little saying so true,

How very deeply, I miss you. 

Somdays are easier than others. Some days don't seem hard at all.

Some days I feel like I'm standing on a cliff,

Bracing myself for the fall. 

I wake up in the morning and long to hear your sounds.

The ache of missing you, the emptiness in my heart pounds.

You're never far, Yet always away.

Never to be run or laugh or gigled or play...

I miss you in the morning. I miss you all day.

I miss you when I drift to sleep, in my dreams, and all the moments in between.

Other people do not notice, they remain so unaware.

I wrap myself in the memory of us, my special blanket of care.

You, my love, are always with me, in every second, in every way.

I miss you, sweet baby boy.  In my heart you will always stay. 

 

Life is a Game

Life has thrown me some curve balls.  I have caught myself in pickles moving from base to base when I should have stayed safely where I was or committed to going all the way.  I have struck out, I have walked.  I have swung for the fences. I have scored. I have been tagged out.  I have felt victory, I have felt defeat. 

But I have played the game. I keep going up to bat. I keep swinging for the fences, and accepting whatever outcome plays out.

Life isn't meant to be sat on the benches.  Life is played inning by inning, each with a new chance. 

The only way to succeed, the only way to be victorious, is to participate.

I love my team.  It's a little team, but it's mine, and it's perfect.  I have all the equipment I need to succeed, and all the cheerleaders I need in defeat.

Some days are harder than others. 

I say suit up. Get in the game.  You cannot compete in this crazy world without taking a swing and shooting for the stars.

Silence

Often times when people are silent we assume everything is going well.  We think "no news is good news".

Most of the time, in my experience, silence is the epicenter of sadness.  It is when we are silent that we are hurting the most. In silence is an emptiness that cannot be explained or filled. 

I sometimes go days or weeks without writing. It's not because I have nothing to say, it's often because I don't know how to say it.  Most of the time silence reflects the darkest of hours, not the most peaceful.

I find this to be true with any grief, really.  I have friends going through incredible sadness and hard times and they are silent.

Society, though, does not want to hear of grief. We force others to keep quiet, deal with things on their own, and not share their true feelings.  People are often intimidated by others grief, either because they want to make it better and can't or it makes them aware of their own hardships they'd rather ignore. 

One thing I am learning through my own journey of grieving and healing is to be more compassionate to others grief.  I check in with my friend more and encourage them to feel comfortable talking to me. I try to have open ears and a closed mouth.  I want others to know they aren't alone, even when it feels like it.

People who are hurting can't be fixed by anyone but themselves.  They need to be heard, not mended or instructed on what to do.  They just need to know "I'm here for you and I love you". 

The saying "silence speaks a thousand words" is so true.  Sometimes the best thing we can do is sit together, hold each others hands, and let the silence heal what words cannot.

Time

Grief has no concept of time. Space is empty and fluxes.

There are days when it seems like losing Colton happened in another lifetime. The thought of his loss is so surreal and abstract that it can't possibly have really happened.

Sometimes the facts begin to blur and it's unclear what really happened, what order, what truth and what fiction are interwoven into his story.

There are times when telling people I have four children feels like a lie because I can't recall if that really happened or was it just a horrific dream. I have that moment in time locked up so tight and hidden in its dark place that sometimes it feels more like a nightmare than the living hell.

Reality strikes though. It always wins out. When it does I am right back in those moments. Every second ticks like a thousand hours. Every word, motion, detail is sharp as a razors edge slicing into my soul. Every detail etched and engraved into my being. I could write it out verbatim, a script to a horror story too scary to watch.

Time does not lessen the blow when reality crashes down. Time does not ease that pain, soften the memories, or dull the ache. Time is but a number that loss laughs at. Time is a reminder that no matter how much passes it'll never be the same as it was before that moment when there was no more time; when what you treasured, what you'd been counting down in months and weeks and days in delightful anticipation is gone.

Time stopped, yet the pendulum still swings. Keeping pace. A silent hymn of marching forward, a booming thundering reminder. Time heals nothing. Time is not merciful. Time is just empty space.

Courage

Writing this blog is one of the hardest things I've ever done.  Anytime we make ourselves vulnerable we open ourselves up to so much.

On the plus side, we allow ourselves the opportunity to grow.  By stripping ourselves raw and naked we open a new canvas to paint our world in new colors and vibrancy.

On the down side, we open ourselves to attack, criticism, skepticism, and hate.


It's worth it, though.

It's okay if others do not understand my pain. It's not for them to understand. It is okay if people are upset by the things I express. It is not for their benefit.  It is okay if people do not support my path. It is not theirs to walk.

I am not proud of everything I've done. It's been scary to share the truth of Colton's story, of my story.  It's embarrassing at times, it's painful.

But it is necessary journey.  We cannot put grief in a box and expect it to quietly sit in the dark closet.  Grief festers and grows like a wild fire burning everything in site.  But when nurtured, when cultivated, when supported and loved, grief can turn into something beautiful. 

That is why I write this blog. I want to take my grief and expose it at the rawest of levels. And then I want to cultivate it, heal it, and let it blossom into a wonderful spirit of memory and strength and courage.

I have never felt stronger. And I believe that strength will continue to bloom and engulf me.  I believe that through this process I will become a better mother, friend, and a better ME.

I'm showing up. I'm letting myself be seen. And while it makes me vulnerable, it makes me strong. And it makes it worth it. 

Words

Words are the most powerful tool - and weapon - we have. 

We can build with them, or destroy with them.

I am learning that some use words as weapons (of mass destruction).

I am learning that some have the kindest touch and softest caress.

I am learning to be discerning in the words I use, who with, and when. 

I am learning, too, when silence can speak more than any words.

I am learning to protect myself.

You cannot take back words when they are spewed. You cannot say just kidding, I was just upset, or I didn't mean it.

Bruises of the skin heal much quicker than bruises of the heart.  Be gentle and kind in the things you say because you cannot imagine the pain they could convey.